Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,87

tone.

Henry looks over his shoulder and sees Miguel, the evening news associate producer, signaling for him to come back.

“Go,” I say. “Your audience awaits.”

“Quinn, we need to talk,” he says. He lowers his voice so even I can barely hear him. “Can I come over later?”

“That depends, Henry. Have you changed your mind about anything? Have any idea how long we’re going to keep this up?”

He looks over his shoulder again, this time to make sure no one’s in listening distance.

His expression and worry that someone might overhear is my answer. I shake my head at him. “I’ll pass on tonight,” I say.

“Quinn, we need to talk,” he says.

“Yeah, not tonight.” And before he can reply, I turn back around and leave.

~*~

I go home and change my clothes and then head to the only place I want to be right now: the garage at my parents’ house. I need to think, and working on the curio cabinet is just the therapy I need right now.

I flick on the lights in the garage, the overhead lamp bringing life to my workbench. I walk over to the cabinet and run my fingers over the fine detail on the door. I was able to sand off most of the finish and patch up the rot, but it just looks . . . shabby. No matter what I’ve done, what I’ve tried to do with it, I can’t make it look like I want it to. The inside is so pristine, so well preserved. It just looks so mismatched.

Something dawns on me as I stand back and try to figure out what I need to do, how I can make it better. I think I might hate this cabinet. This was not the therapy I needed at all. It was just a reminder of all the things I’m failing at.

So, instead of working on it, I kick it. It’s a great forward motion of my foot, right into one of the four tapered legs at the base of the cabinet. The force of it makes the leg fold inward, causing the entire cabinet to fall forward in that direction. I move out of the way as the corner of the piece lands with a thud against my workbench, which causes one of the doors to swing open at such a quick trajectory, it breaks off the top hinge completely and is barely hanging on to the bottom one. The piece lies there, fallen against my workbench, broken. Because of me.

Regret comes swiftly, and I scream a very long string of words that I haven’t said in a long time, the words flying out of me like diving birds on their way to catch a fish.

“What’s going on here?” my mom asks. She’s standing inside the open door looking at me with big eyes.

“This is me, losing my mind.” I’m probably looking the part of person on a psychotic break right now.

“You’re . . . losing your mind?” she asks, her eyes taking on a more concerned look now.

“Yes, Mom, I’m losing my mind.” I swing my arms out, palms up.

“Okay,” she says. “Well, can I get you something to help? A drink, maybe? Your . . . father?” That’s so my mom. Trying to put a bandage on everything.

“Oh, I know. How about another diet book?” I throw out there. “Do you think that might help all this?” This time I gesture up and down my body with my hands.

My mom’s jaw slackens, her eyes now wide again.

“Because I’ll just take it home and add it to the bookcase where every book you’ve given me has gone to die.”

“Quinn, I—”

“Don’t. Save your money and your words. I don’t want any more of that from you, okay?” I feel the tears starting to prick behind my eyes, and I know I’m about to lose it. Here is yet another thing I’ve settled for. This thing with my mom. This relationship of ours.

“Of course . . . I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t trying . . .” She gestures around frantically as her voice trails off.

I hold out a hand. “I know you didn’t mean any harm by it,” I say. “But harm me, you did.” I hiccup, feeling choked by the emotions.

“Quinn,” she says, her own eyes filling with tears now.

“It’s okay.” I close my eyes, and it feels like I can see all the words swimming behind my eyelids. All the words I want to say to her. I open them back