Flipping Fates Page 9

  The steam from my steeping tea curls into the darkness, the warmth of the water flaring against my fingertips as I cradle the mug in my hands.

  My life hasn’t changed that much from when I was that little girl chasing fireflies. I’m still at home. I’m still clumsy. And even though Aaron is in my life, I’m still alone.

  The floorboards in the kitchen creak, and the soft lights that line the kitchen eaves flicker on.

  I take it back. Not alone now.

  “Trisha?”

  It’s Mom.

  “In here.”

  Mom pokes her head into the den with a worried look on her face. “Are you all right? Why are you up?”

  “I just—couldn’t sleep.” I force a smile and hold up the tea. “Lots on my mind.”

  Mom frowns at me and goes to make herself a cup of tea as well. I bite my lower lip and blow on the surface of the still-hot beverage. Either Mom will have something comforting to say, or she’ll feel the need to lecture. I’m never quite sure what mindset she’s in, and as much as I know about her sleeping habits, I haven’t learned to judge her moods yet.

  Mom bustles around in the kitchen in silence, the only sounds the creaking of cabinet doors and the sloshing of water into a cup. She steps into the den and settles into her own chair, on the other side of the big one I’m in.

  “So,” she starts. “What’s really going on?”

  I try to sip my tea, but it’s still too hot.

  “I just can’t sleep, Mom.”

  “The only times you can’t sleep is when you’re worried about something.” Mom dunks her teabag over and over in the hot water.

  “Well, there’s a lot to worry about.”

  “Such as?”

  I level a smirk at her. “You haven’t seen this orange house, Mom. It’s a wreck.”

  Mom scowls at me. “It’s not in a good neighborhood either.”

  I shrug. “It’s not in the worst neighborhood.”

  “Delano used to be so nice,” Mom says, leaning back in her chair. “High class. Upper crust sort of neighborhood. But everything fails in time. Things don’t get better, often enough.”

  “Well, the house is getting better.” I fold my legs under me. “We’re painting it soon, so at least it won’t look like a circus peanut.”

  Mom chuckles. “But what else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Patricia Leigh, I’ve known you your whole life. I know when you’re upset about something, and it’s not the house.” Mom’s eyebrows raise in expectant anticipation.

  I sigh and roll my eyes.

  “It’s silly.”

  “I doubt it.” Her smile is kind.

  I turn my cup in my hands.

  “Is it Aaron?”

  I freeze.

  Is Mom a psychic?

  No, it’s probably just obvious.

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “No.” I look up. “No, we don’t really fight.”

  One eyebrow arches. That’s skepticism. She’s right to be skeptical, but I’m not lying. Aaron and I don’t really fight. That’s more because of him being level-headed and calm about everything, rather than some element of good character on my part.

  “I guess, I’m just worried,” I start, “because we’ve been dating for years now. And—I love him.”

  Mom nods sagely.

  “He loves me too. He’s told me.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know why he hasn’t proposed yet.” I say it haltingly.

  It seems so petty when said out loud. Childish. Impatient.

  “Well,” Mom leans back in her chair. “Have you discussed it?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Why not?”

  That’s a good question. Aaron isn’t a mind-reader, and my mind is notoriously difficult to track with—or so I’ve been told.

  “I don’t know why we haven’t talked about it.” I try my tea again. Still too hot. “I guess I’m just scared that he doesn’t want to get married and that he just wants to bump along like this.”

  Mom sighs and sips her tea. “Trisha, he’s not a mind-reader. If you want something from him, you need to tell him.”

  Thanks, Mom, already had that conversation with myself just now.

  “I don’t want to push him into something he doesn’t want, Mom.”

  “I’m not saying you should.” Mom sets her cup down. “But something you need to understand, Trisha, is that every relationship is a two-way street.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you have a part to play in it as well.” Mom leans forward and lifts her eyebrows. “If you want Aaron to feel safe in proposing to you, you need to let him know that you’re serious.”

