Three reasons to run, p.5
Three Reasons to Run, page 5
Why? Why do I keep having these thoughts about her?
“It’s not what it looks like,” she says.
I want to pin her wrists above her head, then kiss her to silence the excuses tumbling out of her mouth. I feel hot all over, and I don’t know if it’s more rage or lust.
I’m not an angry man. I might get frustrated, I might be grouchy at times, but angry? No. I don’t have a temper.
My parents have been nothing but kind to her, though, and this is how she repays them? Sure, I’ve had my own issues with my mom and dad over the years, but they don’t deserve this.
Her cheeks are pink, and I hate that it’s so fucking pretty. I hate that it’s giving me all sorts of thoughts I shouldn’t have, yet I can’t help it, not when the length of my body is touching hers. It feels terribly right and terribly wrong at the same time. I itch to slide my fingers into her hair, which ends just below her shoulders; I itch to be both gentle and rough.
When it comes to Yvonne Siu, I have endless desires, even when she’s holding my mom’s wallet.
“It’s not what it looks like?” I say, a bit of a sneer in my voice. “Explain.”
“I tried to give your parents cash because they keep feeding me, but they refused.” She holds up a red bill. A fifty. “So I thought I’d sneak this into your mom’s wallet instead. I swear that’s what happened. Please believe me.”
She was trying to sneak money into my mom’s wallet? That sounds like a load of crap.
But I think of the fights I’ve seen break out at restaurants over who’s going to pay. Then there’s the fact that my mother never has fifty-dollar bills. She always has cash on her, but not fifties.
“If you give me your mom’s email address,” Yvonne says, “I can do an e-Transfer.”
I chuckle—my parents do not do things like Interac e-Transfers—and some of the adrenaline in my body dissipates.
Not all of it, though.
I want her to beg me for other things. She’s breathing heavily, and I wonder if she’s feeling some of the lust that I am. It seems unlikely, however, and I take a step back before she becomes aware of my physical reaction to her.
She puts the bill in the wallet and returns it to my mom’s purse “Maybe it wasn’t the brightest move, but I didn’t know how else to force her to accept money.”
I exhale and scrub a hand over my face. “Fine. I believe you.”
I’m not touching her anymore, but I’m still standing fairly close. For some reason, my feet refuse to move. God, I wish…
With a muttered curse, I finally take another step back, and not a moment too soon. My parents enter the front hall, and I feel like I’ve been caught drawing on a freshly painted wall. (Even though I wasn’t the one responsible for the purple spider—no, that was Jon.) But it’s not as if I actually kissed her; I was just thinking about it.
Although my expression is impassive, Yvonne’s is full of guilt. Maybe being so close to me did give her certain thoughts after all?
No, she looks guilty because she was caught digging through my mom’s purse.
At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason.
Chapter 8
Yvonne
Look, I know that putting money in Lynne’s wallet was a bit intrusive. Desperate to show how much I appreciate what she’s done for me, I acted like we’re more familiar than we actually are. It’s not as if she’s my own mother.
But when I think back to my silly attempt to show my appreciation, it brings another image to mind: Leo’s face, right above mine, demanding to know why I had his mom’s wallet in my hand. He was pissed—I’d never seen him pissed before—but there was something weirdly thrilling about it. Excitement thrummed through my veins, especially when he touched me, as if I liked his closeness and wished he’d pull me closer.
Am I attracted to Leo? I was supposed to marry someone else two days ago.
No, my feelings are just mixed up because of everything that happened. That’s all. That’s the only reason I had such a strong reaction to him; my body and brain are in a general state of confusion these days.
Yet the memory won’t leave my mind, and I don’t have a great night’s sleep.
Tuesday morning, I have a strong cup of coffee before finding the perfect spots for each of my plants in my temporary bedroom. Then I water the ones that need it, using the little watering can that I stashed in a tote bag at my old apartment.
I’ll never go back there again.
I’m immediately overcome with a sense of loss. Not because I’m especially attached to the apartment where I lived for the past two years, ever since we got engaged. Not because I miss Carl. But a part of me still misses my old life, misses knowing where I was headed. I don’t like feeling unmoored. I had my future all mapped out, and now I have no idea what next week will bring; the uncertainty is terrifying.
I feel like I ought to care more about my ex-fiancé. We were together for a few years. Shouldn’t I miss him, at least a little? What’s wrong with me?
And why did I feel that brief sizzle of electricity with his cousin?
I don’t let myself examine those questions too closely, a little afraid of the answers.
I can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow. I badly need a sense of normalcy.
Unfortunately, returning to the office doesn’t give me what I want because I have to tell everyone what happened.
My mom tried to convince me to invite my colleagues to my nuptials, but I said no, and unlike with other things, she didn’t push too hard. I wouldn’t expect to be invited to these people’s weddings; I hope they didn’t feel upset that they weren’t invited to mine. I read more than one article online that suggested I wasn’t committing a massive faux pas by doing this.
