“Well,I wish you wouldn’t.”
“ButIhaveto,” she pressed firmly, hereyes pleading. “I’m your mother. It’s what I do.”
Ina shameful sort of way, it felt nice to feel worried about. It felt nice tohear someonesayit. I mean, usually,when I was having a particularly rough time, I got the concerned looks from myfather or friends. When I was sleeping late from being up all night, or when Ispent long amounts of time in the bathroom … They all knew the telltale signs,but they seldom said it, knowing very well what my answer would be.
Same shit, different day.Ha-ha.
Buthaving someone say it out loud felt like assurance that I wasn’t entirelyalone.
“Don’tworry about me, Mama. I’m fine.”
***
Thenext morning, I woke up feeling almost refreshed, with only phantom pains fromthe night before still pinging in my gut. I sighed, pulling in a deep breath,then pushing out my exhale while stretching my arms above my head.
Ithrew on a pair of gym shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, stuffed my feet into mysneakers, and took the stairs to the first floor of my parents’ house.
Theyhad inherited the place from Mama’s folks, Nana and Pop. Before they’d passedaway years ago, they left the house to my parents, giving them the freedom tostop renting their lives away. Since we moved in when I was about thirteen orso, I don’t think they’d done a damn thing to make the house theirs. It’ssomething I had often noticed growing up, throughout my teens and into mytwenties. I even judged them for it a bit, not quite understanding why theywouldn’t want to leave their mark on a home that no longer belonged to theprevious owners. But now, with the wisdom of a thirty-year-old man, I began towonder if it was that they’d always seen it as theirs. Even before it legallywas. Maybe Mama had never stopped looking at the place as home, even aftershe’d moved out with my dad.
Hell,I wondered the same about myself. Would I ever be able to stop thinking of itas my home, even after I’d found a place of my own?
“Chad?That you?” Dad’s voice came from the kitchen as I headed in that direction tograb a water bottle before heading out for a run.
“Hey,Dad.”
Myfather, built like me but without all the ink, clapped a beefy hand against myshoulder. “Mornin’, son. I thought I heard you uplate last night.”
“Yeah,I was.” I opened the fridge to grab my water bottle.
“Feelin’ better now?” Dad’s conversation skills lacked incomparison to Mama’s, but he was just as concerned. I saw it in his eyes, inthe deep wrinkles forming a V-line between his thick, greying brows.
Ismiled reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Gladto hear it.” He clapped a hand against my shoulder and said, “Anyway, yougoin’ for a run?”
“Yup.Wannacome?”
Dadgrunted a laugh. “Boy! I haven’t run since I was in high school. No wayareyougonnasee my assrunnin’ around the block. But you enjoy yourself.” Hepatted my shoulder before heading toward the stairs. But before he could leavethe kitchen, he turned and addressed me with a point of his finger. “Oh, hey,Chad. If you don’t mind, wouldyabewillin’ to mow the lawn today? Your mother’s beenaskin’ me to do it, but—”
“Yeah,Dad.” I nodded firmly. “Sure. I got it covered.”
“You’rea good kid,” he replied, smiling gratefully. “I’ll see you later.”
Ilingered in the kitchen for a moment until I heard him on the stairs. I grabbedmy wallet and took out a few bills, strategically dropping one onto the kitchenfloor, in a place I knew my parents would find it. Then, I went to the closetby the door, to stuff the others into my dad’s coat pocket. I didn’t know whenthey’d discover the money buteventuallythey would,under the misconception that it had slipped out of a pocket or that they’dsimply forgotten it was there. The find would make them smile, and they’d useit to buy groceries, new shoes, movie tickets—it didn’t matter.As long asit helped, that’s all I cared about.
Itwas the least I could do. They’d never accept my money otherwise.
***
Myarms pumped. My lungs worked. The soles of my sneakers slapped the concrete,keeping time with the heavy beat of my heart, and when I reached my usualdestination, I slowed to jog up the walkway.
Thedoor opened before I could knock.
“Hey,baby,” Ali greeted me. I attempted to kiss her, but she denied me and laughed,holding out her palms yet not quite touching my chest. “Stop! You’re allsweaty!”
“Ican think of a few times when you don’t mind a little sweat.” I winked,grabbing her shoulders and leading us into her ground-level apartment. I backedher into the closet door with all intentions of laying one on her, but ahardened glare blanketed her features and the playful glint in her eye had wornaway to reveal only seriousness underneath. I sighed and relented. “Okay, okay.Fine. I’ll stop.”
Shemoved away from me and toward the living room. “So, how was it after I leftlast night? You never called.”