  I blink at her.

  Serious? About what? Being married?

  “Okay.” I say quietly, fingers clutching the hot skin of my mug. “I thought—I mean, I figured he’d know that by now.” We’d been together for years. We’ve told each other how we feel. We just made out in the basement of a creepy haunted house last week, for crying out loud. If all that didn’t tell him I was serious about our relationship, what would? “But how do I even begin to—do I just tell him?”

  “That might intimidate him, sweetheart.” Mom smiles softly.

  I snort. “Aaron? Intimidated?”

  Aaron didn’t get intimidated. At least, I haven’t seen it.

  “Patricia, this is what I’m talking about.” Mom shifts in her chair to pin me with a fierce look. “Are you this disrespectful to his face?”

  My stomach turns over.

  Disrespectful?

  I stammer. “That wasn’t disrespectful.” My mouth is dry. “I’m just saying he isn’t easily intimidated. It’s not an insult to his masculinity.”

  Mom purses her lips. “It might be, Patricia.”

  I gawk at her, my mouth hanging open. What is she saying? That Aaron hasn’t proposed to me because I’m constantly insulting him? Surely Aaron and I are close enough that he would tell me if that were the case.

  Mom sets her hand on my knee.

  “This is hard for you to understand, Trisha,” Mom says softly. “But your attitude may be getting in the way of your relationship with Aaron.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mom’s fingers squeeze my knee. “Marriage means there’s no more you, sweetheart.” Her smile is gentle. “And you’ve just been you for far too long. It means putting you aside and becoming us.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I lean forward.

  “No, you don’t.” Mom reaches for my mug and pulls it out of my fingers, setting it on the coaster on the table between us. “And you won’t until you’re married. It’s a level of selflessness that no single person can understand.”

  My stomach tightens.

  “You don’t think I’m ready,” I whisper. “You don’t think I’m ready to be married.”

  “No one is ready, sweetheart.” Mom chuckles lightly. “Even people who think they are can’t be ready.”

  I sink back into the soft leather of the chair, heart throbbing.

  So, what did this mean? What was I supposed to do with this? If I want to marry Aaron, which I do, how do I get ready?

  Mom gathers my hands in hers and squeezes. “Marriage is something you learn over a lifetime, Patricia.”

  “How can I be ready, Mom?”

  Mom smiles at me. “Well, you need to let Aaron know that this is what you want.”

  “How?”

  “Honestly?”

  “No, I want you to lie.”

  “Patricia.” Mom scowls.

  I can’t stop a smile. “Yes, honestly.”

  Mom sits forward and presses her hand to the side of my head, her fingers twining in the frizzy mass of my hair.

  “If you want to start communicating to Aaron that you’re ready to be married, I recommend—”

  I hold my breath.

  “A trim.”

  My breath rushes out of
me.

  “A what?”

  “A trim.” Mom pats the side of my head. “When was the last time you had your hair done?”

  The room spins around me as I blink in surprise. Out of all the things I expected my mother to tell me, getting a haircut didn’t even rank in the top twenty.

  “Patricia.” Mom laughs. “Surely you haven’t missed the fact that your hair is looking a bit ragged.”

  “And,” I struggle to speak, “you think Aaron hasn’t proposed because I have split ends?”

  Mom shrugs. “You never know.”

  “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “Patricia,” Mom cuts me off. “Have you even bothered to pay attention to what Aaron is paying attention to? Aaron is a smart young man. I’m certain he can recognize the signs of someone who knows how to take care of herself, and being able to take care of yourself is a sign of how you take care of other people.”

  My stomach is somersaulting.

  This wasn’t something I’d considered. Was the state of my hair and clothes really that important? Was I signaling a lack of interest?

  Mom holds up my fingers for closer inspection.

  “You could stand to get a manicure too, sweetheart.” Mom pats the top of my hands. “And pluck your eyebrows. Maybe wear some mascara or eye shadow. It’ll signal to him to you’re ready to be serious.”