“How was the wedding?” asks one colleague as I put my food in the fridge.
“Uh, I didn’t get married,” I mumble.
Suddenly, it feels like everyone is in the break room, and the looks on their faces…I think they assume I got jilted.
“I was the one who called it off,” I clarify, without mentioning that I “called it off” at the last possible moment by running back up the aisle.
I hate having my personal and professional lives mix, but my colleagues knew I was taking a few days off for the wedding, and I’m no longer wearing the ring. I couldn’t avoid the issue forever.
Ignoring the curious looks, I head to my desk and open up a spreadsheet. I might not know how to handle everything happening in my life right now, but spreadsheets? I can manage those.
At lunch, I consider sending a text to Tracey, but after typing and deleting three different messages, I give up and look at my favorite houseplant accounts instead.
The commute is longer than what I’m used to. A week ago, I lived a seven-minute walk from the subway station, but now, I have to take a bus from Finch, and by the time I get off, I’m nauseous and hungry.
When I step inside Howie and Lynne’s house, it smells delicious. I freeze in the front hall, remembering what happened here on Monday with Leo, then shake my head to rid it of that thought. I enter the kitchen to find Howie at the stove, stirring something in a wok. It’s nice to return after a day of work to someone else’s cooking. I’m not used to it. Howie told me yesterday that they’d always make enough dinner for me, unless I said I was going out, and even though I protested, he insisted. It would be much less work than feeding multiple teenage boys, I was told, which is what they did for years.
“Do you need any help?” I ask him.
“Ah no, you relax. Almost done.”
You see, this is why I felt the need to stuff cash in Lynne’s wallet! They won’t let me do anything other than my own laundry, even though I dumped their nephew in a humiliating fashion.
Does Gladys know I’m staying here? I doubt it. There’s no way she’d approve.
The three of us sit down to eat ten minutes later, and I make sure I compliment the food, which is quite tasty.
After dinner, I stand up and say, “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Lynne opens her mouth—to ask where I’m going, I assume—but then closes it. I guess she’s decided it’s not her business. Even if I did want to tell her, I don’t think I’d be able to get the words out.
I’m going to visit my parents.
“Do you need a car?” Howie asks.
I park the Camry in the driveway of my parents’ house and walk toward my doom. I’m not usually so melodramatic, but this isn’t usual life. Normally, I’d use my key and walk in, but I ring the doorbell, and when nobody answers, I ring it again. Other than a quick text, I haven’t communicated with my parents at all since the wedding that wasn’t.
At last, the door swings open, and my dad’s angry voice fires, “What do you…”
When he sees it’s me, he stops talking and walks away.
“It’s your daughter,” he says as he enters the living room.
This is something he’d do when Tracey didn’t behave the way he wanted: he’d talk as though she wasn’t his daughter, just Ma’s. Like it was all my mother’s fault that Tracey hadn’t behaved properly.
I’d never heard him speak about me that way, though.
Even if this was somewhat anticipated—I knew I’d primarily be speaking with my mother today—it hurts. I spent my life trying to live up to expectations, and in a split second, I blew up that version of myself. Sure, my parents weren’t thrilled about me living with Carl before marriage, but since we were engaged, their disapproval was muted.
I slip off my shoes and put on a pair of slippers as I wait for my mom. She walks toward me and surprises me with an embrace, but before I can return it, she pulls back.
“How could you do that to us?” she asks.
“I’m so sorry, Ma. I should have called it off sooner.”
“You shouldn’t have called it off at all!”
I follow her into the kitchen, where she starts cutting up some fruit.
“I was so ashamed,” she says, “and all the money we spent? Aiyah!”
“I’ll work on repaying you,” I say quickly. “I’ll transfer a thousand dollars to your account tonight, as a start.”
My mother snorts, then whacks a cantaloupe in a menacing way before scooping out the seeds. “Nothing can make up for how you embarrassed us. He would have been a good son-in-law, and you threw it all away—why?”
“I’d rather be single than be married to him.”
She clucks her tongue. “How will you have children now? You’re too old to start over.”
Thanks, Ma.
“I’m really not that old. Besides…” I clear my throat. “I don’t want children.”
It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud, and it’s a relief to finally put the words out there. Having kids was just one of those things I assumed I’d do. It’s not something that everyone does, of course, but it was what my parents imagined for me.
When I pictured having kids with Carl, I knew I’d be doing most of the parenting. But I eventually realized it wasn’t simply that I didn’t want kids with him; I didn’t want kids with anyone.
There’s a part of me that worried I wouldn’t be a good parent, I’m not going to lie. I didn’t have the greatest examples when growing up. Still, I think I could do an okay job of it.
But I’m not interested in that future.
“You don’t want children,” Ma repeats, as though it’s ridiculous and she can’t believe what I’m saying.
“That’s right.”
I don’t mention that if she’s so concerned about grandchildren, her other daughter is pregnant. I’d never reveal that without Tracey’s permission.
Ma smacks a plate with cantaloupe and orange slices in front of me.
