Page 51 of Love is a Game

For a horrifying second, my mind scatters as I turn to the bed, almost expecting to see Mom’s prone body. Decaying and rotten from my neglect.

My heart slams against my ribs as I stare at the cream duvet and embroidered scatter pillows—empty. Of course, it’s empty. She’s not here. She’s across town at the funeral home. And yet, somehow, the usual powdery floral scent of my mother’s room has been overtaken by something deathly and rotten.

Tuck yanks open the curtains and pushes up the windows. Then he targets a tall jug of wilted zinnias. He lifts a fistful of flowers, revealing their stringy, slimy, brown stems. The compost-like stench intensifies.

“Ew!” I gag. “That’s disgusting.”

“I’ll get rid of them while you look for the dress,” he says.

Left alone, I shiver, the pale walls pressing in on me. All thisstuff. Furniture, clothing, blankets, linen…even the view of Mom’s pampered garden out the window adds to the burden I’m suddenly feeling. That I’m responsible for all of it.

Okay, comparatively, maybe it’s not that much. Mom lived fairly simply. At least I’m not burdened with a crazy hoarder’s piles of junk.

But still, even the closet—a heavy antique that opens with the aroma of potpourri and mothballs, is a whole thing. Just the thought of pulling everything off hangers and inspecting them, piling things into categories to dump, donate, or…keep,brings a wave of nausea. And why would I keep any of it?

I reach inside, fingertips brushing against fabrics: cotton, polyester, nylon…block colors, florals, stripes. No polka dots. She hated polka dots.Why? Now, I’ll never know.

“Found some spray,” Tuck says, stepping back in with a can of air freshener.

I nod, and he douses the air with artificial lavender.

Meanwhile, I dig deeper, through blouses, jackets, and dresses. A glimpse of powder blue catches my eye.

I reach for the crocheted hanger—the type charities tend to sell at market stalls.

Then, I lay the dress on the bed, smoothing my hands over the fabric. Rayon blend, maybe a touch of viscose. Soft, lightweight, cool against my skin. Practical elegance.

It’s definitely the kind of dress she’d appreciate. A flowy A-line skirt, fitted waist, modest V-neck, three-quarter sleeves. Not cheap, not extravagant. A Macy’s find, probably. Bought for what? A work event? Something where she wanted to look nice but not stand out.

The dress is neatly pressed, as if she always meant to wear it again. Now, it’s the last thing she ever will. I step back, a clammy sweat prickling my nape, my stomach gripping.

Tuck moves closer, wraps his arm around me, and squeezes me against his side.

I notice he’s fully dressed now, as if he, too, feels the weight of death pressing in. That strange, unspoken instinct to show respect, even though my mother has ceased to exist. Because there is no denying something of her still lingers in this room, in the hush of the house.

This house.Myhouse?

When Tuck first said it, the words felt abstract, hollow. But now, the reality has settled in, heavy and suffocating, a responsibility I’m not ready to claim.

But I also know I have little choice. The smell of dead flowers has faded, but its message remains. Whatever I ignore, whatever I refuse to face, only stagnates. Festers. Like a painful boil ready to rupture.

It’s something I’ve worked through in therapy, this tendency to avoid the ugly parts of life. Of my past. Of myself. Sometimes, I don’t even realize what I’m capable of until it’s dissected in those expensive sessions. The way I interpret events or manipulate things. Almost like I have a built-in agenda I’m not even aware of…one that needs to be cracked open, examined, exposed.

A survival instinct? Or just some primal, animal response buried deep in my brain?

And suddenly, wrapped inside Tuck’s embrace, the warm, steady security of him, I have to wonder…Am I leaning into my helplessness just to keep him close? To stretch out our time together? Because being here with him, alone, suspended from the demands of our usual lives, is rare and precious.

And completely unsustainable.

What I do know for certain is that, eventually, he’ll leave. He’ll return to his high-flying, hectic life. And no matter how much I drag out this process of Mom’s death, I can’t keep him here forever.

And what of my real life? Right now, I feel like a spider torn from its web, ripped from the routines and environment that anchored me. I need to get back to what keeps me sane and focused. Get back to the city and far away from Blue Mountain Lake.

“You okay?” Tuck’s warm, concerned smile catches me off guard.

I nod. Because what other choice is there other than to be okay? What’s the alternative when the last thing I want to be is like my mother? Forever hiding from the world, wallowing in the one major fuck-up of her life: falling pregnant to a loser boyfriend at seventeen. And forever after condemned to living a lonely, small life.

Now I can’t wait to be free of everything. To get to the other side of her death, the funeral, and this town. To reclaim the life that I worked so hard to create.

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