Page 19 of The Late Hit
Pulling up my email, I want to double-check that I’m caught up before my Thursday classes. There’s an email from my mother. Thinking back on it, I haven’t heard from my mother since the middle of summer.
Do I open it now? Or do I wait?
Ugh, just get it over with Brynn.
Hovering over her email address, I decided to just rip off the Band-Aid and open it.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Five Years
Brinley,
The fifth anniversary is approaching. Your presence isrequiredFriday, October 14 thru Sunday, October 16, as the high school is doing a tribute. Wemustbe a united family front and Iexpectyou to be there.
See attached for your flight information and let me knowASAPif this works for your schedule.
-Dr. Carolyn Cabot-Wilder
I reread the email. And for shits and giggles, two more times. The nerve of that woman to require that I attend some bullshit ceremony and look like we are a loving family. That ship sailed five freaking years ago. Even before that, a happy family was far from what we were. The only people happy in that family were Bryce and me.
Not only does she require my presence, but not once does she even ask how I’m doing. The audacity. This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s typical Carolyn Cabot-Wilder.
Sitting here, I can feel my blood pressure rise and my chest tighten. The anxiety is creeping in. Not only does dealing with my mother bring out the bad in me, but she’s so nonchalant with it being the fifth anniversary. How can she be so cold?
You know what, let her sweat it. I’ll reply to her later. Slamming my laptop shut and shoving it in my backpack, I quickly gather all of my things before storming down the library stairs.
Moving through all the students, I’m in a daze as I make my way from the library to the opposite side of campus where my car is parked. Fuming, I cannot get over how cold this woman has become. There used to be good times with my parents before the shit hit the fan, and our lives were changed. Right?
“Mommy, Mommy!” I call out. Closing the front door, I began searching our large house for her. “Kitchen, Brinley.” I hear her voice from the back of the house.
Running, I make my way into the kitchen where the smell of freshly baked cookies greets me. Standing in front of the oven, placing freshly baked sugar cookies on a cooling rack, is my mom. She’s still dressed in her scrubs from work, and her hair is tossed haphazardly in a messy bun at the top of her head. Mommy looks tired, and her smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but I know she’s excited to see me.
Pushing a bar stool next to her, I climb up and reach out to grab a cookie. With a ‘thwack,’ my mother gently smacks my hand with the spatula.
“They just came out of the oven, baby.”
“But sugar cookies are my favorite,” I whine.
Leaning down, my mother places a big kiss on my forehead. “There’s some sugar to hold you over.” We laugh. “Now where is your brother?”
Shaking my head, I push the memory out of my mind. That was the last time I remember my mother baking cookies for Bryce and me. We were seven. Any other time we wanted cookies, we would have to ask Isabella, our housekeeper, to put a request in with the chef. Because shortly after, my mother was promoted to chief resident at our family’s hospital, Cabot Presbyterian.
Finding my polar white Mercedes Coupe and placing my thumb on the door handle to unlock it, I climb inside. I let my body relax against the black leather as I reach inside the center console for my vape pen. Bringing the pen to my lips, I take a long drag, letting the inhale expand my lungs. Holding the vapor in, I close my eyes before releasing a long plume of vapor. Before I think about it, I’m bringing the pen back to my lips for a few more deep inhales.
In and out. In and out.
The act slowly brings my body into a state of relaxation.
Why did I let her get to me? Why are they having a tribute and making this whole situation another publicity stunt?
Thinking of the tribute only brings me pain. And the sense of peace is now gone. Pushing the automatic start, I switch my playlist over to my ‘in my feels’ playlist. “I Think I’m Okay”by MGK and YUNGBLUD blasts through the speakers. Reversing out of the parking spot, I start my ten-minute journey back to the town house.
During the drive, my phone continues to notify me of text messages. The alerts coming through my speakers every two to four minutes are really annoying.
Can’t people take a hint? If I don’t respond right away, I’m not interested in talking.
