Page 17 of Lovetown, USA
Ishouldlet it ring.
But I don’t.
“Yeah,” I say, already bracing myself.
“Wow, so you’re not at work?” she snaps, no hello, no preamble.
My face balls up. “Was I supposed to be?”
“So you’re at home,” she goes on, “doing whatever it is you do over there, and you still ain’t called your son?”
I scrub a hand down my face and lean against the kitchen counter.
Here we go with this shit.
“I texted him two days ago,” I say, slow and measured. “He never responded.”
“Texted?” she repeats, confused like I just told her I sent the boy a carrier pigeon. “You texted your son.”
I can practically feel my blood pressure spike. “He never answers when I call. You know that.”
“That’s because you’re not really trying, Trey. You call him when he’s in class so you don’t have to talk to him.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What is your bottom line?”
The marriage counselor we wasted thousands of dollars on suggested I ask this question whenever Desiree was on her bullshit. He said it would help us pinpoint the real issue. But what he didn’t understand was that Desiree makes everything an issue. She has some nerve with that shit, I swear.
But I’d do anything to end this phone call, so I’m keeping my cool.
“The bottom line is that your little boy is in Tallahassee struggling while you’re in that weird ass town living your best life.”
“Struggling? First of all, the boy is nineteen years old. And second, he’s fine.”
“How would you know that?!?!”
She’s yelling now, sharp and furious and on my last fucking nerve. I know the tone. I’ve heard it in courtrooms, on long ass car rides, in my old house at 2 a.m. when the baby was crying and we were both two tired to be reasonable.
Through clenched jaws, I ask, “What’s going on with him?”
She sighs. “His midterm grades weren’t where he wanted them to be. And he’s having trouble sleeping. And eating.”
A pinch of concern forms between my eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m making it all up for fun,” she spits. “Of course I’m sure. And I know because I actually talk to him.”
“Desiree—“
“I don’t wanna hear it. You’re absent, Trey. You are. And you’re pissing me off.”
“You’re being dramatic. As usual. I—“
“Call your son!"
She hangs up before I can respond.
It’s for the best. All the techniques I learned were about to go right out the window in favor of a few choice words that would only make shit worse.
I lower the phone slowly, exhaling through my nose, shaking my head in disgust.
