Because You're Different ✔

54. Shirts

June

My hair had swept to the front again, the tips white from dipping into the flour. I jerked my head, sweeping the ponytail back over my shoulder. My hands were slippery, and the knife I was trying to hold continuously slid from my grip. It didn't matter. I was done cutting anyway.

I threw the knife in the sink, then took the uneven pieces I'd chopped off and dropped them in a bowl. Glad that that part was over, I opened the tap to cleanse my skin, attempting to get rid of the layer of butter attached to it. The water had to become scalding hot, and I had to use a sponge before I noticed any difference at all. I huffed, smiling lightly.

This would've been a far better metaphor, abuela. Less gross, at least.

It'd been a nice gesture of Sam to fly her in for Christmas, although it'd been better if he'd asked me first. When I'd seen her standing there, that scrawny, short woman in her decade-old bottle-green dress, I'd realized she was going to cause trouble. Abuela had no patience for nonsense, and no patience for emotions either — it was why she only grieved the death of her husband once every year. As I'd been kissing her on her rough cheeks, and she'd complained of the meal they'd served her on the plane and the lady in 12B who'd been spoiling her toddler, I'd thought of my mother and her current state, and hoped with all my might abuela wouldn't be too hard on her.

She was, though.

She'd wanted her daughter to come back with her, yell the 'lazy' out of her — because that was how abuela fixed things, by yelling at people.

She'd done it with me many times when I was younger, but I was done with it by now. She didn't scare me anymore.

I supposed my mother had told her about Nathan, seeing as one night, she'd come to me, lips pressed together, her finger raised at me. "Nieta," she'd said, "falling in love is easy — falling out of love is like wiping snot off your clothes. A little soaping up isn't going to work. You'll need both of your hands, a roll of kitchen towels, and a strong stomach."

"What do you know about falling out of love, abuela?" I'd asked. "You were with the same man for all your life." I didn't need her advice. I could take care of myself. I'd been doing it for months by then, and I'd continue doing it until the day I'd die.

My eyes scanned the various ingredients scattered about the counter; beaten eggs, vanilla sugar, orange zest, flour, a tiny bit of salt... Most of it had landed in the designated bowls, but of course, I had spilled a little here and there. Nothing too much, luckily.

Music was playing in the background, a bunch of singer-songwriter songs I could softly hum along to whenever I wanted, or ignore whenever the task before me required my full attention. The sun had risen to the point where she shone directly into the kitchen, reflecting light on the wooden surface of that long table I'd first sat at two and a half years ago. Had it only been two and a half years?

It felt like at least ten had gone by since then.

Remember a short Sam? Remember drawing pictures of monsters, remember thinking we were going to be the next J.K. Rowling? Remember Nathan making us tea? Remember wondering about their parents, remember finding out they were assholes?

Remember my mother smiling at me?

So much had changed.

Seventeen. In less than twenty-four hours.

My eyes traveled to the ring, stored safely in its box on the table. The green glinted at me, almost blinding me. I blinked, looking away.

As a little girl, I'd thought adults had it all together. At eighteen, you were married, you had a job, and a place to live — you had it all figured out, and life was one big happily ever after. Well, sorry little me: it seemed the older you got, the less you had figured out. Sure, I was doing my best, but I had no idea what it'd lead me to.