Say It Again Tell Me Im Not Just A Deal To You

There were more unpleasant manners in which to come home than by walking in on your mother spread-eagled, against the glass back door, being eviscerated by her fiancé. But I could not think of any of them while standing at the door with my hand clenched around the door handle, fighting-and losing-a battle with my gag reflex.

"Yes, Dean! Sì. Down there, up there, dio mio-stop it." Her choking screams, muffled by his hand over her mouth as he fought not to wake the baby lying above, dripped into my head, searing themselves into my core memory.

The first automatic response of screaming, "MY EYES, MY EYES!" à la Phoebe Buffay and running out of the house, town, state, and world with my arms waving frantically in the air. Alas, I could not do so. One, for the fact that my three-year-old child slept upstairs and I was in no mood to abandon her. Two, due to the reason that at the age of twenty-six, I shared a place with my mama, although within the stunning mini mansion my brother had built her.

She owned a greater stake to this dwelling than I.

Third? No kidding, Mama. Kudos to you on living your life to the fullest.

Spitting a small amount in my mouth, I gently closed the door and pitched myself back into my bright red 1999 GMC Sam, giving them a break. I slammed the creaky driver's door. In revenge, it ripped off its hinges, landing onto the muddy ground with an indignant thud.

Closing my eyes, I strangulated the steering wheel, breathing deep.

Everything's all right. Better than right. Great, even. You have a place to live. A stable job. A kid who you love.

My cell phone flirted with the stretch of my front diner pocket, and the uniform comprised the pale pink minidress cropped to moon as a napkin and spotted apron covered in a spectrum of indeterminate stains from tomato sauce to coffee to puke and grease.

What am I saying? It was one of excess and decadence, but somebody had to do it. My eyes focused on the image of my best friend Timothy's face on my screen. It was a photo of her with her head thrown back, laughing wildly, my brother's demonic face pushed into her neck as he kissed her, in the background the Eiffel Tower.

I set this as her contact picture to remind myself of the only stain on her otherwise sunny personality: she was bonking Lucifer's twin, aka my controlling, domineering older brother.

I mean, they were married. And super cute together. Maybe I was just annoyed because everybody around me was in a couple, bubble-wrapped in their own snuggle worlds. My last previous boyfriends had been battery-operated and silicone.

I moved my finger across the screen but didn't speak. I was afraid I would puke if I opened my mouth.

"Klaus," Timothy laughed hysterically on the other end of the line. Pete growled in the background in that grizzly-bear way he always did when he kissed her.

I wasn't green with envy Timothy was happily ever aftering with her. She'd earned it by civilizing my half-civilized brother.

"You won't believe who we just ran into in Cannes!" she shrieked.

Closing eyes again, I chatted myself out of a spontaneous mental breakdown.

Ed Sheeran? Taylor Swift? King Charles? God?

Their lives were filled with celebrity parties and Pinterest-perfect holidays and chow as well photo-perfect to gobble.

It wasn't Timothy's fault I'd just finished a twelve-hour shift on my nowhere job working at Jacka's Diner. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was a single mom. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was still living with my mother. It wasn't her fault my life was the middle section of a boring-as-sin book, the pages stuck together, a never-ending loop of to-do lists and adulting.

"Klaus? You there?"

Timothy growled after several moments of quiet.

Sadly.

I could swear I heard Pete whisper the phrase "stand still and just take it." Good grief, who'd I off in my previous life to score tonight?