I wish I didn’t have to pay her fucking bills, so I could move back to my shitty little apartment. Her poor decisions keep fucking me over. I can’t afford to live anywhere but with her now. Why the hell did she get a mortgage? Did she have to fuck me over like that? She had to know she couldn’t afford it. I told her not to do it. I knew this would happen. And now I’m stuck here helping her ass out again, while she gets sober … again.
I’m tired of sacrificing everything for her, but I just can’t say no. I can’t abandon her. Even if it’s draining the life out of me. I’m just lucky I was able to transfer to a local university so I could move back in with her. I need to get my shit together so I don’t fail. Playing catch-up is a bitch though. And I’m struggling to find the motivation.
I leave for not even three months and she ups and moves for some loser she met online. And then buys a house for both of them. I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek while tears burn my eyes. I won’t cry again. I push them back and concentrate on the anger. Mom has so many problems. It’s fucked up.
I don’t care that she thinks he’s going to change and pay her back all the money that he squandered. It’s not fucking acceptable. I don’t trust this guy, just like I didn’t trust the last, but does she listen to me? No. Not unless I’m rattling off my bank account number.
I know I saw a little place down the street on the way in that looked like a good spot to park my ass and attempt to relax. I just need to get out of that house so I can study without being so pissed. I groan and swing the tote over my shoulder to try to ease the pressure of the weight. After a few minutes of walking I calm down and smirk, remembering what bag I picked for today. The text on the tote reads, “My book club only reads wine labels.” A smile grows on my face and I can’t help it. I may have a completely new life now, a really shitty one, but at least I still have my old sense of humor.
After a few minutes I nearly consider turning back to get my car, but then I pick up the pace remembering that asshole is still there. She'd better kick his ass out. I told her I’m not going to help out financially if he’s there. My fists clench harder as a long, strangled breath leaves me. Her words ring in my ear. “But you’re on the mortgage!” She’s such a bitch. And technically, a criminal for forging my name. But am I going to do anything about it? Nope. I always keep my mouth shut and do what’s best. At least what’s best for others. I don’t even know what’s best for me anymore.
I clench my jaw, and feel anger rising inside of me. It's not fucking right to be angry at her. Or is it? I just wish she were more responsible. I wish she weren’t a fucking alcoholic. Why do I feel so remorseful for hating that she puts me through this? More than anything else, I feel guilty, like her being so unhappy is all my fault.
The place I saw on the drive to the house, Valetti’s Italian Bistro, is just another block away. Hopefully they’ll have some booth in the back that’s empty. And alcohol. I could really use a drink. It’s a little late for dinner, so maybe it’ll be deserted and I can get my studying done in peace. I walk up the brick paved walkway and admire how rustic the place looks before opening the front door. This entire area has a small-town feel. I like it.
I’d like it more if I wasn’t forced to be here though. As soon as I’m done with graduate school, I’m gone. I’ll give Mom an allowance, maybe, and leave to find a place like this that isn’t tainted. A nice, small town with family-owned restaurants just like this. I smile and let out an easy sigh. Everything’s going to be alright. I just have to push through everything and work a little harder. And figure out a way to stop being a freaking enabler.
I take a quick glance around the place. It’s dark for a restaurant, with a few dim lights placed symmetrically around the dining area. The walls are a soft cream, and the chairs and booths are a deep red. It’s just my style. A little grin forms on my face as I spot an empty booth in the back on the right. It’s directly across from another booth in the narrow room, almost like they belong to each other, but there’s an obvious separation. I take quick strides to claim it.
I scoot into the seat and let the back of my tote hit the cushion before sliding the straps off my arm. Holy hell, that feels so much better. I rub my shoulder and look down to see two angry red marks from the straps. My lips purse. Next time I’m just bringing the laptop and my notes. And my car.
I lick my lips and pull out my laptop to bring up the syllabus. I downloaded it before I left, but I’m hoping this place has Wi-Fi. I breathe in deep and click to see. It’s password protected. Damn. I don’t like that. That means I have to talk to someone. And I really don't like that. I prefer to keep to myself. My eyes look past the brightly lit screen and search the place for a waitress, but there isn’t one readily apparent. My shoulders sag with disappointment. Where the hell is the waitress? My eyes drift to directly in front of me and catch the gaze of one of the men sitting across the aisle in the opposite booth.