Page 97 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“He’s one of Adam’s cosplayers.”
“And he’s your landlord. How did that happen?”
“His grandmother. She left it to him.”
“Skipped straight to her grandchild?”
“His mother passed away his senior year of high school.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Mom is too well mannered to ask for details. She’s also no slouch when it comes to research, so I’m sure it is only a matter of time before she knows more about Mike’s past than I do. “And his father?”
“Remarried with a baby on the way. What are you reading?”
“Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
“No!” I whimper, snatching the book from my mom.
“Mike’s, I take it?”
“He doesn’t know I have it.” I shove it into my nightstand. “Did you read all of them?”
“No. I stopped after Sonnet 18. Too many notes and scribbles.”
I feel weepy. I never cry, and crying is all I’ve been doing since Thursday night.
“Beatrice. What’s wrong?”
“He doesn’t love me.”
“You didn’t see his face when I told him I was here because you were sick.”
“What?”
“He texted me twice yesterday to ask if you or I need anything. And again this morning to ask how you’re doing.”
“You don’t get it. I’m crazy about him, but he thinks of me as nothing more than a…” I look at all the pretty cacti nestled among my books. “Joke.”
“I doubt that,” Mom says, rising to retrieve a second pan of orange rolls from my oven.
“It’s true.”
“Darling, jokes are one of life’s greatest joys. Laugh all you want, but a good joke is clever, memorable, and something you want to hold on to forever.”
Mom brings me another orange roll and a bottle of ginger ale. “I don’t for a moment believe you’ve got all the facts or are looking at this case with the impartiality it deserves. But what do I know?”
Mom hangs out until lunch and heads out before I crash for an afternoon nap. I wake up as the sun is setting. I stumble outside because I move only in so far as I can find another place to lie down. I flop like a cat on my Bali bed. It’s then, from my cocoon of blankets, that I see the flowers on my bistro table. White calla lilies. A few fuchsia ones too. Orange roses. Yellow ranunculus. Green bells of Ireland. It’s gorgeous.
There’s an envelope on the table, and when I open it two theater tickets flutter onto my Bali bed. “Mike.” His name spreads my lips into a smile. I lie down and stare at the flowers.
If I could hug them like a teddy bear, I would.
When I wake up, I carry the flowers inside with me. I move them to the coffee table when I finally feel awake enough to sit upright. They come with me into the bathroom when I take a shower. So what if I’m being ridiculous? They make me feel better.
One week and seven days of antibiotics later, I’m finally brave enough to do something about Mike’s tickets.
I dial my sister. “Hey, Julie.”
“Hey, Bea! Long time no anything. But I guess that is to be expected. Dogs don’t walk themselves. How are you?”
