by Mariah Dietz
He nods somberly. “Maybe I’m reaction, and you’re thought.”
This time, I laugh. My head is shaking a protest before I can even think of a verbal one. “No chance in hell. I have my own issues with being impulsive and hotheaded. You have to figure out that balance on your own.”
He closes the gap between us with more measured steps, and as he draws close enough so that his hand can easily brush along my cheek, I realize he’s been moving closer the entire time.
His blue eyes are bright with a playfulness that tells me he might try to kiss me or deliver a smartass remark, but they dip over me, stopping on my stare. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
His touch numbs me. It’s thrilling, and I want to press my cheek into his palm, yet in the very same breath, I want to pull away.
“How’s your face? You totally deserved that right hook, by the way.” My comment seems to accomplish both of my desires as his palm goes flush against my cheek and then pulls away.
The edges of his lips dance up and then down, fighting a smile, or maybe I’m finally witnessing him feeling embarrassed.
“I said I did.”
“I was just confirming it.” I tightly grip my handlebars, and for the first time in weeks, I feel the desire to catch some serious air.
“So, did you get your hair done for our date?” His eyebrows rise, and that cocky smirk spreads across his face.
I am starting to seriously like it.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It needed cut.”
“I like that you take care of yourself. It’s hot.”
My forehead crinkles with confusion.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he insists. “I mean it as a compliment. Here you are, this rad-as-hell rider who guys fear, yet you work to stay fit, own stylish clothes, and wear makeup. So often, it seems you get one or the other.”
“I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
I seek stupid assurances because my dad married a much younger woman, and my mom trained me to be a trophy wife, just like the woman he remarried. I think. Maybe it has nothing to do with them. Perhaps they are insecurities we all have and try to find reasoning and excuses for.
He smiles at my defensiveness. It’s not half as charming this time. “You want to get breakfast with me?”
“Thanks, but I have plans. I actually have to get going.”
He nods, his gaze focusing on something over my shoulder. “So, am I going to see you again? Or is this you blowing me off?”
“I’m not blowing you off, but you do live in California.”
His eyes turn to me, and they’re brighter and wider than before. “That’s not an obstacle, just an excuse.”
I WRAP UP my brief voicemail and pull my truck up to a familiar house that I haven’t been to in years.
I should have called to ensure she was here, but I knew I would lose the nerve to come if I did. Three seconds after the doorbell rings, my mom answers the door, confusion sitting heavily on her tweezed brows.
“Summer?”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Is everything okay?” She studies me, as though truly concerned.
“Did you teach me to dress and act certain ways because you were trying to live vicariously through me?”
She draws her head back, blinking rapidly. “Dress and act what ways?”
“Like you were training me to be a real-life beauty pageant contestant.”
Her eyebrows climb higher, and she takes a few steps back, ushering me into the house. I follow even though I feel more uncomfortable with each step.
“Do you want some breakfast? Coffee?”
I sigh deeply. Some days, it really feels like no one knows me. “I don’t like coffee, Mom.”
“Since when?”
“Birth.”
“Hot chocolate!” She nods and places a hand to my back, nudging me into the kitchen.
My mom has a largely enhanced chest, waxed and tweezed eyebrows, and colored hair that makes her age difficult to gauge. However, looking at her now, she isn’t nearly as made up and fake as I so often think of her being.
She fills a mug with milk and pops it into the microwave before turning to face me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like something’s bothering you.”
“I just want to know why you worked so hard to make me …What were you trying to make me?”
“Nothing!” she cries. “I never wanted you to be anything but you!”
“Then why’d you let me date older men? Older men you introduced me to!”
“I knew the kind of life you deserved, and I didn’t want you to go through the years where you’d struggle with nothing while you both were trying to find your own ways.”
My eyes stretch. “What? That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s not! When I was nineteen, I had three roommates, and no idea what I wanted to do. When I got married to your dad, neither of us had any money or any idea where or how to make it. We ate boxed mac and cheese—that cheap stuff that’s, like, fifteen cents a box and isn’t even real. We ate that every day for a year. Even on Thanksgiving! I didn’t want that for you. You were always so beautiful, and I knew you were too good to have a lifestyle like that.”
“But it was my choice, Mom!”
“I know. You and Toby made that very apparent.” She sounds bitter as she turns her back to get my cup of steaming milk.
“I was seventeen and slept with a guy nearly twice my age.”
I’m not embarrassed to discuss this with her; she already knows. Sex has never been a taboo subject with her, yet somehow, it still feels taboo to think about.
She bows her head. I hope it’s in shame. It’s not gratifying though; it only deepens the guilt that is becoming far too constant.
“Was it all because Dad left?”
Snapping her head up to face me, she looks horror-struck. Her eyes are so wide that her eyelids look as hollow as her cheeks. “Is that what you think?”
I boldly stare at her, confirming it is exactly what I think.
“I want you to have the entire world at your fingertips.”
Her mouth opens to continue, but I don’t want to hear her try to rationalize this or tie a pretty bow around it.
