to patch things up. Give her a chance to be there for me the way she always swore she would.’ So I call, and I get this sob story about how hard your life is because you have to choose between getting dick on the regular and being a star. Boo freakin’ hoo. Grow up, Alexis. Look at someone other than yourself for a change. I’d say to call me when you figure out how to do that, but you know what? Don’t bother. I’m done.”
The line goes dead, and I pull the phone away from my face to stare at it. I’m not even sure what just happened, but somehow Mia seems to think that I’m the bad guy.
Big fat tears well up and fall down my cheeks.
Once again, the hits just keep coming. Nothing good can last for long without the universe righting itself with a bang, I guess.
Unable to bear sitting alone in my apartment for another minute with Mia’s accusations swirling in my brain and Colt’s abandonment slapping me in the face, I get in my car and just start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, but notice after a while that I’m headed towards my mom’s house in Thousand Oaks.
She lives in the same city where I spent most of my childhood, but not the same house. We rented, bouncing around from neighborhood to neighborhood, until after I graduated high school. She bought this cute little cottage after I’d moved out. It’s tiny, only two bedrooms, but since it’s just her these days, she doesn’t need any more room than that. The extra bedroom is for if my brother or I ever need a place to crash, she says.
I drive past my old middle school, memories of performing in talent shows with my friends and on my own flooding through me as I turn on my mom’s street.
Since I’m coming over unannounced and didn’t ever live here, I feel weird just barging in, so I knock on the front door and wait for her to answer.
She’s wearing jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt when she opens the door, her hair hidden beneath a baseball hat she bought when we went down to the San Diego Zoo a few years ago, confusion creasing her face at the sight of me on her doorstep. She immediately steps out and wraps me in a hug. “Oh, Alexis. Why are you knocking? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve been crying. Come inside. You know you can always just come in.”
Even though she told me to come inside, she makes no move to release me, holding me tighter when a sob breaks free of my chest. She whispers nonsense, telling me its alright, that I’m alright, that she’s got me, offering unlimited comfort, and this is what I’ve been needing all day.
All my fighting and problem solving has gotten me nowhere. And right now I just need to cry, and I need my mom to hold me and tell me it’ll be alright.
Eventually we make it inside her house, where she settles me at the table and puts on the kettle to make tea. Because nothing’s more comforting than warm drinks when you’re upset, at least that’s what she always said when I was a kid.
She doesn’t ask anything more significant than what kind of tea I’d like and if I want honey while she bustles around, switching on the electric kettle and opening her pantry door to reveal a shoe organizer hanging off it full of at least fifty different types of tea. She rattles off a bunch of options, and I settle on a cinnamon apple one that sounds good. She gives me a kind smile. “Good choice. I think I’ll have some too.”
When she opens the box, the cinnamon smell fills the small kitchen, and we sit in cozy silence as the kettle heats up. Her house is homey, full of a thousand little touches that show off her personality, from the mismatched painted table and chairs that she picked up second hand and refinished herself to the eclectic pieces of decor lining the walls, a mixture of her own original paintings and artwork she’s bought from local artists over the years. My mom’s always been a great supporter of the arts, even though she often lamented her ability to donate and purchase as much as she would’ve liked over the years. Supporting two kids as a single mom on a dental hygienist’s salary didn’t leave