Page 6 of Always Mine

No, thank you. I’ve worked too damn hard for it to end like this. I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing—which isnothing—and wait for the six-week mark to finally start my physical therapy and be fixed.

I’m about ready to scream when a loud knock sounds on my door. My head falls back against the cushions and I stare up at the ceiling as I let out a loud sigh. It’s probably Jennings’ girlfriend. He’s been having her check on me while he’s away for the games, and though she’s really nice— brings me groceries and cleans up after my sloppy ass—I just want to be left alone.

The knock sounds again, this time more urgent, and I stagger from the couch, knowing it’s pointless to leave her out there. She won’t go away no matter how much I wish she would. I tried that last week.

I glance around my messy living room, peeping at the pizza boxes, soda cans, and other food trash, and fight back a grimace. I really need to do better than this. It's too late to do anything about itnow, butI’ll just apologize tenfold and help her clean up the disaster the best I can.

Heading toward the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and wince. Damn, I look like shit. I really need to take a shower, and probably do some laundry. I don’t even know if I have any clean towels left.

Stupid one arm making everything shitty.

Grabbing the handle, I open the door with an apology already on the tip of my tongue, but I freeze when I see my mom on the other side of the door. “Ma!” I stare at her with wide eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Her worried gaze slides over me before they turn angry and I take a small step back, remembering exactly how well this woman can wield a tree switch. “Paxton Stanley Prescott!” She advances, and I take another step back, completely terrified of this five-foot-nothing, one-hundred-twenty-pound southern lady. “I’ve been calling you for almost twenty-four hours. Was scared out of my mind thinking the absolute worst.”

For every step I take back, she’s still advancing, and when my legs hit the back of my couch, I hold my good hand up, trying to stop her. “Ma.”

She ignores me, shaking her head as if to tell me to shut up.

“So what do I do? I hop on the first plane I can. Now, while I’m thankful you’re fine, I’m trying to decide how to beat your behind for scaring me without hurting your arm.” She jabs her long, bony finger into my chest on the last word, and I reach up to rub the spot, becauseouch.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I didn’t hear my phone ring.” I reach into my pocket only to realize it’s not there. Matter of fact, I’m not really sure where my phone is.When was the last time I checked it?

“It’s dead by now. It started going to voicemail around seven yesterday. Hence why I’m here.” She narrows her gaze, looking past me, and I watch as her expression goes from anger to surprise to disgust before she jabs me again. “This place is disgusting. Why didn’t you call me? I told you when I left two weeks ago that if you needed me, I’d come help you.”

I rub the sore spot again as she steps back and goes to my kitchen. I listen to her frustrated rants as she rifles around my cabinets. Not daring to move, I wait until she comes back, thankful she looks less angry than before.

“You’re almost out of trash bags,” she tells me, immediately starting to clean my living room. “Have you eaten anything besides pizza in the last two weeks? There must be eight empty boxes scattered between here and the kitchen.”

I stand frozen, not sure how to proceed. If I help her clean, she’ll beat my ass, and if I don’t help her clean, she’ll beat my ass. Either way is a lose-lose situation for me.

“I’ve had other things,” I grumble, my tone petulant as I shove my good hand into my dirty sweats’ pocket.

“Like what?” Holding up an empty bag of chips, she gives it a little shake. “This isn’t any better, you know?”

“I think I had a burger at some point, too,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“So more takeout?” She sighs, stuffing the rest of the garbage into the bag before tying it off and setting it by the door. She grabs another and moves into the kitchen. “Honestly, you have a fully loaded kitchen you never use. I don’t understand it.”

It’s no use trying to defend myself or reminding her of my shit arm while she’s on a tangent. Instead, it’s best to just let her get it out.

Leaning against the threshold, I watch as she finishes with the trash before pulling out the Lysol and wiping down my counters. “Ma, I can do that.”

“Why don’t you gather all your clothes together and start some laundry?” She points to the dirty pile—or mountain— near the entrance of my laundry room.

I feel a little ashamed.

I don’t hesitate, grabbing my hamper and dragging my sorry-ass around my apartment, picking up dirty clothes. Not gonna lie, I did the sniff test on a few things lying around and quickly decided it was a bad idea. I’m likely washing some already clean stuff, but I wasn't risking that again. My poor nose can’t handle it.

Once the first load has started, my mom proceeds to vacuum and mop,thenshe cleans my bathroom—all while directing me to do little things to help. I feel like a ten-year-old boy again, being scolded for not cleaning his room.

Three hours, a clean house, and a small grocery delivery later, Ma is plating our lunch. I’m feeling guilty at the amount of stuff she’s done for me today, but also grateful—though my stubborn ass wasn't admitting it.

“I can’t remember, do you like onions or not?”

I bite down on my cheek to suppress my smirk. It’s such a Ma thing to ask and something she’s been doing forever. We used to tease her over it, and she would always shrug and say,‘I have too many kids to keep up with.’

The image of Wyatt and Ember sitting at my kitchen table, waiting on summer lunch when we were younger, pops into my mind before I have a chance to push it away. It’s all so clear, like it happened yesterday rather than a decade ago. I can see his uncut blond hair flopping over his forehead in a mess of waves and that toothy smile on his face as he tells her he’s the one who wants the onions.

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