Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,88

up, and the tears come freely. “How about,” I choke out. “How about you just love me for me.” I look down at my body and then back at her. “All of me.”

“Quinn, of course I love you, I—”

“I don’t want diet books,” I cut her off. “Or unsolicited advice on clothes or men. I just want a mom,” I say, and because I’m on a roll, I add: “And the same goes for Tess.”

A tear travels down my mom’s cheek and rolls to her chin. She doesn’t try to swipe it away. She just looks at me, her throat bobbing on a sob.

I look at the cabinet leaning against my workbench, broken and ruined, and before I can let out my own sob, I grab my purse and leave, walking right by my mom without a hug or a word. I just leave.

Chapter 23

I’ve never called in sick for work in all the years I’ve been old enough to have a job, but on Wednesday I do. I lie around my apartment, watching chick flicks and ordering pizza delivery since my refrigerator is full of nothing that sounds good and an exceptional amount of expired food.

I avoid my phone except to talk to Holly, who just listens and doesn’t try to offer any sound advice or words of wisdom when we talk. It’s nice to vent without commentary.

Henry calls, and texts, and calls some more. I ignore it all. Who am I going to get on the other end of the line? My boyfriend—if that’s what he even is—who wants to talk to me about how I need to understand why we can’t be public? Or would he be playing the role of my boss, who really shouldn’t be finding out that I’m not exactly sick? Not in the physical sense, at least. I’m calling it a mental health day. I called in mental. That should be a thing.

I watch the midday news just to see what they say about the fact that I’m not there. I figured someone would step in and do my job, but Parker does the entire thing, and he does it perfectly. They don’t even need me. This doesn’t help my mental day.

I get another text this evening from Henry asking me if he can come over, if I need anything. I do text him back this time, telling him that I’m okay and that I don’t need anything. He gets the message. I half worried that he would just come over, and I don’t want to see him. Not now. Not yet.

Not feeling any better when I wake up the next day, I call in mental again. This time, though, I have a mission.

I put on my ratty work clothes, and I drive over to my parents’ detached garage. As I walk inside, the smell of wood and metal gives me a peaceful feeling. I was worried that I’d tainted it the other night, that this wouldn’t be a place of solace anymore. But it still brings all the feelings of comfort that it always has.

I look at the cabinet, still there, leaning against my workbench, still broken and tattered. I take a deep breath, and I get to work.

I fix the leg that I broke, which is fairly easy even though my kick stripped the screw. I use a trick I learned once where you use toothpicks to fill the hole so the nail has something to grab on to. The hinges on the door are a bit harder, but I’m able to get them back on using plastic anchors.

Once I have it all back up and standing and the door securely on, I assess what other damage I did. There’s a nice-size dent on the side where the cabinet hit my workbench that I have to putty and sand.

That only takes me an hour, and then I get to the real work. I re-sand some areas, and I redo some of the rotted places that I’d fixed before but that just didn’t look right.

Tessa comes to the garage, the heat rushing into the room as if it were powered by a massive blow dryer, and when she asks to help, I put her to work, sanding down the inside of one of the doors. My dad comes out and helps for a while, too. Sanding, and filing, and puttying.

After Tess and my dad have left and I’ve just applied the last bit of stain that I can before I need to