Page 3 of The Two of Us

It doesn’t take more than a minute of standing under the pelting water before negative thoughts attempt to consume me. What is it about showers that force us into downward spirals? Why is it that my brain decides that right now—the moment I’m sopping wet and naked and vulnerable—is the best time to drum up the past?

I lather on body wash and scrub my skin raw, imagining that if I rub hard enough, I’ll be washed down the drain alongside the suds. I absentmindedly run my finger across the two-inch scar on my right palm and close my eyes, a tell that signifies my unease. And I shouldn’t feel that unease. I’m a healthy twenty-five-year-old with a roof over her head and a booming career in her grasp. But that’s that thing about unease. It can live within the body for years without an expiration date, settling into the very fabric of your being. I don’t just feel unease. I am unease.

I don’t need to look down at my palm to know that the two-inch scar there retains its flush of pink even though I’ve had it since I was thirteen. It’s the only physical reminder of my childhood best friend. Evidence of the night we learned what a “blood oath” was. Now all I’m left with is damaged skin and painful memories.

The shower enters freezing territory, signaling that my pity party has gone on long enough. Wrapping myself in my favorite terry bathrobe, I pad into the kitchen. Cheddar’s tail curls around my damp ankle, which is the sweetest gesture he’s shown me this week. If the only pity I can get is from my cat, I’ll take it.

I start brewing a pot of coffee when my phone buzzes in harmony to someone banging at the front door. I quickly snatch the phone off the counter, curious as to who’d be calling this early on a Saturday.

Unknown.

I click Ignore. The last time I answered an unknown number, it was my student loan debt collectors and if I wanted to cry this early in the morning, all I’d have to do is contemplate the fact that I’ll probably never be out of debt and never own my own house, so yeah. No thank you.

The incessant banging continues and I don’t have to guess who it is because I’ve memorized my landlord’s knock and this shit isn’t it. Skull-splitting migraine in full force, I run to answer it knowing she’ll continue attempting to break my door down until I do.

“I hear you!” I yell, swinging it open.

Tally has her hands on her hips and I can feel her bored stare penetrating through the black shades swallowing her heart-shaped face. I thought I looked bad this morning, but Tally looks like she’s just returned from the Seventh Circle of Hell. And she’s not even hungover, this is just what mornings look like for her.

“I need coffee,” she grumbles, pushing past me into the kitchen.

Most weekends when Jeremy goes to the gym, Tally treks over to my place to indulge in the foods Jeremy’s put on the “no-no” list. Which pisses me off because if anything should be on that list, it’s men in general and not food. And Tally’s excuse for her absence is always that she’s helping me because it’s my time of the month. Every weekend.

Jeremy isn’t the brightest man we know.

I fill a large mug to the rim and add a splash of the vanilla creamer I keep on hand for her. She gives me a quick side hug before yanking the mug from my hands, causing a bit of the hot liquid to slosh onto her shirt. She doesn’t even flinch. It’s more serious than I thought.

“When I woke up this morning, Jeremy tried getting me to drink a massive glass of green shit. He claimed it was banana, spinach, and avocado, but he was lying, Mar. It was green shit. I’m not kidding, I saw my entire life flash before my eyes. I almost snapped like one of those killers from the true-crime documentaries—are you laughing at me?”

I can’t help the cackle storm brewing in the pit of my stomach. My phone vibrates again and when I glance down, it’s the same unknown number.

Jeez, they’re really trying to make their money today.

I face Tally. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to revel in your pain, but why are you with this guy again?”

“Because.” She pouts. “He has lickable abs, and he lets me lick those abs anytime I want.”

I shake my head. “You weak, weak fool. Come on, let’s watch some trash TV,” I say, leaving the kitchen. I throw myself onto the couch but Tally stays rooted in place, throwing back her coffee like a twenty-one-year-old during spring break.

“Dear God, woman.”

She wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “I can’t stay. I promised Jeremy I’d meet him after his workout for brunch.”

I purse my lips. “So what you’re saying is, I’m nothing more than your goodies dealer? You’re just gonna hit it and quit it?” I lay my palm over my heart. “I’m hurt.”

She skips over with her infamous apologetic smile and bends at the waist, pecking my cheek. “But you’re my favorite dealer,” she whispers.

I roll my eyes. “Get out of here.” She laughs and I chuck the nearest throw pillow at her face.

As soon as I latch the dead bolt in place behind her, my mind immediately goes back to the unknown calls I received. Could it have been my mom? I’ve been ignoring her calls more than usual lately, but I don’t think she’d go so far as to call me from an unknown number. Then again, the woman is a Virgo.

Someone could write an entire dissertation on the complex nature of mother-daughter relationships and ours would be the perfect subject. Our relationship is… strained.

After she moved to Paris when I was ten, I’d diligently spent summers with her as per my parents’ divorce agreement, but by my junior year of high school, I’d become so bogged down by the stresses of teenage life and AP courses, we all decided it would be best if I spent the summers resting at home. The following two years consisted of holiday visits, but even that dwindled down to nothing. She didn’t put up much of a fight. But then again, she has the emotional range of a teaspoon.

Pot, meet kettle.

I’m placing Tally’s coffee mug in the sink when my phone buzzes again like clockwork. Frustrated that she can’t take a hint, I thrust the phone to my ear, lashing out my voice like a whip.

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