Page 64 of Bedding Rose
I turn in my desk chair to see her in a navy skirt suit, hair done for a commercial or a meeting—I haven’t kept up with her schedule in weeks. Slowly, somehow, her life and mine have become less entwined.
I gnash my teeth together as I stare down at the paper she holds. In a passive-aggressive move that my churning stomach now regrets, I’d pinned it to the fridge with a magnet, just like I used to do whenever I got an A on a test.
Only, this time, the paper heading read: Major: History/Creative Writing.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done it this way. Perhaps I should have sat her down and had an adult conversation, but I’m just finding my courage—and it still fails me sometimes. And, in my defense, I don’t think she sees me as an adult.
Mom’s eyes are hard, her jaw is clenched, and she’s brimming with fury. “You’re throwing your life away!” she shouts.
I have to force myself to take a deep breath and relax the fingers twitching on my lap.I will not look at the floor. Keep eye contact.Two more calming breaths have to go through my system before I’m able to find my voice. “No. I’m choosing it. I’m just not choosing what you want me to.”
“Madre de Dios! This! This! History?!Writing?! What are you gonna do with that? Huh? How are you going to eat?”
I take a slow deep breath and look away from her face, which looks like it’s about to catch fire. Instead, I train my gaze across the room at the photo of Enrique, Angelo, and me.
“I’m going to be fine.” I stand, forcing myself to stare right at her. I’m surprised by the fact that my hands don’t tremble, given how my heart is racing right now. But they are steady, as if they truly believe what I just said. And I realize, with a start, that I do. I honestly think that I’ll be okay.
Because I have him.
But also because he’s changed me.
I don’t really know how or why, only that I’m not the wilting little Rose I was before. I stiffen my spine and take a deep breath. “I’m going to write historical fiction. I’m not going to be a doctor.”
For a few brief, insane seconds her jaw drops and I think I might have gotten through to her. But then she ruins it.“What has gotten into you? Are you taking drugs?”
“No, Mom.” I want to add “I’m high on life,” but I don’t think she’ll appreciate sarcasm at this moment and my bravery is still a very tenuous thing. My inner child is still urging me to scramble underneath the bed where she can’t reach me.
She makes some wild hand gestures that look like she’s trying to strangle the very air in front of her before ripping the paper in half.
“No. I won’t allow it.”
Those words cut right through the last of the threads binding me to her. My anxiety floats away while anger that’s as hard and heavy as a stone, drops in my gut and settles my stomach.
“You don’t get to allow me things any more.”
She takes a step closer, a vein in her forehead throbbing in a way that looks painful. “I won’t pay for it.”
She doesn’t care what I want. Doesn’t care about my dreams. Won’t support me even though I’ve supported her through all of this stupid campaign bullshit—running around to every tiny town in the state, dinner after dinner, meeting after meeting … I know what it’s like to be Tolstoy’s wife. She once compared herself to furniture—something useful to him, nothing more.
I’m just an object to her.
I turn back to my desk slowly, not used to anger as hot as lava coursing through my veins. Unused to the light-headedness of pure rage. With deliberate movements, I pull open my desk drawer and take out a small black memory box. I open it—ignoring my mother’s words behind me.
She’s shouting, but she might as well be a dirt devil raging outside, while I’m tucked away behind the walls of my anger.
I turn back to her and hand her the flash drive—the one I kept meaning to destroy but didn’t. Because it was my first glimpse of who she truly is.
“This is for you,” I say, walking up to her and pressing it into her hand.
She tries to grab at me, as though she can shake some sense into me, but I dodge around her and head for my door, scooping up my purse and keys on the way.
“ROSALINDA!” she shouts at the top of her lungs.
I turn back and give her a tiny smile, before adding one more log to the fire. “By the way, I’m also dating Angelo Walker.”
ANGELO
Quique and I stand almost shoulder to shoulder in my tiny-ass apartment. The shouts of neighbors down the hall and the sound of evening traffic seep under my front door, though I tune them out automatically. Behind us, two beers sit on my Formica countertop, which is backlit by 1980s kitchen box lights. My friend leans against the edge of the counter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he gives me a faux glare.
