Page 10 of The Truth About Love

And boy, do I have a lot of them.

Auntie Rosie comes over with our order and sets the plates down in front of us, followed by our drinks. Cappuccino for me, OJ for Fred.

“I brought y’all some of my famous cinnamon rolls too. On the house, of course. Baked ‘em fresh this morning. Y’all are good to me and it ain’t never hurt anyone to show some appreciation once in a while.”

“I can think of a way to showyousome appreciation, Auntie Rosie,” Fred tells her with the cocky smirk he’s mastered that brings girls to their knees.

Anticipating the flirt-fest that’s about to begin between the two of them, I take out my phone and answer Summer-Raine’s message.

Me:First of all, you don’t need to worry about survival with me, Summer-Raine. I’ll keep you safe. Secondly, it was the only W H Auden quote I could come up with at the time. Would you judge me if I told you I can’t quote anyone else?

Summer-Raine:Wow. Are you really admitting to only knowing the work of your namesake? Have you been tested for narcissistic personality disorder?

Me:Of course, and my results were off the charts. I’ve always been an overachiever.

Summer-Raine:You are something else, Auden Wells.

Rosie finally saunters off, leaving Fred and I to our food. My shit-eating grin is firmly back in place, making Fred tut and shake his head every time he looks up. Eventually, he stops looking at me altogether, inhaling his burrito and three of the four cinnamon rolls before downing his orange juice like he’s just lost a round of beer pong.

“You ready to go?” he asks before I’ve finished chewing my last mouthful. “I have to dash. Mia’s pissed at me again and I need to go do some damage control before she loses her shit and breaks my PlayStation or something.”

“Don’t worry about it, man.” I wave him off. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Yeah.” He nods, resigned to whatever nightmare awaits him when he gets home. “Yeah, guess so.”

Poor bastard.

If I could, I’d find a girl actually deserving of him to claim his heart, or force his Mama to give him a hug every once in a while.

But I’m not a magic man.

Fred’s Mama won’t ever change, and he’ll just keep latching onto undeserving women in an attempt to fill the void she’s left in him until one day he finally realises that he’s worthy of a better kind of love. I could try and convince him until I’m blue in the face but it wouldn’t make half a bit of difference. He’s gotta figure that shit out for himself.

We settle up the tab and leave a hefty tip for Auntie Rosie before walking silently to my truck. He says nothing the entire ride back to his place, too lost in thoughts of Mia and the headache that’s waiting for him, and that’s fine by me.

Because Fred’s not the only one who’s dreading going home.

There’s no way to know what will be waiting for me when I walk through the front door. Mama’s moods are about as unpredictable as Donald Trump’s rise to presidency. They’re either good or really fucking bad. And bad days can have me doing anything from rocking her while she weeps to locking myself in the bathroom when her psychosis convinces her I’m an intruder who’s trying to kill her.

No son should ever have to worry about forcefully disarming his own mother.

Since that particular episode, I’ve taken to hiding all the knives in the house as soon as I see signs of a bad day. But, thankfully, today seems to be a good day.

When I walk through the door twenty minutes later, having dropped Fred home, Mama is standing in the kitchen manically whisking sweet-smelling mixture in a bowl. A thick layer of flour coats every surface like snow during an Alaskan winter. There’s some kind of beige paste smeared on Mama’s face and clumped in her hair, though she hasn’t noticed or if she has, she doesn’t care. Her hair is pinned up in a bun on top of her head, a red gingham apron wrapped around her waist. She looks like a 1950s housewife that Miss Rossi would be proud of.

“Baby!” Mama sings when she notices me watching her from the doorway of the kitchen. “I’m baking cookies.”

“I can see that.” It’s impossible not to return the smile on her face when she’s looking at me like a child visiting Disneyland for the first time. “Need any help putting them in the oven?”

“No no no, you’re not old enough to use the oven.” She waves me away with a tea towel, bustling me out of the kitchen. “You’re too little. Go and get into your pyjamas while Mamamy bakes the cookies and you can have one with your milk before bedtime.”

My heart sinks.

I guess today isn’t a good day after all.

“How old am I, mama?” I ask gently, conscious of how lightly I need to tread.

It’s not uncommon that she mentally reverts back to a time when she was happier, back when her monsters didn’t scream as loudly and Dad was still around. This is the kind of episode that’s okay while it’s happening, it’s when reality comes crashing back that shit really hits the fan.

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