“You know,” she continues like I didn’t even say anything, “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s never good,” I taunt. Unfortunately for me, she doesn’t have a sense of humor this early.
Her scowl deepens, eyes narrowing. “I think it would be a good idea for you to work for your stepdad.”
And just like that, my sense of humor vanishes as my spine steels. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because, honey, it would be good for you to get out of the house, make your own money.”
“Ma, I do make my own money.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she replies dismissively. “The little social media stuff you say you do, but I mean arealjob.”
She obviously doesn’t know what I really do for money, and I have no plans to tell her, but her opinion is screwed up. No… if it’s not a standard clock-in, clock-out job, then it’s not real.
Not only that, but about a year ago, she found my Instagram page, and was less than amused with the content I posted. She’s old school when it comes to certain things and posting your body on the internet is something she doesn’t find appropriate. The photos she found weren’t bad either; I wasn’t even naked. I mean, sure… some featured thongs and jock straps, but they’re nothing compared to what I post on theotherwebsite.
Anyway, ever since she found that page, she’s been very anti-social media work. Every time she brings it up, it’s no less infuriating. I’ve never once asked her for money since I turned eighteen. If anything, she should be proud of me regardless of where the money is coming from. Jobs come in all shapes and sizes, and no one is better than the other.
I love my mom and I appreciate everything she’s done for me, but that coming from the woman who could barely make ends meet before marrying her rich ass husband is comical. And trust me… I know she was given a shitty deck of cards growing up, but still, I made sure to do better for myself—break the poverty cycle—and even if it truly was all from social media, who fucking cares? A job is a job.
“Mom, I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve got some—”
“Dear, leave him alone.” The booming voice coming from behind me, paired with the heavy footsteps approaching, make my blood turn to ice. “We’ve already discussed this, him and I.”
Almost simultaneously, my mother and I turn to look at the man entering the kitchen; a briefcase hung from his shoulder and his coal-black eyes skirting from me to her.
He’s home. Joy.
A small chuckle escapes my mom. “You have?”
“Yes, we have,” he confirms, my confusion amplified. “He’ll be working remotely for Alvarez Oil as ourSocial Media Marketing Liaison. I told him I wanted to be the one to tell you when I got home, which is why he’s being cheeky now.” His gaze flits over to me, and I swear to God, there’s humor dancing in it—something I didn’t even know he was capable of possessing. “Isn’t that right, Elias?”
I’m so fucking confused. More than that, though, I’m pissed because I know what he’s trying to do. But right now isn’t the time or the place to hash this out with mystepdad,so I simply nod, glowering at him before glancing back over at my mom. “Yup. Zeke’s right, Mom.”
A smile spreads on her face as she claps her hands together. “That’s wonderful. So happy to hear this. I think working will be really good for you, Elias.” She stands, and I barely refrain from rolling my eyes at that comment. “Well, I’m going to shower while I wait for Hilda to get in here and make breakfast.”
Annoyance unfurrows deep in my gut as she strolls out of the kitchen, leaving me alone withhim. In the two-ish years they’ve been married, I’ve managed to keep my distance. Never having to be around him for more than a few hours at a time. I knew moving back to Savannah would result in having to be around him much more frequently but, thankfully, in the week I’ve been here since graduating, he’s been out of town on some business trip. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on him in close to six months. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to move back here. I could’ve easily found a place by myself instead, but my mother insisted.
She claims wanting me here is solely because she misses me after I was gone at Duke for the last four years, but I know that at least a slim bit of it has to do with my arrest at the end of last year. She’s still pissed about it and thinks I should stay here and “repay” my stepdad for getting the charges dropped. It was a dumb, drunken bar fight, and he didn’t even do anything other than use his sway with the sheriff to get me out.
“What the hell was that about?” I bark, turning to fully face him.
His energy alone is larger than life, taking up almost as much room as his physical form. If he didn’t annoy the fuck out of me, I’d probably feel more intimidated by his presence. Standing at close to six foot seven inches, he stares down his nose at me, lips pressed into a thin line. He always looks like he’s just caught a whiff of sour milk. “Well, hello to you, too, Elias.”
“What was that, Zeke? I’m not working for you. We’ve never discussed that. We haven’t discussedanything.”
He shrugs a shoulder, setting his briefcase on the counter. “I figured you wouldn’t want your mom to know how youreallymake money. Think of it as afavor.You’re welcome.”
There’s so much I want to say, but instead, I bite my tongue and leave the room. There’s no sense in arguing with him. It never gets me anywhere except perpetually angry. However, the fact that he acknowledged that side of me at all just now is surprising.
Once upstairs, I change into a pair of tight black shorts and a matching black tank, then pop in a stick of Big Red gum before grabbing my yoga mat and laptop and heading back downstairs. The one positive of moving here is the space. The backyard in this house alone is massive. I’m able to do my yoga classes out there in the sun instead of crammed in my room or in some studio. Not to mention, the pool that I’ve been taking full advantage of.
Before I left for college, my living situation was vastly different from it is now. My mom has always been a single mom. My sperm donor bounced before I was even born. She tried her best, working multiple jobs to make ends meet, but it was never quite enough to get our heads fully above water. For the better part of my childhood, we lived in a five hundred square foot, one-bedroom house that looked like it could’ve been blown away by a heavy wind. She slept in the living room to give me my own room. When I was twelve or thirteen, we finally moved into a two-bedroom house—which is where she lived up until she marriedZeke.
Stepping outside, it’s already warm and stuffy despite it being so early in the day. Sometimes it feels like we’re living in an armpit.
Once I’ve laid the navy-blue mat on the ground, I pull up the class I’m going to take on my laptop before propping it on the table. I’ve been doing yoga for years. It’s my number one stress relief; it’s relaxing, it feels good. I love it. I try to do it every single day, but that isn’t always possible. It’s usually closer to every other. Before I graduated, I would attend in person classes at a studio with a bunch of fellow Duke kids. It was fun, but being able to do it at home whenever it fits into my schedule is way better.
