Page 7 of Entwined in Fate

Chapter Four

“Ineedtotalkto you.” Clara puts down her things after coming home from the grocery store. She may as well be productive today since she skipped work thinking I went missing.

As soon as she tells me those words, I knew she wastoocalm when she let me catch up on sleep this morning. Her unsettling silence is the equivalent of a toddler’s silence when they are doodling with permanent markers on the walls.

So, despite feeling like shit—for lack of a better word—I sit up from the couch. “What is it?”

Clara closes the distance between us as she sits in front of me, using the mahogany table as her support. “So, you know I couldn’t contact you last night, right?”

I nod slowly.

She continues, “I honestly almost called the cops. More importantly, I almost called your mom.”

“Clara!” I immediately protest. “Webarelyconvinced her not to drive all the way from Columbus after my wedding got called off. Please tell me you didn’t call her because of last night.”

“I didn’t,” she clarifies, but her concerned expression doesn’t change one bit. “I called her because of what I found out this morning.”

That I slept with someone?

I almost leap out of my own skin. Clara has to hold me by my forearms and look me straight in the eyes to calm me down. She says, “I know what you’re thinking; I’m a terrible friend.”

With how big my eyes are getting, I’m worried my eyeballs might pop out. I reply with slight disappointment, “You think?”

“Just hear me out.” She lets me go as she explains, “Drinking for six nights in a row? That’s one thing. I understand; it was a terrible breakup. But… sleeping with a stranger? Come on, Estelle. Don’t you think that’s a little much? I had to call someone for the intervention.”

I scoff, despite the fact that I completely get where she’s coming from. But the topic of calling off my wedding, becoming borderline alcoholic, and sleeping around aren’t exactly things I’d like to talk about my mother.

Where do I even begin? Do I say,“Hey, mom, your unemployed, unmarried, alcoholic whore of a daughter obviously needs help?”

I feel my palms become sweaty, and my throat closes up on me. Just imagining how furious my mother would be makes me want to jump out of our fourth-floor apartment to test my luck.

While I can still talk, I turn to Clara. “She’s going to kill me, isn’t she?”

I’ve been chewing on my nails for the past hour. My mom will walk in that door and slap the bejesus out of me any minute now. She’s not exactly the most devoted Catholic out there, but she has given me so many lessons on pre-marital sex growing up.

The last thing she’d want to hear from my roommate is that I slept with some guy I only know by name. I even lied about being his old high school classmate to get in his pants. Classic fuckboy move… by me.

Since I mostly do the cooking, Clara and I decide to order pizza for dinner.

I’m not exactly in the right headspace to cook a semi-decent meal that my mom won’t further scold me for.

No, to put it frankly, I refuse to cook for Clara now. On some level, I feel betrayed. Bringing my mother into my mess is just next level. I mean, am I at fault? Yes. Do I need help? Maybe. Does it have to be my mother? No. I’d prefer a therapist. At least she gets to judge me without feeling any sort of motherly guilt.

After the long, anxiety-inducing wait, the doorbell finally rings.

The need to jump through the window is much stronger now. I consider the probability of dying upon impact, and if I don’t die, how long would I be in the hospital? Would it be long enough for my mother to bury the hatchet on this one?

Clara casually walks to the front door—easy for her.

“Wait!” I plea, standing up from the couch as if looking for someplace to hide.

She glares at me. “Estelle, you’re not a child.”

And with that, she opens the door.

I could’ve sworn my soul went ahead and abandoned me when that door opened, but defying science, I’m still alive. I watch my mother’s image unfold before me in full resolution as the door swings open completely.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

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