Chapter 9

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***

Chapter 9




It's the morning after. By now, the gorilla has given up on punching and is just sitting on my face. Yup, big gorilla butt cheeks pressing on my sinuses.

I could drive myself to the emergency room, but last time I did that, they made me wait three hours, gave me two tablets of Tylenol, and sent a nine hundred dollar bill a month later.

It's ok. I've got my reindeer buddy and a carton of cold bone broth. It doesn't taste great, but I rarely eat for pleasure. My mom didn't cook much when I was little and the house was too chaotic to teach myself how.

By the time I moved out, I was busy either studying or working. So I never ended up learning.

I wonder now if she grew up like me too. If her own mother never cooked for her.

Maybe that's the reason I can't let her go. Beneath all her triggered rage and cruel words, I see a broken girl who got too hurt.

And I miss her. I miss her the most when I'm sick and alone. Those were the times in my childhood when she'd become soft. She'd sit beside me, check my temperature. When I couldn't move nor talk, I knew she worried.

Deep down, she cared. Just never learned how to show it. Just like I never learned how to cook.

So I reach for the phone and call. Hoping that if she hears my voice, she'll worry. I'll feel wanted. Loved. For a couple of minutes.

"Honey! How are you?" She's in a cheerful mood. Immediately I tense up. The higher her mood, the steeper she falls.

"I'm good, just sick a little bit. I wanted to hear your voice." 

"Oh no!" She cooes. "Oh, honey. You know if my car was working properly I'd come to check on you. Besides, I get so confused in your neighborhood, I don't know why you chose to live so far."

Please, mom. You drive to the beach every week and that's an hour away. My apartment is only twenty.

She giggles, not waiting for a reply. "Ugh, I miss youuu..."

My eyebrows scrunch at the slur in her speech. "Are you drunk?"

"Mhm...." She laughs obliviously.

"Alright, well...I'm going to go, mom."

"Why, where are you going...." She whines. Like a triggered response, every inch of me gets ready for danger. Keep your voice calm.

"Because I don't feel good, mom. And you're yelling in my ear."

"Why are you being so rude? Are you judging me again?"

I close my eyes. "No. It's not about you. I'm just not feeling—"

"You're the one that called me, why are you starting a fight?"

"I'm not starting anything... I'm talking to you calmly."

"No you're not. You're being cold and judgmental. Like you're better than me. You always do that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel like that." My heart beats faster.

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your patients! You sound like a robot."

"I'm apologizing to you—" My chest constricts. Throat closes up.

"You're lying. You're manipulating me. When'd you become this way?"

I hold my breath to not make a sound. If I cry, she'll say I act like a victim.

She continues to demand an explanation. Lectures me on lack of disrespect. Tells me how I used to be kinder when I was little. Says I've become selfish.

Unable to take it any longer, I hang up and drown my sobs into the pillow.

Why the hell did I call? When will I learn? When will I fucking give up?

~

It's dark. Netflix is asking if I'm still watching.

My cheeks are tight with dried tears. I get up to shower. Loosen my muscles with boiling water. Let the lather cleanse these leftover toxic thoughts.

I'd give ten years of my life to have a mind wash. To scrub these incessant, self-pitying, sabotaging monologues away.

I dress in clothing that's soft enough to feel like a hug and head to the kitchen. My foot lands on something cold, and I find my phone still on the floor, flashing with a dozen text messages from her. A bunch of 'who do you think you are' with 'I'll never talk to you again' followed by 'I love you.'

As always, we had come to a resolution. One I wasn't even a part of.

I nearly jump out of my skin when someone knocks on the door. What the hell? Did she actually get worried enough to drive out here?

I press my ear against the door. "Who is it?"

"It's Jake."

Jake? Nightclub/student/werewolf Jake?

"Jake from State Farm?"

I hear him laugh from the other side. "Yes, Jake from fucking State Farm."

Huh...it's the first time I've smiled today.

"Um...give me a minute."

I dash to the bedroom to put on a bra and check if my armpits smell. My hair is still wet, though the natural curls have started to form. I whip my head back and forth until it's not stuck to my scalp and hope he doesn't see the redness around my eyes.

I have to take a deep breath before I open the door.

He stands tall, rugged, and boyish. Like a naughty Mediterranean prince who escaped from the palace for a night of debauchery. Smiling innocently.

"Can you stop smiling, you make me feel like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh."

He chuckles. "You look beautiful."

I ignore the butterflies in my stomach. "Why are you here, Jake?"

He runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. "I was just worried. You said you live alone and you looked pretty bad yesterday...I just wanted to check in on you."

"Dude. Come on. " I grimace and lean on the door. " You can't do that..."

He lifts the grocery bags in his hands. "I get it. At least take these."

"What the hell is that?" I gape. Is this guy for real?

"I got some stuff that'll make you feel better." He shrugs.

"Oh my God..." I groan, closing my eyes. "Why..."

"You're so dramatic." He says with a dry chuckle. "'Oh Jake! How dare you! You brought me stuff?! What's wrong with you!'" He imitates my voice and I can't help but laugh.

"Relax. I'm just here to check in. No funny business." He continues.

I'm so going to regret this. But he came all the way here. It'd be rude to turn him away.

"Fine." I sigh and take the bags from him.

Jake steps in and goes to the living room. I head to the kitchen and place the bags on the countertop.

"This is so you." He comments. I roll my eyes. Always found it so weird when people feel obligated to compliment someone's space when they visit for the first time.

"Small and straightforward?" I ask, looking around my minimalist furniture.

Aside from a couch and a coffee table, there's just a basket for a blanket and a hanging plant on the ceiling. I don't even have a dining table.