“But at what cost? I was in relationships I wasn’t ready for on any level.” I swallow, thinking of Kash and how it’s taken me so long to realize that I am to blame just as much as he is for our lack of communication about anything involving something more serious than the next week.
I think back to the guy I’m throwing back in my mom’s face. I knew he didn’t love me. I’m not even sure he liked the idea of me because all he did was push and pull until each of my previous assumptions and beliefs about relationships were turned inside out and stretched to the point they weren’t recognizable. They are becoming clearer though with age, time, experience, and healthier relationships, and I’m slowly realizing there wasn’t a single wrong party; there were numerous ones. We were all responsible for treating me like an adult when, in so many aspects, I was still a child.
“I never meant to…” Her eyes fill with tears.
I hate that it’s now when I see so much of myself in her.
“I didn’t want you to lose anything. I just wanted to give you everything.” Her face crumples along with the years of anger and disappointment I have felt toward her.
Several hurdles of it still exist, I’m certain of the fact, but if there was ever a time that I felt there was a possibility to have a relationship with my mom, it’s now.
We don’t hug or cry on each other’s shoulders. We simply talk. The emotions are thick between us, keeping me from wanting to leave as quickly as I intended. Instead, I drink an entire cup of hot chocolate, including the small granules at the bottom that are always my favorite part.
“Toby says Kash is a good guy,” she says.
We’ve discussed things varying from my much younger half-siblings who now live in th
e Boston area and my also young stepmother as well as a man my mom’s been dating for five months solid, a great achievement for her. This topic is one that I’ve skirted over multiple times this morning as more of my built-up resentments have flowed away with memories I’ve harbored for far too long.
“He is a good guy.”
“Do you think you’ll get married?”
I choke on my own breath. It isn’t a small, easy to excuse cough, either. It gets lodged in my throat and makes my face heat and throat close. I wheeze for what feels like an hour before I can take a drink of the water my mom has passed to me.
“Was that a good panic attack or a bad one?” Her eyes are round with concern; I’d be lying if I said it was only for my health.
“We’re just friends.”
We both know I’m not telling the truth, but she seems to realize, after my near-death choking fiasco, this is one subject I don’t want to discuss.
We make generalized plans to see each other soon, and while I have no idea if either of us will commit and follow up or if this was a fluke occurrence granted to help me overcome awkward conversations, I’m hoping it was a bit of both.
I DON’T LISTEN to music while making the drive to the Knights’. My own thoughts are loud enough.
I WISH LO drove a car so I would know if she was here without having to text her and make it so obvious. I don’t even know why her presence seems so vital when Mercedes is my main focus. Still, relief fills me, making each of my steps feel lighter as I make my way to the front door, when she replies back with a simple, “Yes.”
The house has become even cleaner, and this time, it doesn’t have the strong stench of orange cleaner. Of all the times I should have called, this is definitely one of the top contending moments. I don’t even know for sure Mercedes is home.
I wander forward into the kitchen, noting details that reveal Robert is still staying here.
“Hey.” Her voice is hesitant, something it so rarely ever is.
I pray I’m imagining it and that it isn’t my fault as I turn to face Mercedes.
“Hey.” I smile, but her eyes narrow with accusation. “I’m sorry. I…” My dry throat works to swallow the multitude of excuses we both know won’t be enough. “How have things been?”
Her arms cross. “Fine.”
It’s a classic Mercedes deflection move, but this time, it isn’t only her that I see.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she demands. “You’re acting like Lo. I don’t like it when she stares, either.”
I shake my head, moving my gaze to the floor separating us. “No … it was just … you looked so much like your mom there.” I dare to look back up at her as my last word settles like a thrown grenade. I desperately wish that I could take it back because her face falls completely somber, and in my state of heightened emotions, I don’t know if I want to yell at someone or cry.
“Really?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I nod. “Really.”
“Did you know her?”
My eyebrows shoot upward. How have we neglected to tell her so much of our past—her past—and why in the hell has she allowed us to?
Slowly, I shake my head. “No, unfortunately, I didn’t. She had passed away three months before I met you and your dad. But everyone I know who met her absolutely loved her. She was beautiful, like you,” I say, keeping her stare. “You have her smile and her eyes.”
“So, I was what? Four months old when we met?”
I have to blink a few times to stop seeing Arianna’s picture next to Mercedes, and realize what she’s asking, so I can nod.
“You were a little over four months.” A smile stretches my lips with the thought of baby Mercedes being brought into my Uncle Toby’s shop. “You were dressed in baby pink, from the bow on your headband to your socks.”
Mercedes screws up her face with disgust, making me laugh harder.
“Your grandma Knight has always loved dressing you in pink.” I lick my lips, reliving the day I met Mercedes and the nerves that took over my body. “You were already in love with bikes, and you didn’t even know what they were.
“You’ve seen the pictures where your dad used to put you in that strap-on thing on his chest and ride around with you, haven’t you?”
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes that are wide and earnest on me.
I smile again. “We need to find them! You were so little, and you loved it.”
“You and my dad have known each other for a really long time.”
