Page 100 of Existential
FORTY
Dagne
My hand lingers over the phone as I set it down on the nightstand. The screen is lit, a message from Hooch sitting in the center. With a sigh, I give in to curiosity and swipe it open to read the whole thing.
You don’t want to talk, okay. But let me know you’re all right.
He tried ringing last night, several times, and each call I sent straight to voicemail—which incidentally isn’t set up so he can’t leave one. It’s petty and childish, burying my head in the sand and pretending the problem doesn’t exist. But talking with him would mean a messy exit, and if I’m going to do this and uphold the belief I’m doing the right thing, I need a clean break.
I ignore the message, putting the phone back to sleep, and pick up my bag off the floor. The ringtone sounds as I reach the end of the hallway, but I don’t turn back. He’ll find the phone beside his bed when he returns, and by then the reason why I didn’t answer will be crystal clear.
Beth sits curled in one of the armchairs near the parlor fireplace, a magazine in her hands as she idly flicks the pages. A smile crosses her bruised face as she catches me walk in, and she sets the gossip mag aside to stand and greet me with a hug.
I told her what I was doing when she caught me packing my things in the bathroom early this morning. She might not be pleased, but she understands … I think.
“You keep in touch, okay? Send me letters from my Aunt Celia, and then nobody will know it’s you.”
I laugh, squeezing her a little tighter. She’s grown on me in the time we’ve spent together. “I’ll do my best.” I pull back, holding her shoulders still. “But you have to promise to talk to Crackers for me, okay? Don’t make my mistake by keeping it all inside.”
“You know,” she says, dropping out of my hold to the edge of her seat. “It’s not too late for you to do the same.”
“I don’t think it’d have the same outcome,” I tell her truthfully.
Even if I laid my heart out on the line and gave Hooch and I a real go, I get the feeling he wouldn’t be all that fast at reciprocating. Our thing, whatever it would be, would always be one-sided. I know it.
“At least join me for breakfast before you go.” Beth reaches up, playfully poking me in my ribs. “Need to fatten you up before you’re slummin’ it again.”
“Yeah, okay.” Hooch isn’t due back until tomorrow, so what’s the harm?
The morning warms as Beth and I sit in the dining area, the sun shining most of the way across the floor by the time she stacks our empty bowls and glasses. I’ll miss these moments, but then they were never mine to begin with and the memories I’ve made while I’ve been at Fort Worth were always borrowed.
This isn’t my home. It can’t be when I’m still missing the one thing I need to make it complete: love.
I’m wanted. I’m appreciated. And I’d even go as far as to say I’m accepted now.
But I’m not loved, adored, and desired by the one person who brought me here for that.
And those are the things I can’t just pretend to have. I need it to be real.
“Have you tried callin’ your mom again?” Beth asks as we walk through to the kitchen.
I take the glasses from her, rinsing them first as she sets the bowls down on the counter. “No. I’m going to leave it for a while. Maybe head that way and try again when I’m settled.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
I confided in her and told her a little about my history. Just enough that she knows Mom and I are estranged, but not why.
“The more time that passes,” I admit, “the more I’m at peace with how it is.”
She passes the first bowl over, leaning her hip into the edge of the counter. “That’s kind of sad, Dagne.”
“I know.” I hesitate, feeling the ridges of the ceramic under my thumb. “All I can do is hope that one day it’ll change, right?”
“I guess.”
We tidy away the rest of our mess, chatting about pointless topics to fill the time. I know why she does it; to delay the inevitable, and I appreciate it, especially when reality sinks in as I stand at the front steps an hour later, giving her a weak smile.
“I’ll be okay.”