  Mascara? Eye shadow? All that would do was communicate to Aaron that I’d lost my mind.

  “Mom, that seems like a lot of effort—”

  “If you’re not willing to put the effort in, Patricia, you really aren’t ready.” Mom’s tone sharpens.

  I gently disentangle my fingers from her hands. “Wouldn’t the effort be better spent getting to know each other?”

  Mom frowns as she retrieves her tea. “You already know each other. You spend almost every day with each other, Patricia, what don’t you know?”

  I shake my head. “I know the important things, but there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t know.” Like why he hasn’t proposed yet.

  Mom sips her tea. “Trisha, most young men don’t even recognize what a young woman has to do to catch their attention. You have his attention, obviously.”

  I bite my lip to keep from saying something rude, because I’d swear she hadn’t meant to say obviously. I’d put real money on her wanting to say miraculously, going by her tone.

  “But you can’t just be—like this.” She salutes me with her mug.

  “Like what?”

  “Like this. This shoddy, slobby look of yours.” Mom shudders. “It only communicates that you don’t care about yourself.”

  “Mom, it’s 2 in the morning.”

  “Then what about how you looked when you came home last night?”

  The words sting. Last night? Last night I looked like I’d been crawling around in a dirty old house for the entire day, because that’s what I’d been doing.

  “I know you’re going to say that you were working in that derelict house.” Mom shakes her head. “But that’s no excuse for the rat’s nest on your head. If you aren’t taking care of yourself in a way that he can see, he’ll assume that you live that way.”

  Mom sounds scandalized.

  Temper rising, I swallow hard, fingers clenching the mug until my nails turn white. “I do live this way.”

  Mom rolls her eyes and drinks her tea. She doesn’t put words to the disappointment she’s projecting, but I feel it regardless.

  “So your advice to get Aaron to propose is to do my hair while I’m working in an abandoned junk-strewn house and wear makeup to impress him.”

  Mom blinks at me coolly. “It’ll catch his attention.”

  “But I don’t do my hair or wear makeup anyway.”

  “You should start.”

  “But I don’t like it.”

  Mom holds up a finger. “Marriage isn’t about you, Patricia. Maybe Aaron likes it. So you should do it for him.” She smiles. “No you. Just us.”

  I fold my arms and sink back into the chair. “It just feels—false.”

  “Why on earth would you feel that way?” Mom holds my tea out, and I take it from her. “Taking care of yourself isn’t false, Patricia. It’s the right thing to do.” She smiles. “I can schedule an appointment with my hairdresser for you, if you’d like. She’s very good. She’ll get that rat’s nest of yours looking glorious.”

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  “Why not?”

  I turn my cup around in my hand. “I like my hair. The way it is.”

  Mom frowns.

  “Well.” Mom shrugs. “The good thing about hair is that it always grows back.” She offers a kind smile. “You can put everything back the way it was after you’re married.”

  I frown at her. “And that doesn’t sound duplicitous to you?” I snort. “Like false advertising?”

  “Patricia.” Mom sits forward and pats my knee again. “You aren’t advertising at all. So how would anyone know what’s false or not?”

  She stands up and presses a kiss to my forehead, the comforting scent of her hand lotion wrapping around me.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” she murmurs against my hair.

  Quietly, she turns and walks out of the den, switching lights off in her wake.

  I sit in silence in the den, turning the conversation over and over in my mind.

  What if she’s right?

  What if Aaron hasn’t proposed because he’s waiting for me to get serious about our relationship? What signals have I even given him? What indications have I shown him that I’m ready to be his wife?

  I don’t cook or bake. I don’t live on my own. I haven’t proven that I can be a responsible adult, have I? Probably not, with all the trouble I get into. Aaron and I originally reconnected when I’d gotten tangled up with a human trafficking ring. Aaron got shot because of that. Then last year, I got involved with a gang and nearly got both of us killed.

