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Authors: Steph Campbell
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things.”
I am not about to delve into the fact that my mom spent the majority of my childhood in rehab, running out on my dad and my brothers and I—leaving me to cook and get my brothers up for school. I’m not going to explain how my mom turned a blind eye to my dad’s affair with our neighbor because she was too weak to do anything but look away. I won’t admit that I hid so much of my life from my friends and from Ben back then because I was so embarrassed of how things really were, and could barely admit the realities to myself, much less tell anyone else. I don’t say any of those things, but Amalea gives me a small nod, like she’s transported herself into my brain and knows all the things.
“ You should be thankful for your mother’s faults.”
“Excuse me?”
“A mother’s job is to teach her children. You learned a valuable lesson from her. You learned exactly who you don’ t want to be.”
I take another bite of the savory bread and consider this for a moment. I spent the better part of last year trying so hard to be nothing like my mother that I ended up spiraling out of control in signature Patricia MacPherson style.
“You remind me of my brother’s pseudo-girlfriend,” I say. Amalea raises her eyebrows at me. “In a good way! She always has these great little pieces of advice that, in her case, she probably read in a fortune cookie or under a bottle cap, but it’s nice to, you know, talk to someone who can see things in a way that you can’t. Shayna does that for me a lot.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Amalea says.
“Me too.”
“And your boyfriend? Have you talked to him?” Amalea asks.
“Not as much as I’d like, ” I say. I’ve definitely called him more than he has called me, and our conversations are clipped and short, and not a whole lot is said. I don’t want to brag about the amazing time I’m having when he’s sitting at home alone. But our talks always end with an ‘I love you,’ so I guess I can’t complain too much.“ I don’t know if it’s him or me, or just the distance, but whenever we do talk, he seems short with me.”
“Maybe he’s just busy.”
“Maybe.” I lace my fingers together and try to choose my words in a way that won’t leave me sounding like a jealous freak. “But he’s off of school, and his boss is out of town so he’s not working…” I think about all of the times he comes home late because he’s out taking photos, and I just know that’s how he’s spending his time with me away. Hopefully he’ll take enough that he won’t sneak out the first night I’m home.
“Sometimes, it’s easier to just accept the distance and anticipate the reunion,” Amalea says. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but right now, it makes a lot of sense to me.
Eight
BEN
I’m pulling a delicious single serving of Salisbury steak and som ething that the frozen food company is trying to pass off as macaroni and cheese out of the microwave when my phone vibrates on the counter. It’s not like I can’t eat a proper meal without Quinn around, but why bother? It’s just me, no point in messing up the entire kitchen.
“Hey, baby,” I answer the phone and shut the microwave with my other hand.
“Hey, yourself. Long time no talk.” Quinn’s voice sounds the same, but it feels different. Like the distance and time change has crept its way into her words, softening the edges, making each word more meaningful, no matter
I am not about to delve into the fact that my mom spent the majority of my childhood in rehab, running out on my dad and my brothers and I—leaving me to cook and get my brothers up for school. I’m not going to explain how my mom turned a blind eye to my dad’s affair with our neighbor because she was too weak to do anything but look away. I won’t admit that I hid so much of my life from my friends and from Ben back then because I was so embarrassed of how things really were, and could barely admit the realities to myself, much less tell anyone else. I don’t say any of those things, but Amalea gives me a small nod, like she’s transported herself into my brain and knows all the things.
“ You should be thankful for your mother’s faults.”
“Excuse me?”
“A mother’s job is to teach her children. You learned a valuable lesson from her. You learned exactly who you don’ t want to be.”
I take another bite of the savory bread and consider this for a moment. I spent the better part of last year trying so hard to be nothing like my mother that I ended up spiraling out of control in signature Patricia MacPherson style.
“You remind me of my brother’s pseudo-girlfriend,” I say. Amalea raises her eyebrows at me. “In a good way! She always has these great little pieces of advice that, in her case, she probably read in a fortune cookie or under a bottle cap, but it’s nice to, you know, talk to someone who can see things in a way that you can’t. Shayna does that for me a lot.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Amalea says.
“Me too.”
“And your boyfriend? Have you talked to him?” Amalea asks.
“Not as much as I’d like, ” I say. I’ve definitely called him more than he has called me, and our conversations are clipped and short, and not a whole lot is said. I don’t want to brag about the amazing time I’m having when he’s sitting at home alone. But our talks always end with an ‘I love you,’ so I guess I can’t complain too much.“ I don’t know if it’s him or me, or just the distance, but whenever we do talk, he seems short with me.”
“Maybe he’s just busy.”
“Maybe.” I lace my fingers together and try to choose my words in a way that won’t leave me sounding like a jealous freak. “But he’s off of school, and his boss is out of town so he’s not working…” I think about all of the times he comes home late because he’s out taking photos, and I just know that’s how he’s spending his time with me away. Hopefully he’ll take enough that he won’t sneak out the first night I’m home.
“Sometimes, it’s easier to just accept the distance and anticipate the reunion,” Amalea says. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but right now, it makes a lot of sense to me.
Eight
BEN
I’m pulling a delicious single serving of Salisbury steak and som ething that the frozen food company is trying to pass off as macaroni and cheese out of the microwave when my phone vibrates on the counter. It’s not like I can’t eat a proper meal without Quinn around, but why bother? It’s just me, no point in messing up the entire kitchen.
“Hey, baby,” I answer the phone and shut the microwave with my other hand.
“Hey, yourself. Long time no talk.” Quinn’s voice sounds the same, but it feels different. Like the distance and time change has crept its way into her words, softening the edges, making each word more meaningful, no matter
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