Page 10 of Under My Skin
“Lucy!” My dad practically cheers loud enough to be heard. “How’s our big city designer?”
Despite the multitude of feelings swirling in my gut, my lips lift at that. “You make it sound like I’m in Manhattan with models working the runway.” That life sounds glamorous compared tomine, spending too many days locked inside with my face too close to a screen.
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, what you’re designing is much more important. Businesses need logos, kiddo, and we need more small businesses to thrive.”
He’s right, but why isthiswhat we’re talking about? “So, Mom says you two are going through the house?”
There’s a slight pause. Seemingly insignificant. If I didn’t know their current situation, I might not even notice it, but I can read through it too clearly. I can picture him glancing at my mother with panic, like maybe she told me without him being there, and I can picture my mother gently shaking her head to reassure him that their dirty little divorce is still safe.
“Have you seen the stuff in this house?” My father chuckles, brushing off his hesitation. “I think we still have every toy and board game we ever bought you kids.”
“And most of them are missing pieces,” my mother chimes in.
“Right! Do you remember when we tried to play Monopolya few weeks ago with the Cunninghams until we realized the dice were missing and most of the cards had teeth marks from when Lucy was a baby?”
So, they’re getting a divorce, but just a few weeks ago, they were attempting a couple’s game night with the neighbors? My eyes burn, so I quickly blink back the hot tears before they have the chance to drop into my voice. “Um, I have to go. It looks like I’m at my stop.”
Ellen and I make eye contact in the rearview mirror because I most certainly am not at my brother’s apartment yet, but if my parents can lie through their teeth, so can I.
“Okay, have fun tonight! We’ll catch up later.”
“Yeah, okay.” I’ve already checked out of the conversation. I barely register them saying how much they love me, and I’m not even sure I say it back before disconnecting the call.
My head rests against the back of the seat, and I try to takesteadying breaths. We’ve turned onto the main strip with shops and boutiques, and I carefully read each business name to distract myself. There are so many people out tonight. They’re all enjoying their Friday, ready to kick off their weekend, and right now, I envy each of them just a little.
The Steamy Mug.
Flowers by Millie.
Copper Ridge Tattoo Co.
My eyes linger on the tattoo shop. I don’t have any tattoos, but my brother is practically covered in them. I wonder what my parents would think if I got one. They’d probably say it’s so unlike me. They might even be disappointed. Even my mom, with all her artistic tendencies, used to joke that my brother could just frame a sketch if he wanted it to last a lifetime.I’m sure that same response would be amplified with me. I’m their little girl. I’m the one who didn’t get into trouble growing up. I followed the rules. I always did the right thing. I never rebelled.
My hand presses against the window, my whole body turning to keep my eyes locked on the shop like it has a magnetic pull.
“You can stop the car,” I say without letting myself think about what I’m doing.
When I turn back around, Ellen’s eyes find mine in the mirror’s reflection again. “You’re sure?”
I nod, my hand already on the handle as her car comes to a stop. “Yes. Thank you.”
Grabbing my things, I step onto the curb. My parents aren’t the only ones who can do something unexpected.
Chapter Six
EVERETT
It’s late,and Hal is long gone, but I can’t bring myself to leave this half-finished apartment. It’s getting there. They managed to put in new pipes, but the walls are still open in some areas. I chose an untouched space between the kitchen and living room to tape a few swatches. When he told me to pick a paint color, suddenly the only two colors I knew were white and black. Colors on skin? Sure, I can make a medley of just about anything, but how should I know what color to pick now?
The shop downstairs had white walls when I bought the place, and we’ve just covered them with enough random art to make the room less sterile. It was an easy fix, and one I didn’t have to do single handedly.
But this? I smooth down a corner of tape that’s started to lift from one of the swatches with my thumb. Picking a color means picking an overall feel for the place. My eyes scan the small square papers with shades varying from dark and moody to cool and bright. Part of me is tempted to call my mom and have her pick, but I already know how that conversation would go. She’d ask why I haven’t visited recently. She’d remind me how close my childhoodhome is to the shop. She’d probably bring up something about my dad because she still talks about him like he’s here.
The truth is, it’s all more than I can handle. Going into that house, with his smiling face frozen in pictures on the walls. Driving the same street that shaped my childhood, knowing it’s the same street that should lead me to him but won’t. Listening to her complain about him never putting things in their place when she still can’t find the mail-opener.
I can’t do it. I’ve tried, and I’m always worse off for it. They say grief gets quieter with time, but I’m still waiting. It’s been over a year, and it’s still fucking loud.
I jolt at the sound of a faint knock and look over my shoulder. Toni stands in the doorway, like taking another step might be too much of an intrusion.
