too late. My dream husband’s face and our luxurious white bed started to vanish into thin air as the morning sun finally worked its way beneath my lids.
I opened my eyes and immediately groaned at the sight—pink walls, cardboard boxes, and work-out equipment. In a matter of thirty seconds, I’d gone from floating dreamily on cloud nine with Scott Eastwood’s naked body pressed against mine to one of the seven circles of hell that was actually my reality.
My parents’ two-bedroom nightmare in Hell’s Kitchen. Bill and Janet thought it was a dream, though. One provided by the grace of two little words: rent control.
But I didn’t really see it that way. Not right now. My life had been reduced to six cardboard boxes stuffed inside my old bedroom, and every effort I’d put into being my own woman for the last six-plus years was gone. I was back home. With my parents. In the place I grew up.
Although, it no longer looked like my teenage youth. The beige walls used to be littered with posters of eighties’ New Wave bands like Modern Talking and Rick Springfield.
Hey, don’t judge my teenage music preferences.
I might’ve been an outcast in the early 2000s because I refused to jump on the boy band and mainstream pop wagon, but no one could resist songs like Modern Talking’s “Brother Louie,” and let’s be real, even to this day, everyone wants to be “Jessie’s Girl.”
But now, the room had turned into something out of a bubblegum pink jazzercise nightmare—aka my mother’s “fitness” room. Apparently, pink was one of those colors that motivated people to strive for buns of steel.
To make a long story short, my life outlook was grim—twenty-nine years old, and I had officially moved back home into my parents’ apartment. I was newly single, had no job, and would be spending my nights sleeping between a treadmill and a thigh master.
Ugh. Come back to me, Scott Eastwood!
Shit had just gotten real. Well, real sad. And depressing. And fucking pink.
“Rise and shine, Melody!” My mother announced her entrance with two soft taps to the already half-opened door. The hinges squeaked, and before I knew it, Janet Marco’s smiling face was in full view from my perch on top of my new bed—a mother-flipping air mattress from 1982. It was old enough to be vintage—and not in the fun way—and you couldn’t even use an air pump to inflate it. This baby required the kind of lung capacity that usually resulted in passing out.
Jesus. What in the hell time is it? It felt too early for Workout Barbie to be in here working up a sweat. I snatched my phone off the cardboard box—otherwise known as my nightstand—beside the air mattress. I tapped it to life, and the bright screen all but blinded my tired eyes. I ignored the bullshit How’s the weather by you? text from Eli—my newly appointed ex-boyfriend—and focused on the time. The numbers 9:30 a.m. glared back at me, and I mentally gave my bubbly mother the middle finger.
“How’s my favorite girl?” Janet singsonged as she walked her spandex-covered ass into the room. She left no time for a response before hopping onto her treadmill and jogging at a leisurely pace.
“It’s too early,” I answered, and she immediately cupped her ear in my direction, giving the universal signal for I didn’t hear you.
“What was that, sweetheart?”
“I said, it’s too early,” I repeated, and she offered no response, seemingly still unable to hear what I was saying. I was no rocket scientist, but I’d say the recurrent pounding of her feet against the treadmill track wasn’t helping our conversation.
“Speak a little louder, Mel,” she instructed and tapped her finger against the controls to increase her speed.
Fantastic idea, Mom. Because increasing your speed will definitely help us converse like normal human beings.
A little-known fact about Janet: she was a little hard of hearing. She blamed it on aging and genetics, but considering she’d always had issues, I had a feeling it had something to do with all of the rock concerts she and my father used to go to when they were young and wild. Back in the day, Bill and Janet were hard-core Black Sabbath fans and attended no less than twenty concerts in a span of five years. Not to mention, they moonlighted as KISS groupies on the side.
I was no expert, but it seemed logical that years of Ozzy Osbourne and Gene Simmons shouting into her eardrums didn’t increase my mother’s hearing