Page 58 of Curious
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Early in the morning on November 5, my phone rings.Ugh.
“What’s that?” Cam asks, his voice bleary. While he’s an early riser for his construction jobs, he sleeps in on weekends.
“No one. Or, it’s my mom. I’ll get it.”
He sits up fast. “Your mom?”
I nod. “She feels obligated to call.” I answer my phone, trying not to wince, and Cam stretches out in bed, his bare torso inviting. While I could go somewhere else, I think part of me wants him to hear this conversation. I get a swoopy feeling of dread in my stomach, but I might as well get this over with.
I long for things to be different, but they aren’t, and they won’t be. So I brace myself for rejection at the same time I long for her approval.
And I do my best to lock down all these feelings.
“Happy birthday,” she says, her voice audible in the room even though it’s not on speaker.
“Thanks.” My tone is flat. I glance over at Camden, and his eyebrows are raised. I didn’t tell him that it was my birthday, and I’m sure he didn’t memorize it from our marriage license application.
Mom says, “I didn’t know where you were, so I didn’t know where to send you a card.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’ll text you the address. But you don’t have to send me a card.”
“I think I do. It’s expected.” She sounds annoyed.
My chest aches, and I rub my face. I want to tell her that things she does out of a sense of duty are not things that I want. I want her to love me because I’m me, not because she’s supposed to. And that’s never going to happen. “Okay, thanks for calling,” I say.
“Where are you living?”
I swallow a lump in my throat, wishing she really did care about where I am. “I’m in the Valley now.” I’m not even sure she’s listening.
“Good. And how is work?”
“Work is fine. I like my job and the people. I’ve been there more than eight years.”
“That long?”
“Yeah. How is your job?”
“It sucks, but in ten more years I’ll be able to retire.”
That’s a pet peeve of mine. If she hates it, why endure it for another ten years? That doesn’t make sense to me, but it’s not like we have the kind of relationship where we talk about things like that. After chatting with her a little bit, I get off the phone as fast as I can.
I realize when I hang up that I never told her I’m married. But I suppose we don’t tell each other anything, big or small.
Cam sits up behind me and pulls me into his lap. All he’s wearing are boxers, and he’s moved down to a smaller brace on his ankle. “Few things,” he mutters, kissing my neck. “That was your mom?” He reaches down and starts stroking my morning wood.
I nod and moan.
“And it’s your birthday?”
I pull away. “Don’t.”
He holds up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I sigh. “It’s not the touching me that’s the problem. I’m sensitive to shit with my mom. And my birthday reminds me of her.”
“You, who are so good at organizing and planning so many things, don’t celebrate your birthday?”
