“They’re starting to re-route calls. I’m sure it’s in case anyone needs help, but I’m positive he’s there.” King moves his hands to her shoulders and squats in front of her, waiting until she meets his gaze. It takes a few seconds, but slowly Mercedes’ head turns to face him. “He’s going to be okay, monkey, I swear.”
Slowly, she nods her agreement.
“Come help me finish the sauce. You can tell me if there’s enough cheese.” She turns to me, revealing the frail measure of strength she’s struggling to maintain. I don’t smile because I know she would find the gesture to be patronizing rather than supportive, so I tilt my head back toward the kitchen and lead the way with the hope that she’ll follow.
Thankfully, she does.
“You cooked?” King’s question plays through my head a few times. It isn’t filled with sarcasm or shock, but pride that has me ducking my head a little farther as I return the last of the ingredients in the fridge.
“Sort of. It’s more like my usual assembling because I mixed premade stuff together, but we made it last week while you were gone, and it was pretty decent.” King’s infamous uneven grin has me staring at him for several seconds though I’ve sketched this same expression so many times, I know the right pressure and angle to use.
“It’s fab! You’ll love it, Uncle King,” Mercedes chimes, her mood slightly uplifted, giving me hope that she’s going to relax as I move back to the stove to stir the sauce and pasta together.
“This looks and smells amazing, Lo.” The sincerity in his voice makes me want to turn and face him again, to smile with his praises. To laugh with some absurd joy he’s instilled in me. How can I feel so weak and ridiculous while also being so happy and content?
I drop the ladle on the spoon rest and turn to face Mercedes. “Positive thoughts. Remember, everything is going to be fine. I will see you tomorrow, okay?”
Her eyes grow wide with objection.
“You can’t leave. Didn’t you hear me say they’re closing the roads? I’m sure the buses are all stopped. I’ll take you home tomorrow once it quiets down,” King says.
I shake my head before I can formulate the right words. “No, I’m not sleeping over.”
“You can sleep in my room.” Mercedes states her offer like a well-thought-out plan, her eyes growing with ideas.
“You’re like sleeping with an octopus with a vendetta,” King says, pulling Mercedes’ back to his side and putting her in a playful headlock.
“I am not.”
“You are.” King’s tone is missing the teasing inflection, and his eyes barely acknowledge either of us, conveying something is bothering him. Whether it’s my lack of interest in staying or his disinterest in me being his girlfriend is the question burning in my mind.
“We left the shop open,” Mercedes cries after another burst of thunder reigns the night skies.
“The shop’s open?” King asks, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he looks to the large picture window. “Where are you going?” he calls, but I’m already pulling my jacket on. “Lo, you can’t go out in this.”
“I didn’t check to make sure any of the bikes used went back, and they went out in the yard for a while.”
“I’ll go. Stay here.”
“It was my responsibility.” I have no desire to go out in this weather, but the idea of King cleaning up a mess that was a part of my job grates on my nerves.
“You need to learn to accept help from others.”
“I don’t need help.” I don’t mean for my words to be defensive, but my voice has deepened, and my eyes have narrowed.
King opens his mouth, I’m sure with a retaliation, but I don’t hear it. I’m already heading toward the shop, using the small flashlight I discovered in King’s desk drawer that I had pocketed. The rain is coming harder and faster than I think I’ve ever seen it, hitting every surface with so much force that it bounces back into the air as if doing a choreographed dance that makes my shoes squish and squeak with each step.
“You’re so damn stubborn! I would have done this and you could have stayed warm and dry. Your pride wouldn’t have been touched.”
“I’m not worried about my pride.”
“Bullshit! Since the first day I walked into this house, you’ve worried about your pride. There are times you try to fight with it and let me see sides of you, but let’s face it, Lo, you are so caught up with not needing help from anyone, you become a liability to yourself.”
My head snaps back. The lights from the house and shop cast just enough light for me to see King and the reflection of thousands of raindrops continuing their torrential dance. We’ve stopped, and the fact surprises me. I can’t recall making the conscious decision to face him and listen to his accusations.
King lowers his eyebrows and runs a hand along his jaw before clasping the back of his neck. “Why are you so damn afraid to ask for help?”
My eyebrows slant together, slitting my eyes. “I’m not. I just don’t need it. If you want to talk about being a liability to oneself, you need to look in the mirror! You people are all crazy!”
King’s chin dips toward his throat, lowering the bill of his baseball hat so I can hardly see his face. “Us people?”
My hands swing around the empty yard. “Yes, you people. You guys are all adrenaline junkies. You think that by being crazy and reckless you are being an individual. Someone true only to yourselves. Newsflash: It’s not unique! People have been being stupid long before you guys started.”
“Just because you’re too afraid to be yourself, afraid of who might judge you, doesn’t give you the right to point your damn fingers at others. I don’t give a shit if people know who I am.”
“You just lie about your first name to everyone you meet, right?”
King’s eyes narrow. “Why in the hell are you so pissed off at me?”
“Why am I so pissed off?” I ask incredulously. King nods, rain dripping down his face. “I’m trying to do my job and you’re accusing me of being a fraud.”
“I’m not accusing you of being a fraud.”
“You did! You are! By saying I’m afraid to be who I am. Do you understand what it took for me to move out here? My dad has basically written me off. My brother—who didn’t like me to begin with—now loathes me. They feel as though I’ve betrayed them because I chose my dream over theirs. I live with … God, I live with your sister of all people, who, let me tell you, just in case you aren’t aware, is a giant pain in my ass! On top of that, I’m losing one of the two friends that I am closest to, and just learned through hearing you tell someone else that you don’t want me to be your girlfriend.”
“You heard what?”
I don’t see what reaction accompanies his response. I’ve turned, moving closer to the shop again, refusing to go down this road and admit just how sour my mood became after overhearing his words. Granted, how could I not have? It seemed almost as though he intended for me to hear them.
“Is that why you’re so pissed?”
“This isn’t all about you!” I screech, turning on my heel and nearly running into him, approaching me with long strides to keep up.
“Titles are stupid, Lo. They mean nothing! That’s like having to deem someone your best friend. Your best friend could change tomorrow, next week, or in ten years, but likely, it won’t be who it is today, so why bother with such pettiness? To make them feel better? To make you feel better?
“Why do you need to call me your boyfriend? Will it change your feelings toward me? Will it make me more attractive? Or does it simply justify you sleeping with me again?”
My eyes are flaring with anger, I’m sure of it. I want to slap away his expression that’s waiting for my reply as though it’s a valid and appropriate question. “Do you know what I call my mom?” I shake my head to reflect I don’t want him to even attempt to answer. “Linda. I call my mother Linda because shortly after she had me, she decided she was done being a mother. She doesn’t want to be a mother. She doesn’t want to be my mother.