  I know he’s interested. I know he loves me. But is he hesitating because I haven’t shown him that I can be a grown up?

  If that’s the case, I need to change. I need to prove that I can be an adult, that I can function on the same level that he does. But is getting my hair cut and wearing eye shadow the way to do that? Is changing how I present myself in public the way to communicate that I can be a grown up?

  In the end, it’s not a big deal to slap some makeup on. For special occasions, I wear it. And even though my hair is admittedly pretty raggedy right now, I usually take good care of it.

  But what if Aaron is more perceptive than I gave him credit for? What if he’s waiting for me to grow up? What if the only person I have to blame for why I’m not married yet is myself?

  No Fate, Just Choice

  Keith cleans up pretty nice.

  All this week, I’ve only seen him in work clothes with gloves and boots, so seeing him in a button-up shirt and khakis is definitely a switch. But as much as the collar of his shirt covers, it doesn’t hide all of the garish skull tattoo on his neck. The gaping eye holes of the skull still peep out below Keith’s ear, a silent witness to the judgments all around him.

  And there are judgments.

  It makes me cringe to see it, especially since it’s becoming painfully obvious that I’ve been judging him too.

  Several of the older matrons in the congregation level sneering gazes at him during the singing portion of the Sunday morning service. Everyone else who doesn’t know him keeps a safe distance.

  Ironic because we’re singing about grace and unconditional love this morning.

  I curl my fingers around the old hymnal as we sing, my gaze following the sharp jerky motions of our volunteer worship leader. We have screens where the song lyrics show up, but I still prefer the hymnal. It gives me something to do with my hands.

  As my mouth forms around the old words to “Standing on the Promises” I can’t help but shift uncomfortably. I feel like I’ve lost both my arms. With Laurel on her business trip and Aaron visiting
his grandfather in Oklahoma over the weekend, I’m adrift among the people I’ve known all my life.

  Further down the pew, Cecily and Keith stand shoulder to shoulder (well, her shoulder to his arm) as they watch the lyrics on the screen. They look comfortable together, like they’ve been best friends for decades rather than just this week.

  We skip the third verse of the hymn, like usual, and proceed to the fourth.

  It’s a Baptist thing. As sacred among our number as baptism by immersion and Sunday night potluck.

  Throughout the sanctuary, I spot many of the people who used to be in the singles group. Over the years I’ve been here, many singles have come and gone, gotten married, moved away, transferred with the military. Recently we haven’t been growing, though, so the singles ministry is shrinking.

  A few years ago I would have been worried about that, but recently I’d been reducing the amount of time I spend on growing the ministry because—well—it had been suggested that I might not be in control of the ministry for much longer. It made sense for a single to run the singles group, and, truth be told, I’d hoped that I wouldn’t still be single.

  The lyrics turn to dust in my mouth.

  After all these years with Aaron, I shouldn’t still be single, and if what my mom had to tell me last night is true, I’m the reason. I’ve done it to myself.

  The singing ends, and the deafening rustle of fabric and hymnal page indicates that the congregation is sitting down, so I follow suit. I drop the old brown hymnal into the wooden slot on the back of the pew in front of me and settle down into the stiff upholstery to listen to my dad preach.

  Further down the pew from me, Keith and Cecily are talking in low tones to each other, pressed against each other as they listen with rapt attention. For the first time in all the time I’ve known her, Cecily looks happy. She’s practically beaming. But as glad as I am that she’s found someone she enjoys more than her video games and her nerd movies, I can’t say I’m happy it’s Keith.

  Oh, I’m such a hypocrite. I’m judging him, and I know it.

  Keith is nice. He’s just—we know so little about him. We know he was homeless. We know he was addicted to drugs and alcohol. We know he’s working for the Union Rescue Mission now, and as admirable a that is, it’s not like he’s recovered. How can he even prioritize a relationship with Cecily when he’s still learning how to prioritize his own mental and emotional health?