Page 79 of To Go
Seems like a better option than staying here.
“Actually, we have to get going,” I announce, gesturing for Stella to stand with me, snagging the large envelope off the table right as the door to the kitchen opens and dessert is carried out.
“Are you sure?” My mother’s voice cuts like glass. “It’s your favourite. And it would be rude to leave in the middle of a meal.” She pointedly looks back at my seat, demanding I return to it.
“I’m sure. Lunch didn’t agree with me.” I fix her with a stare, one that I learned from her. Her jaw twitches and her eyes narrow before she relents and waves away the kitchen staff. The deep breath of relief that leaves me is difficult to mask.
The terse goodbyes at the door go on longer than they need to, my mother clinging to me unnecessarily, like I’m going off to war, or as though she likes me at all.
It must be a show for Stella’s benefit. I don’t miss the look my mother sends her before we pull out of the driveway. You could cut the tension in the car with a knife as I make the slow, winding journey to the end of the drive where it meets the road and throw the car into park.
Silence steeps the car as we sit idle for a moment. I stare straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel for dear life, replaying every last moment of that fucking horror show. Even Stella, Perky McHappy, seems shaken by the interactions that were forced on us today. I hear her let out a long sigh before I see her turn to face me in my peripheral vision.
“So, like, how profitable is it to be a gold digger?” I turn to glare at Stella and her shit-eating grin. “Asking for a friend.”
Chapter 28
James
“So, your mom…” Stella starts as I slowly turn off the highway onto a quieter street.
“Massive bitch,” I confirm. I want to bring up the threats from my mother, but a niggling thought in the back of my head tells me to keep it to myself. Instead, I keep driving down the winding road.
We’re only an hour and a half away from my parent’s house now. If my memory serves, there should be a small, mom and pop diner around here somewhere. Nessa and I used to escape the house whenever we could, to get out from under the critical eyes that followed our every move, and to soothe the ache of being a constant disappointment. They’re always open, no matter the holiday, or weather, and they’ve provided a safe haven for more than one set of siblings in our community. The pressure of being born into these families is stifling, and I’m certain they’ve seen more than their fair share of escapees over the years.
“Oh my god, thank you! I can’t believe how nice she looks! You would never guess.”
“That’s kind of her specialty.” As frustrated and hurt as I was to have overheard their conversation, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. My mom hates that I chose to be in a band instead of following the path they’d laid out for me. It’s no shock that she would stoop that low to get what she wants. She’s unaccustomed to hearing the word no, and is creative enough to find a way to get what she wants if she can’t buy it.
I pull into the parking lot of the run down, yet somehow still charming diner. This place has stood here for ages, weathering storms and snooty people who want to tear it down to put up a chain coffee shop. It’s practically an institution. Neither of us are hungry, but we both need something that was cooked with love and not steeped in resentment.
We hurry inside, racing through the cold to get to the sanctuary of the warm diner.
“What’s good here?” Stella asks, leaning into my side, my arm encircling her as if I’ve done it a million times, like muscle memory.
“You can never go wrong with poutine,” I reply, my arm instinctively pulling her closer.
She sighs. “It’s a classic for a reason.” Her gorgeous, azure gaze flutters up to mine, and I can’t help but pop a firm kiss onto the top of her head. A kind, older woman with deep smile lines set into her smooth brown skin comes to the front counter to take our order. I ask for two orders of poutine, quickly handing the woman some cash before Stella can make any sort of protest, adding on a more than generous tip, given that they’re open on a holiday.
“Do you want to eat here or in the car?” I ask, even though the diner is practically empty, aside from a young man and, presumably, his daughter, sitting in the far back corner.
“Is it wrong that I want to eat in the car and, you know…”
“Get as far away from my parents as possible? Trust me, I understand the urge.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “Why don’t I go keep the car warm and you can grab the food when it’s ready?”
“A quick getaway, I like it.” Her smile beams up at me. I feel proud, knowing I put it there.
I hurry out to the car, already cold from the few minutes it had been sitting out here. The engine turns over without difficulty and I set the heat to blasting, as well as turn on Stella’s seat heater. I watch through the diner window as the young girl sitting with her father walks over to Stella. Stella crouches down to her level, smiling as the girl begins to talk to her, nodding along to whatever story she’s telling her, gesticulating wildly. A small smile tugs at my own lips watching her, followed by a wave of unease.
My eyes flick to the envelope I shoved in the backseat on our way out of my parents’ place. It calls to me, begging me to open it, to know its contents, like some sort of fucked up ring of power.
Before I can overthink it, I reach over, extracting its contents hurriedly. My eyes scan the pages quickly. The first few aren’t anything new. There’s a few shots of her going to the shelter, or intoBooze & Brews, or out with Nessa and Hazel. There’s some bank statements, which seems invasive to check. I already know that Stella shops primarily second-hand and is saving like a loon.
There’s a page that lists her assets, which is predictably blank. She doesn’t own property or a car, but these are all things I already knew. Why would my parents be making such a big deal? So, she doesn’t have or come from money. Who cares? That doesn’t inherently make her a gold digger.
I continue to leaf through them, keeping an eye on Stella. Our food still hasn’t come, but she’s still talking to the family. I don’twant her to find me snooping through information about her, even if I wasn’t the one who gathered it. That level of invasion of privacy would offend most people.
I’m about to give up when my eyes lock onto one page. There’s a past due stamp on the front of it, and the return address has the name of a financial institution.