“Eat,” she says.
I’m too scared to disobey her. I bite into a piece of cantaloupe, half expecting I won’t be able to taste anything, but it’s delicious. “This is a good one.”
Ma glowers at me. “I just don’t understand why you had to run.”
“I had to do it for me.”
“It’s like you don’t care about your family.”
“I care,” I say, “but I couldn’t go through with it.”
“After all the work we did!”
“Like I said, I should have called it off sooner.” But I was scared, and there was the whole sunk cost thing. In addition to the money, I’d invested so much time in that relationship.
When I couldn’t sleep last night, I spent half an hour reading about the sunk cost fallacy and how we tend to cling to existing relationships, even if they’re not great.
“He cheated on me.”
The words tumble out of my mouth, even though I hadn’t intended to tell my mother about that. It’s so painful, and I’ve barely spoken about it at all.
I should have ended the engagement then, especially since I was already having a few doubts after what happened with Francine. But despite his lackluster apologies, I didn’t. No, instead I wondered why I wasn’t enough for him, and if I wasn’t enough for Carl, how could I hope to do better?
I don’t think he expected to get caught, but he also seemed confident that I wouldn’t leave him because of it. I was the sweet little fiancée who’d make him dinner and keep my mouth shut.
How did I find out?
She told me.
She didn’t know he was engaged, and when she learned the truth, she found me on social media and informed me that my fiancé was having an affair. She said if I didn’t believe her, she could send screenshots of his texts, and for some reason, I felt the need to see proof. But as Carl had correctly surmised, I forgave him and didn’t call off the wedding.
Until the very last minute.
I realized I’d had it backward: I was too good for him, not the other way around.
Ma sits down across from me. She’s moving slowly, like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Men have different appetites from us.”
“I can’t believe you’re excusing his behavior.”
Except I totally can.
I stuff a piece of orange in my mouth, and as the juice trickles down my fingers, I examine my mother. Will I look like her when I’m sixty-one? Will my hair be mostly black, threaded with strands of gray? Will I grow thinner as I age? Will there be pronounced lines on my face between my carefully groomed eyebrows?
Will I be married to a man who cheated on me?
I’m suddenly sure that’s why she’s saying this, and it doesn’t shock me as much as it should. She’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince me; she wants to believe she did the right thing.
I don’t say any of that, of course. I’ve said enough today.
I stand up. “I should get going.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With a friend.”
“Which one?” she asks.
“I won’t give you more reasons to yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling!”
Ha.
I’m not used to being the reason my mom’s pissed. I want to soothe her, but what could I even say?
I go to the front hall and put on my shoes.
When I return to the house that’s my temporary home, Howie and Lynne are watching a drama. Her head is resting on his shoulder, and that shouldn’t be in any way odd, but I’m not used to older couples showing affection.
That’s what I want, when I’m in my sixties. To be more like them than my own parents.
Except I don’t want kids, and right now, marriage is the last thing I wish to think about, but one day, it could be nice to have someone.
Eventually, Lynne notices me in the doorway to the living room. She pauses the show.
“Are you okay, Yvonne?” she asks.
“I went to see my parents. My dad wouldn’t talk to me.” There’s a jolt of pain in my chest at the words, which annoys me. I shouldn’t expect my father to be different, yet I never completely stopped hoping. “My mother…”
It’s not like I truly expected her to act differently, either, but it would have been nice if she was at least pleased to see that I’m okay.
But in truth, it’s like I’m in free fall. I’m relieved, I’m happy, I’m distressed, all at once.
It averages out to “okay,” though.
This is why averages don’t tell the whole story. Like, if you have five people, and four of them make $5,000 a year and one made $5,000,000 a year, the average salary in that small group would be over a million dollars. Knowing just the average and nothing else doesn’t give you a real grasp of the situation.
So “okay” is far from the whole story, but in some ways, it’s true. I’m not entirely comfortable with my decision, but I think I made the right one.
“She’s still angry with me,” I say at last.
I’m braced for platitudes. They’ll come around soon. I’m sure they’re just worried about you and don’t know how to express it.
But Lynne doesn’t say those things, and it’s refreshing. She knows that sometimes, people simply don’t come around, and wishing for it doesn’t make it true.
“You can watch with us.” She gestures to the other end of the couch.
“We’re on the fourth episode,” Howie points out.
“Yes, you can explain the plot to her while I make tea.”
“No, no, you shouldn’t,” I say. “It’s been a long day. A long week.” I force a chuckle. “I’m going upstairs to get ready for bed.”
Lynne nods. “By the way, I did notice the money. You didn’t need to, but thank you.”
As I trudge up the stairs, I think, Why can’t they be my parents?
Except if they actually were my parents, I may well feel otherwise. Once again, I find myself thinking of Leo, wondering what his relationship with his mom and dad is like, before recalling the press of his body against mine. My breath quickens at the memory. His lips were so close, and I’m not used to feeling tempted like that, to wishing for things I have no business wishing for.
