Page 42 of Implode

I keep my attention forward at the menu and answer with a simple, “Everything.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Seriously? My eyes shut and then open again. “Yes.” I shake my head. “I mean, no.” How do I tell someoneit’s complicatedwithout sounding like a checkbox on a dating app?

“Well, what do you know?” he says, as if having a lightbulb moment. “I’m not seeing anyone either.”

Shocker. I move up in line and rock on my feet to the instrumental music playing throughout the sound system in the shop. I can hear Dan mumbling something behind me that I’m sure is inappropriate, but I just act like I do not hear him. When I am next in line, I sigh in relief.

“Can I please get the strawberry antioxidant blend with added protein? Oh, and with oat milk, please.”

“Make that two,” Dan says, leaning in closer and then tilting his head at me with a wink.

Whatever hotness I originally saw in him has dwindled to nothing. He is a frat boy stuck in an out-of-college body. We work in the same building, otherwise I would tell him where to put his twitchy eye.

When my name is called out from the pick-up window, I grab my beverage and am about to head out to the street when my phone vibrates with an incoming call. I scan the screen and see it is my mom calling. No matter what she has to say, I’m relieved to hear her say it—if just to get away from Dan’s unwanted attention.

“It’s important,” I say, gesturing toward my phone. “I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, umm, okay,” he stutters, taking his drink off the counter and finding a seat in the cafe alone.

I quickly head out the door and answer the call before it heads to voicemail. “Hey Mom.”

“Claire, I need you to come home and get your stuff out of the bedroom and garage.”

“Oh, um, okay?”

“The house sold and it needs to be gone.”

“Can you just send it?” I ask, trying to think of how I would be able to get to the East Coast easily.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“It would cost a fortune, and I already lost enough in this damn divorce. Plus, it is more than what would fit in a suitcase. Just drive and load up your car.”

“Let me look at my calend—”

“Don’t look too hard, it’s not like I have all the time in the world.” Mom’s voice is gruff from years of smoking. Based on how hoarse it is at the moment, I imagine she picked it back up again after years of quitting. “It needs to be out by this week, or I’m just trashing it. Storage units are so overpriced.”

“Got it,” I mutter. I don’t even know what I left at her house. Maybe some jewelry or birthday gifts? I can only hope I have forgotten some valuables that can be pawned for quick cash.

“Okay, good. Got to go,” she says, disconnecting the call.

Bye, Mom.Looking forward to seeing you.

I’m not sure if I am more upset over no longer having a home I can go back to or the way my mom is basically erasing all the memories of me from her life. Maybe I’m the main reason for the divorce. Maybe her cheating on my stepdad would have ironed itself out if there hadn’t been a constant reminder—me—of her infidelity.

My mom hasn’t exactly used the words “ruined her life” but that is basically what she is implying. If only she would realize how difficult it is going through life carrying the dominant genes of a man I don’t even know. I don’t look anything like the rest of my family members. It’s not like I can even pretend I belong. I am the only interracial member for multiple generations. Despite being mixed, I was very much raised to ignore my father’s culture. I was raised to be white, although I check a different box on all my health forms.

My mom did this. She made the choice to have relations with someone who was not her husband. She had sex with a stranger and got pregnant by that stranger. So, no matter how much guilt she tries to press onto my conscience, it is all in vain.

As soon as I get back to the office, I open up the search engine and remind myself that if there is no traffic, it would take me forty-two hours—without stopping—to drive back home on the East Coast. If I have too many possessions that can’t fit inside some empty pieces of luggage, it is not worth it to me to keep them. Flying is my only doable option, if I don’t intend to miss very many days of work.

I pull open the flight listings with a departure out of Portland for this week and scan through the options. Ouch, the price is steeper than I was expecting. I shouldn’t be surprised at this, considering this is a last-minute trip.

“Hey you,” Angie greets, while coming into the office from our lunch break. “Can we please go back to eating together? I’m starting to stress eat, and I’m afraid my dress will no longer fit.”

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