Page 92 of Gone for You

“You think you know everything.”

She’s not deterred. “I do. That’s the beauty of being your mama.”

“Wow. You’re also annoying.”

She winks. “You knew this already.”

I stand up, throw a glare in Mom’s direction and stomp to my bathroom, slamming the door behind me for good measure. Turning on the shower, I let the water heat up to the point the bathroom is filled with steam. As blunt as Mom might be, she’s right. Dammit.

I’ve let myself go in a way that I promised myself I never would again. And I may or may not be in love with Ethan. But that’s neither here nor there. I was wallowing. And… “I’m done. Over it. Moving on.” Saying it out loud actually helps me believe it. Kind of. I’m sad and I’ve cried enough tears. If I could, I’d kick my own ass for letting myself get to this point. I’m going to get all better, starting with making sure I no longer smell like a foot. And not a foot that’s recently been pedicured – a foot from a high school boys’ locker room.

After along, very hot shower – the longest I’ve ever taken in my life. Well, not entirely true, but I refuse to let myself sit here on the toilet remembering the morning after my first night with Ethan. The best morning of my life. The best shower of…

Nope.

Not going there.

A few months with Ethan was all it took for me to become an idiot who doesn’t even remember how to care for herself when we’re apart.

I growl at myself and pump lotion into my hand, rub my hands then massage it into my legs that’re now (finally) smooth from being shaved and loufaed then lotion up the rest of my body. Then I clean up my finger and toe nails because, gross.

Wipe the fog from the mirror so I can take a look at myself better. Wince, cringe and look away. Tears pool in my eyes and I shake my head, suck in a breath and shake away the emotion that’s clogging up my brain.

“I’m better than this.”

I grab my tweezers from my makeup bag and remove a few wayward eyebrows and that nasty chin hair that likes to make an appearance every once in a while.

Man, Ireallyam a sexy beast. I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror. Digging around in my makeup bag again, I find my eye cream and dab a bit on then rub my face with some moisturizer and even add a few coats of mascara to my lashes.

Removing the towel wrapped around my head, I brush out my damp hair then my teeth, even swishing around some mouth wash. After spitting, I rise up, take a deep breath, and look in the mirror. I resemble a human once again but the sparkle is missing from my eyes. I’m not so far gone that I don’t see the effect the last two months have had on me physically. My skin is washed out and pale from lack of sunshine, there’s dark bags under my eyes and I have a couple of new pimples along my jaw area, one of my unfortunate signs of stress. Even my lips look chapped and dry.

Just as I’m about to step out of the bathroom, the door swings open and I jump back. My towel slips and I’m standing naked in front of my mom. I cover myself as best as I can and she bursts out laughing.

Not necessarily motivating when I’m worried about how I’m looking anyway.

“After I get dressed, how about we have a lesson on how to knock?”

I bend down to grab the towel and bump my head on thetoilet. The toilet that I haven’t cleaned in almost a month. Gross. “Ouch! Dammit! Mom, what the hell?”

A laugh bursts out of her and she points. “I didn’t put the toilet there. Don’t blame me for that.”

“Well I had to grab my towel that I dropped becauseyouscared me. I couldn’t necessarily stand here stark naked in front of you, could I?”

“I’m your mom. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“This is different. I’m no longer a kid who needs help washing behind her ears.”

“Hmm. You’re sure acting like a child right now. Besides, get over it. I was just bringing you clothes. Time to get dressed,” she winks and drops some clothes on the counter then shuts the door behind her.

I slip up the underwear and fasten my bra that were on the top of the pile then shake out the light gray yoga pants and lavender shirt that still have the tags on them. She never shows up without presents. Usually clothes or something to decorate my apartment with, and food. It’s a good thing she decided on clothes this time since all mine are dirty and this doesn’t carry that distinctive funk mine do.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I smile. The scent of Mom’s chocolate chip cookies assaults me which is far better than the rotten food and dirty dish smell that was present earlier.

I’m convinced her chocolate chip cookies hold some kind of magic. When Johnny Wilkins kissed another girl in the sixth grade, breaking my heart, she made me a special batch of her cookies. When my dog was run over by a car, Mom’s chocolate chip deliciousness brought a smile to my face. The day I got my license, we celebrated by, you guessed it, chocolate chip cookies. And when Mom and Dad tore my world in two and told me they were getting a divorce, I ate dozens.

“Stop doddling and get in here. I know you want ‘em.”

“She’s so infuriating.” I mumble.

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