Page 34 of Flaunt
Mom thrusts a package of toilet paper into my chest. “Here.”
“Oof.” I take them from her. “How did you know they were mine?”
“Because I didn’t order them.”
“Could’ve been Foxx.”
She lifts a brow and sighs. “Everyone else in this family has their own Prime account except you.”
I lift a brow right back at her. “Because I’m minimizing my environmental impact. There’s no sense in all of us having an account when we all live right here and can share.”
Mom shakes her head.
“What?” I ask. “If you didn’t want us being so close, you shouldn’t have bought us all houses on the same street. It’s all your fault when you think about it.”
Dad comes down the hallway, a kitchen towel over his shoulder. He stops when he sees me holding the package. “One question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why can’t you just stop at the store on your way home from work and grab a package of toilet paper?”
“Easy,” I say. “Two reasons. One is that you don’t think about needing toilet paper until you need it. As in, when you’re on the toilet. So ordering it when it’s on your mind is better than running out. You feel me?”
Dad just stares at me.
“Two, have you ever tried to get toilet paper and paper towels at the store? It takes up your whole damn cart. I either get food or I can get toilet paper and paper towels. There isn’t an option for both.”
“You could get smaller sizes,” Dad suggests.
“Wait.” Mom holds a hand in the air. “Back up. When did you start going to the store? You actually have food in your house?”
I set the package by the back door. “I went once and that was my experience. I’m trying not to repeat it.”
Dad shakes his head.
“You go in thinking you’re going to grab some lunch meat and call it a day,” I say. “But no. There are forty-six-thousand kinds of turkey. Then there’s the family reunion happening at the deli counter. Ten minutes in, and I’m ready to offer to tell Uncle Bob to fuck off myself and I don’t even know the guy.”
Mom laughs.
“People stink,” I say. “Like, they haven’t bathed stink. And they’re touching everything in there like they’re intentionally trying to spread the stink to the apples.” I gag. “I can’t. And there’s the kids screaming. The people on speakerphone walking down the middle of the aisles. Yeah, it’s a nope for me. I’m just going to have the essentials delivered and eat at your house from now on. I tried.”
“Well, tryingismore than I expected,” Dad says.
I kiss Mom on the cheek. She pats my face like she used to do when I was a little boy. Even now, it makes me happy.Sara can’t take this away from me.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask as Dad rummages through the overflow pantry in the hallway.
“I made your favorite—pork chops, buttered potatoes, and green beans,” Mom says.
“And cooked apples?” I ask.
“You know I didn’t forget the apples.”
I grin and walk by her. “You’re the greatest, Mom.”
“Don’t forget your toilet paper,” she says.
“I’ll get it before I leave.”Maybe.
