Page 6 of Sorry, We're Closed

And he isn't wrong. Marcus has always had these amazing vocals which resonate with all the iconic rock bands of the eighties and nineties, and the ladies adore him, no matter where we go.

He’s a tall, tanned and brawny man with trousers one size too tight and shirts with deep neck lines, plunging into his sculpted pecs. He's chiselled like a Greek statue with black and silver stubble lining his jaw and chin, his hair always slicked and a wide, beaming smile which would cause anyone's knees to buckle, and he was fully aware of that. All the teens and twenties loved me, and all their mothers loved Marcus. I think everybody loved Marcus, and I fully understand why.

Three

Sawyer

I’m forced awake by the noise of my mother's headboard and whatever chap she had over last night, the wood clamouring against the hollow walls.

My alarm wasn't meant to go off for another hour, but I can’t lay here listening to this. Listening to someone who even remotely thinks he has a chance of becoming a part of this family, someone who thinks that my mother has true intentions, it’s painful, but this is what she does.

Ironically, I would be the subject of conversation with anyone the predator had an eye for, her portrayal so convincing that you’d think that she was a caring mother. She’d lie to her prey about how she raised me on her lonesome because my father passed away when I was young or he bailed before I was even born, reeling them in with sheer sympathy and the desperately toxic need to play the masculine role model that I so desperately need because how on earth did I survive without one?

Funnily enough, once they come through that front door, I become a very distant memory for her and whatever poor soul she’s dragging in.

I stumble my aching body downstairs and into the kitchen, needing some sort of food to power through a day at the café. I reach into the fridge and grab the carton of milk. It seems stale cereal is my only option since I can't remember the last time any shopping was bought for this house. The carton feels hollow in my grasp as the slightest dribble is left, yet it had been put back in the fridge. I glare at the ceiling, exhaling before squashing the carton up small and tossing it into the bin.

A baked good from the café is my choice of breakfast for today, so here's hoping the cinnamon bun that I was eyeing up all day yesterday is still good to warm up.

I leave the kitchen, pulling my cardigan tight around my frame while burying my head into the neckline, the lingering smell of coffee threading itself throughout the knitted fabric since I wore this at the café yesterday.

I fail to hear anyone coming down the stairs as I cross paths with a pale man, similar height to me. His dirty blonde curls fall over his forehead and a scattered beard sprouts across his face and jaw. He’s shirtless with last night's jeans on, a musty smell following his every movement.

“Good morning, champ! How are you? Your mum is a lovely person!”

I have grown far too familiar with this charade with whoever my mother would bring home. I am used to hearing champ, buddy, pal, dude or whatever nickname they think would win me over. I am always asked how I am, but they definitely don't care, and I needn't mention how many times I hear about how amazing my mother is.

“Well, I'm going to make some tea for your mum and me, help myself through there?” He gestures to the kitchen, smacking my shoulder and causing me to need regain my balance from the sheer force he applies, and strolling by me.

“Have fun, there's no milk.”

“Damn, care to run out and grab a fresh carton? I just want to treat your mama well, you know, after what happened to your father.”

He clearly feels this solemn presence in the room after trying to sympathise with me, but all I want to do is roll my eyes. I want to roll my eyes to the furthest point in my head that they can possibly go, but I can’t. I wouldn’t dare break my mother's perfect family picture for some random guy who has fallen for her.

I am the reason we are in this position, if I had just kept my mouth shut, or if I could just like what every other man likes, then we wouldn't be here. I wouldn’t have this shirtless, musty man trying to console me for something that never happened.

“I'm sorry, I've got to get ready for work.”

I leave for my bedroom once more before my face gives away how I am feeling. I have fully accepted that this is my life now. I couldn't leave my mother's side, she has paved the way for the life she wants me to lead, with running the café and having a loving woman by my side.

A loving woman isn't in the cards that life has dealt me though. No matter what I’ve tried, I can't bring myself to hurt a woman by masking who I really am, so I made an agreement with my own conscience: I will not hurt a woman by lying about my entire being to her, but I will not succumb to the emotions I feel towards men, for the sake of mine and my mother's brittle relationship.

My mother had changed entirely since my father left, and our relationship took a turn for the worst as well. Her dress sense, her attitude towards me and the world, her entire demeanour was someone I did not recognise.

Too many times, I found her asleep on the sofa or on the living room rug, a bottle in her hand or plastering the floors, or I’ve found that I was left alone overnight since she never came home.

We still wouldn’t mention what happened. I tried to talk about it, I was and still am heartbroken over my father leaving, and I know she was and remains to be, too, but it was a conversation that never graced the air and most likely never will.

The blue dress I loved never saw the light of day again, the roast dinners became ready meals – if that – and we said few words to each other and had fewer embraces, to the point where my own mother’s touch has turned foreign.

She despises me because of what I did to this family, because of what I did to her marriage, of what I did to her dream. I ripped everything from her within a matter of seconds solely because of who I am. I couldn’t make it to my bedroom in time, nearly having collided with she who decided to emerge.

“Sawyer.”

Her right leg takes all her weight as she wobbles out of the bedroom, her hair tied in a bun closely resembling a bird’s nest, in a leopard print dress which did not leave anything to the imagination – the dress which had swept Mr Musty off of his feet. She glares at me, eyeing me up and down.

“Heading to the shop?”

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