Page 68 of Fighting Fate
“Don’t worry, that girl is made of the good stuff. She’ll be just fine without you.”
I watch her jog up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. It’s only when I hear the light echo of the door upstairs closing that I leave.
* * *
The apartment is litup like the Fourth of July when I arrive home. The smell of Mom’s cooking fills the place along with Orla’s pop music. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to be. Until Mom and Orla surprised me at the club shortly after Willow left, this wasn’t how I’d intended to spend my birthday weekend. It was supposed to be quiet and go under the radar. Willow and I were finally meant to do the tourist thing after weeks of putting it off.
“Hey!” Orla pokes her head around the corner into the hallway as I traipse towards my bedroom. “You’re alone…”
“Christ, will you let them get through the door?” Mom calls at her. The sound of her voice is trilled with the same excitement that Orla’s eyes are burning with.
“He’s alone, Mom!”
“What?” Mom steps into view. The confused look on her face morphs into worry at the sight of mine. She’s always been good at reading me, even when I’m trying to hide my feelings.
“You’re gonna tell me to go check on dinner, right?” Orla asks her.
Flicking her with the kitchen towel in her hands, Mom shoos her back to the kitchen. “Go on…”
Mom makes sure we’re alone before she makes a move. Her blue eyes latch on mine as she comes to a stop in front of me. It’s been almost an hour since I left Willow, and I keep waiting for the hollowness to shrink, but it’s spreading, faster and faster the more I recall her tears. I never wanted to hurt Willow. I never wanted it to end like this. Fuck, I didn’t want it to end at all.
“What happened?” Mom asks.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, trying to give her a pacifying smile before I head into my bedroom. The room is large, and the air is so warm that I can smell Willow’s soft perfume lingering.
My eyes shift to the dresser in the corner where she sits to do her make-up, and the sight of the few things she’s left here only make the void grow, threatening to suck me in completely. I sit in the chair, picking up the silky hair tie on the dresser. It smells of her floral shampoo. The hit of her scent cloys in my lungs, burning and etching its warmth through me. This is all that’s left, and it’s not enough. It’s a small drop in a vast ocean.
“Dinner is ready,” Mom says after a soft knock on the door. A beat after, she comes inside and sits on the edge of the bed closest to me, pulling the quilt she made out of my old T-shirts onto her lap. “I can’t believe you still bring this with you everywhere you go.”
Clutching the hair tie tightly in my fist, I stare at the old blanket. Every square holds a memory of my dad, of every time he returned home after a fight. Every square reminds me why today couldn’t go any differently.
“I hated this shirt,” she chuckles, pointing out the faded brown square sitting over her stomach. “Not only was it the colour of shit, but the mountain logo looked like inspiration for the poop emoji.”
“It’s why I liked it. He told me he saw the shirt and that it reminded him of the little shit he had back home.”
“The number of times I put that monstrosity in the trash and he took it back out, washed it, and put it back in your closet…” A fond laugh rumbles from her, followed by a deep sigh. “He was a good father. It was him that started this birthday tradition. It didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he made sure we were together for every single one.”
“And then he died.”
The bitter scoff twists her soft features into a grimace. With a deep breath, she stands to take in the view of the river and the city in the late-afternoon sun.
“People die, Rory. Every second of every day, a person dies. It’s why we should make the most of the good times. It’s why your father was always so adamant about marking these special occasions.” Turning to me, she folds the quilt and sets it back on the bed. “What happened? You were so happy when you left, and now…”
“You know I don’t like making a big deal of my birthday. I’m thirty-five, Mom, not a kid.”
“Dear God, Rory, I’m your mother, and you are always going to be a kid to me. I got almost twenty years on you. Besides, having dinner as a family isn’t a big deal. It’s what normal people do. Now, you might be a birthday grinch, but we both know that whatever this is—” She groans, circling her finger at me. “—it’s nothing to do with your birthday and everything to do with your girl. Whatever’s happened will blow over, and if you’re that upset about it, why are you sitting in here? What’re you waiting for?”
“Mom…”
“Do something about it.”
“It’s not that easy,” I mutter, threading my hand through the hair tie so that it sits on my wrist as I get up and make my way to the bedroom door. I don’t want to talk about any of this with her. I don’t want to talk about it with anyone. If I can’t even get it all straight in my head, how can I explain it to her?
“Not so fast.” Mom cuts my path off, standing between me and my escape.
She’s tall, and her wild hair is set in tight curls that give it a mane-like look. When her eyes meet mine in a glare, I know there’s no way I can get out of talking.
“Talking about it isn’t going to change anything. Willow and I…we’re…I don’t know. It’s…fuck! Just let it go, okay?”