Page 89 of Wild Side
TABITHA
“Don’t forgetto use bug spray. I swear they like him extra because he’s so cute, and then he gets these super-sized lumps all over his arms and legs, and it’s so sad.”
My mom nods calmly, her eyes reflecting reassurance. “I don’t know that bugs will be a problem this time of year, hon. It is fall after all.”
I shift at on my parents’ front porch, hearing Milo’s giggles filter back as he and my dad chase each other around the house. Milo is thrilled about going camping in the trailer with his grandparents.
But I’m a nervous wreck.
“That’s true, but it’s better safe than sorry. And if there’s a super sunny day, just toss a little sunscreen on for good measure.”
My mom laughs now, shaking her head as though I’m ridiculous. “We’re going to be fine, Tabby. What’s gotten into you? We look after him all the time. We’ve raised two…”
She trails off with a flash of pain on her features. The sentiment flowed so easily, and then she caught herself. It’s like because they cut Erika off, they still don’t want to reminisce. Or can’t? I’m not sure which, but I think that’s what I’ve found inRhys. Someone I can talk to about my sister who also has fond memories of her.
I don’t have to be the one who came out on top. I just get to be the girl who lost her sister.
“You raised two wonderful women, Mom. Both of us imperfect in our own ways.”God, I’m so tired of being treated like the perfect one. I look her dead in the eye. “And if Milo wants to talk about his mom, you’re going to need to engage with him. Forget the bug spray. Just please don’t pretend she never existed.”
Her eyes water. “It hurts.”
I nod, gritting my molars so I don’t cry. Partly because it angers me that their way of coping is pretending that she never existed. Like they could just… erase her from their life. It’s fucking bizarre and shitty, but I’m not about to tell them how to grieve when—like I said—I’m not perfect either. I stillhaven’t cried about Erika. I don’t know if I ever will, but at least I pay her homage where I can. I mean, hell, I’m going to therapy,andI have a plant named after her that I talk to sometimes.
If that’s not healthy, I don’t know what is.
“Yup. It hurts.”
She nods.
“Promise me. Don’t make it weird for him.”
“I promise, Tabby. I promise.”
With that, I give my mom a tight hug and make my departure with a lighthearted, “Have fun!” over my shoulder to ease any lingering tensions from our interaction. Years spent smoothing things over have made me an expert, but it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m on edge today.
And so, I indulge in a little retail therapy to quell my nerves. After a quick stop at the antique shop in town, I have a bed frame and two nightstands set for delivery this afternoon. Another stop, and I have fresh bedding and a plush set of newtowels. And once I get home, I really get crazy—I pull out my old sewing machine and whip up some curtains from a pretty fabric I bought for a project at the restaurant.
My basement may not have drywall, but goddammit, the next time Rhys is here, he will not sleep on a mattress on the floor in a place I assigned him just because I was angry.
It’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being so combative. Or maybe with Milo gone and two days off looking me dead in the eyes, I’m just fucking lonely. Or maybe, just maybe, I miss Rhys and want to see him smile when he eventually comes back.
Whatever it is, making the “guest room” feel like more than a dank dungeon eats up several hours of my day. It keeps me from being still, because if I’m too still, my mind will wander down paths I’d rather avoid.
At this stage of my life, busy is good. Busy hurts less.
I step back when the sun has set and dinnertime has passed, hands on my hips as I admire my handiwork in the basement. The concrete walls still give it a shabby-chic vibe, but I dug out a rug to cover the matching floor, leaned a tall mirror against the wall, and placed knickknacks and photos on the framing boards. There’s one of Milo, there’s one of Cleo, and there’s even one from our wedding day of us walking down the front steps of the church, looking suspiciously happy.
The space has warmth now, and the mismatched aesthetic adds charm, in my opinion.
It takes me back to the day he said he’s slept in worse conditions, and my heart clenches just thinking about it. I get the sense he’s not used to someone taking care of him, and he’s a grown-ass man, so I know he doesn’t require it. But now that he’s opened up to me, his backstory has the “acts of service” part of me in its grip.
Maybe our marriage wasn’t born from being madly in love, but I don’t think caring about him will hurt anything at this point.
My stomach grumbles, pulling me back to reality. Without Milo here, I’m terrible at remembering to eat, which—for a chef—is hilarious.
Upstairs, I make myself a ham sandwich and toss a couple of mini cucumbers on the side for some color. Very gourmet. Then I take my plate to the living room and waffle on whether I should watch Rhys tonight. The curiosity is killing me, and I’d be a big fat liar if I said watching him in character didn’t do something to me. The confidence, the swagger, the way he commands the emotions of an entire arena full of people—it’s thrilling.
But I also don’t want to watch him kiss another woman.