“Not a really long time. I mean, you’re only eleven.”
She rolls her eyes, ensuring I catch every second of the dramatic flair she puts into it.
“Do I want to know what you did to deserve that look?” Kash asks, catching both of us off guard.
“We were talking about your bad parenting decisions when I was a baby.”
Kash doesn’t even blink as he turns to me, immune to Mercedes’ random and often dramatic offhand comments. “What lies are you spreading this time?”
I scratch my ear, using only my middle finger, and like Mercedes, I take my time, ensuring he notices it and laughs before I draw it back.
“She was telling me how you used to ride with me in a baby carrier.”
Kash’s face brightens. “You loved that. Do you remember?” He looks to me. “She used to get so excited. Ride was your first word. How many people can say that? You were born cool.”
“Summer just helped make me the coolest.”
My heart warms, blossoming with her kind regard.
“Was it a drag to watch me at all the competitions?”
I shake my head. “Never. There were a few times you were fussy but very few. You’ve always been happy as long as your dad’s nearby.”
“I know, but you went from being the female rock star of the sport to helping watch me. That had to have been a drag.”
“No,” I say adamantly, my brow furrowed. “You were never a drag. I was only twenty-five when I retired, and by that point, you were already my family.” My words are honest but reveal more than I intended. It’s like the difference between saying like and love; both might be true, but one holds a lot more impact.
She walks to my side, wrapping an arm around my waist. “We are a family.”
I’m curious about Kash’s expression. It requires so much focus and control not to move my head up a few inches, so I can peek at him, but I don’t, fearing his reaction might support her claim—or worse, disagree with it. Right now, I can’t imagine seeing the look of longing he occasionally still gets for Arianna, not while I’m feeling so vulnerable.
“So, what have you been doing all week? I swear, if you turn your phone off again, I’m going to donate all your bikes.” Mercedes looks up with a straight face; it’s her most dangerous expression because it lacks any and all clues as to how serious she’s being.
I have learned to rarely question the sincerity of her message in its presence.
“Not a lot. I’ve been helping my uncle out at his shop, teaching some kids how to ride.”
“Traitor!” she cries. “You’re only supposed to share your tips and tricks with me.”
“I save all my best ones for you.”
“Did you like it? Were they good?” she asks.
I see my students’ faces while considering her question. “Yeah, it was kind of cool. A couple of students are really good, a few have potential, and one is kind of a pain in the ass.”
“Every group has to have a Parker,” Kash says with a grin.
I didn’t forget his presence exactly—no one can ignore the sensations that Kash elicits—but, for the first time in several weeks, I got lost and distracted by the familiar comfort of them, and forgot that we’re currently in such a strange place.
Mercedes and I laugh at his remark even though my ease has shifted and become more guarded.
“Maybe we should get you in some classes, monkey,” Kash suggests.
“Why
when I live with you guys?”
“We all have coaches. Why do you think these clowns keep showing up?”
“I just make you look good—or try to.” I shrug.
It’s hard to keep a straight face when Kash looks at me with raised brows, expressing disbelief, the cocky bastard.
“You’d love it. I don’t know why we didn’t consider this years ago. You’ll meet other kids who have the same love and passion to ride, and Toby’s pretty cool. Plus, you’ll be able to show off your mad skills.” Kash’s voice is raised with excitement. “I’ll call him and get you in a class. This will be awesome!”
Mercedes was the target of bullying last year. I tried convincing Kash to transfer her to another school and get her away from all the pretentious rich kids while he constantly reminded me that people of all ages and incomes can be assholes, that there isn’t an exact recipe that creates them. It was being different that drew the attention to Mercedes. Being raised by two men, having a deep passion for riding, wearing hipster clothing, and likely her sometimes snooty attitude made her that perfect target. Many steps were taken to improve her experience at school, but ultimately, it was Lo who seemed to create the biggest difference. She and several of her friends went into Mercedes’ class and spoke to them about the qualities of being different, loving oneself, and supporting others that led to Mercedes coming home with smiles far more often than tears. She still has rough days, but the look of despair no longer accompanies them, and she’s started to make more friends.
I’m sure the memories of being the odd man out are what have Mercedes looking panicked.
I drape an arm around her shoulders and tightly squeeze her. “I’ve got an in. I can be there if you want.”
With rounded eyes of terror, she nods. Slowly, I feel her small body relax and lean against mine.
“I’m always here, and I always will be.”
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers.
I press my lips to the top of her head. “I’m sorry.” I can’t explain my absence to her, but I can apologize for it.
“Movie night?” She looks up at me, her grip releasing from my side.
No one has left her since she’s been able to form memories, yet the loss of her mother has always made her sensitive to the possibility of it; therefore, she has formed a barrier that keeps her from ever growing fully attached to anyone. I know from my own experience that, if you don’t rely on others, they can’t disappoint you—at least, not entirely. However, it’s forever been something that hits me straight in the chest. I have been around her since she was a few months old, and have never left. I want her to trust me, and I feel like I deserve for her to depend on me and expect my presence.