Page 15 of The Love Playbook

I wake with a groan and roll over on the lumpy twin mattress. Maybe if I lie here long enough, I’ll magically transport myself back to my dorm room at AAU where I can go to the cafeteria for breakfast with my friends and pretend like my worst problem in life is getting indigestion from the greasy hash browns.

Knowing I’ll never fall back asleep, I rise from my spot on the bed and tiptoe my way into my mother’s small kitchen, careful not to make a noise that could wake her. It must be early; it’s still dark outside, and the house is quiet save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator. The clock on the stove confirms this when I see it’s just before six o’clock. I haven’t seen or spoken to my mother yet, and I can only imagine what she’ll have to say once I do.

With my father’s news heavy on my mind last night, I dreaded coming here. So after my car got towed, I took it as divine intervention and called an Uber and headed into town for some comfort food. Mostly because I wasn’t ready to face my mother. I knew the moment I got home, she’d have questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.

After gorging myself on a cheeseburger and fries, because I’d been too preoccupied with the awkwardness at dinner to eat much, and because I have zero problems eating my feelings, I walked the two blocks to the local park since the rain had stopped, then proceeded to contemplate life at the top of the jungle gym until my fingers and toes grew numb. When I couldn’t stand another minute, I found my way to my mother’s place, relieved to discover she’d already gone to bed and hating myself a little for avoiding her in the first place.

I have no idea what her reaction to my father getting remarried will be.

Scratch that.

I knowexactlywhat it will be, and I expect nothing short of complete and utter devastation. And since I’m the lucky one spending the rest of my birthday weekend with her, I’ll also get to be the one to dry her tears. Considering I’m in no hurry to do that, I make a pot of coffee for her as quietly as I can, scooping out the grounds, filling it with water, and flicking it on before I fix myself a cup of green tea.

While the tea is steeping, I open the pantry cupboards to find them fairly empty.

With a frown, I check the refrigerator next, only to find it in the same state. Most of the shelves are bare and what little food is in here looks like it’s been here a while.

What the hell?There’s literally nothing to put together a decent meal, let alone a birthday meal.

My stomach sinks, because there’s only one reason for this.

Mom’s not doing well. Not that I would know. I’ve barely talked to her since freshman year, when, much to my surprise, she started thriving on her own. Selfishly, I now avoid most of her calls, afraid that talking to her might break the spell.

With a sigh, I search the cupboards for a travel mug, doctor my tea with sugar, and then head to my bedroom where I throw on a pair of sweats and an AAU hoodie before calling an Uber to take me to the local supermarket.

I make quick work of the aisles in the grocery section, taking a sip of my hot tea and contemplating how much better it would’ve been to spend my birthday in the dorms, even if my friends did all leave for the weekend.

But then I think of Chris and grimace because the boy is like a tumor: annoying, uncomfortable, hugely unwanted, but always hanging around. Seeing as how he’s the last person I want to see at the moment, I’m probably in the best place for avoiding him. I fully expect a lecture on my behavior once I return to campus, and I’m not in the mood to be reprimanded by someone who clearly had a stable family growing up. He has no idea what dysfunction is like. No idea what it feels like to live with so much uncertainty and tension yet be stuck in the middle of it.

Taking another sip of my tea, I veer my cart toward the bakery section and grab a small cake, followed by the ingredients to make chicken parmesan and a few staples to get my mother through the next few days.

Satisfied, I head to the checkout, wincing at the total and questioning my decision not to work during the semester. It may not be a lot, but as I swipe my debit card, I know it’s money I wasn’t planning on spending and won’t have a chance to earn back until I come home for Christmas break.

Once my ride arrives and they help me load the trunk, I head back to my mother’s house, praying she’s still asleep when I get there, but the second I open the front door, the grocerybags draped over my arms like a human octopus, my hopes are dashed.

Mom sits on the living room sofa, dressed in a sweater and jeans, instead of the pajamas I expect. Sad that her choice of clothing gives me hope, even for only a moment, I wonder if maybe this visit isn’t hopeless after all. Maybe she’s still doing well, despite the evidence to the contrary. Maybe the progress she’s made over the last year since I started college wasn’t for nothing.

She clutches a cup of coffee in her hands as her sleepy eyes drift to mine. “There you are. So, youdidcome home last night? I saw the rumpled blankets in your room but thought maybe I was going crazy until I found the coffee. When I couldn’t find you, I thought maybe you decided your life at school was more exciting and went back early.”

Guilt sinks in the pit of my stomach like lead at the knowledge I did contemplate going back. “Of course I wouldn’t do that,” I say, still trying to gauge her mood to see whether her seemingly neutral disposition is just a facade or the real her. “I just had some car trouble and got in late, so I went straight to bed, and when I woke up this morning, I noticed you had no groceries, so I ran to the store.”

“Oh.” Mom eyes the bags hanging from my arms as if noticing them for the first time, and a stab of irritation pushes away the guilt. For once, I wish I could come home without worrying about what state she’s going to be in. For once, I’d like her to actually plan ahead.

“Mom, you knew I was coming. It’s my birthday. What exactly were you planning on us eating?”

She purses her lips, sniffing as she lifts her chin, her long, dark hair falling away from her face. “You know I’m not much of a cook, and in my defense, Carol left early for work,” she says, referring to her neighbor who, since the divorce, she pays tohelp with the cleaning and shopping once or twice a week. “She’s moving, you know,” Mom adds as if this is the reason she didn’t prepare for my arrival.

“Yeah,” I say, my eyes drifting to the windows. “I saw the FOR SALE sign. So, she’s finally moving closer to her kids?”

Mom nods. “Not sure what I’ll do without her.”

The knot of anxiety in my chest tightens.

“Anyway,” Mom waves a hand out in front of her, “I was planning on asking you what you wanted to do last night, but then you never showed.”

My shoulders slump in defeat, because she has a point. “Well, it’s all settled,” I say, lifting the grocery bags as if to show her. “Let me just put this away.”

I brush past her, hurrying for the kitchen where I begin to unpack the bags.

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