"It's cute and...." He shakes his head. "Never mind."

And empty? A sad smile tugs on my lips as I head to the kitchen. Jake follows me, easily taking over the space with his towering frame.

I realize that if he lifts his hand, he can easily touch the ceiling. I consider asking him to scrub the pasta sauce that landed there last week.

My thoughts get interrupted when he bumps my hip with his and takes a hold of the grocery bags. "No touching. Go rest."

"Excuse me?" I snort. "This is my kitchen."

"Not right now, it isn't." He gives me an unimpressed look and pushes me out. He walks me back to the living room and sits me on the couch.

"There you go." He smiles at my confusion and pulls out the plush, grey blanket from the basket, draping it over my shoulders.

"What... are you doing..." I mumble as he tucks me in.

"Don't bother me." He turns on his heel and walks back to the kitchen.

"He's crazy..." I mutter in the empty room.

The atmosphere is oddly warm and light.

And wrong.

God, this is so wrong. What am I doing?

I stomp to the kitchen to tell him he needs to leave. This is headed in a dangerous direction.

But what I see stops me by the doorframe.

Jake is hunched over an appliance I know is not mine. Dozens of oranges, lemons, and tangerines are scattered on the white countertops.

Is he...fucking making citrus juice right now?

And he's singing to himself like it's his own home. Like we've done this so many times.

While I'm here, wondering if I've even had anyone in this kitchen before. If I've had anyone, ever do this for me before.

So... I just pad back to the couch. Dumbfounded. Confused. Emotional.

I clench my fists and focus on the patterns of the blanket, trying to keep it together.

A few minutes later, Jake comes out with a glass of beautiful, bright orange juice and hands it to me without a word.

I take it, undoubtedly frowning at him. But the guy just squeezed fresh juice for me. I have to at least take a sip.

I inhale the whole thing and smack my lips. Damn, it's good.

His lips curl up with satisfaction when he takes the empty glass back. I bite my lip and look away.

"Why are you doing this?" I mumble.

Who does this?

"Because I'm awesome." He says nonchalantly and saunters back to the kitchen.

Is he not done?

There are sounds of a knife against a cutting board, rustling of a plastic bag, clanks of utensils and plates. Then the microwave turns on and beeps after a minute.

Jake comes out holding the most stunning chicken noodle soup I've ever seen. Golden, warm broth with specs of cilantro, diced carrots, soft noodles, and cubed potatoes. Aroma of spices takes over the room.

He even put a slice of baguette next to the tablespoon.

"My God... " I gawk at the meal. This is too much.

"I don't take credit for the food. My mom made that." He says easily, taking a seat on the other side of the couch.

I blink, waiting for the 'kidding!" part, but it doesn't come.

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs. "I had no time to make it myself after work, so I asked her to help. It's not a big deal."

"How is that... not a big... deal?" My brain feels broken. I shake my head. "Jake, what the hell? I can't eat this."

"It's ok, eat as much as you can."

Oh my God, he doesn't get it.

"Your mom made me soup, Jake."

"Oh that." He chuckles like I'm being silly. "So what? It's not a big deal. When you're sick, you should have homemade soup. Store bought versions don't have the same effect."

My chest constricts with the contrast of this morning's conversation and the one I'm having now.

I don't know who I even am anymore or what I deserve. The selfish cold-hearted person my mom makes me believe I am? Or someone that gets homemade soup and fresh juice?

Obviously the first one. Jake has no idea who I am. He's known me for a few weeks. My mom gave birth to me.

Besides, why would I feel so bad if she didn't speak the truth? If she was wrong, I wouldn't feel all this guilt. Wouldn't tighten up and hold back these tears as I go for a spoonful of soup. Eating it like a fool. I don't deserve it. I'm not worthy. I'm using him.

"Mia, what's wrong?" Jake pulls me out of my thoughts. "Why are you crying?"

Shit. I didn't even realize. I wipe my eyes and swallow.

"Oh, I just feel so bad for this chicken." My broken voice makes me feel pathetic, so I continue to eat but sob at the same time. "I think I want to go vegan."

"Hey... " Jake sits closer and takes the soup away from me. He's about to put his arm around me but I get up.

"I'll be back." I try to leave and go to the bathroom.

Jake holds my wrist.

"You're okay, you don't need to run. Talk to me." He looks up with concern.

Please. You've done enough. I shake my head and pull my arm back.

"I just need to use the restroom." I leave him in the living room and go down the hall. Lock myself in the bathroom. Look in the mirror. Take deep breaths.

Calm down. Inhale for five seconds. Hold. Exhale for eight. Repeat.

Tears stream down. Get a hold of yourself!

I clench my jaw and tense my spine, crouch down on the floor and hide in my arms.

Selfish. So selfish. Pathetic.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please stop.

I pinch the sides of my thighs until the pain stops the tears and wash my face. I glare in the mirror, tell myself to stop feeling, and open the door to go back.

Jake's sitting there, waiting for me. He sits forward when I enter, eyes serious and looking at me.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, all good." I smile, licking my dry lips. "Um, thank you so much for all this. Honestly."

He frowns and studies me. I bounce on my feet and fidget with my hands.

"Um... I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. But I think you should leave." I grimace, feeling so uncomfortable for kicking him out. But it's better this way.

"You sure?" He asks and slowly stands up when I nod. "Did I do something?"

"No... " I chuckle and look down, praying I don't cry. "You're amazing. Don't get offended. I just want to be alone. I'm fine."

Jake looks at me, unhappy, jaw clenched. I look everywhere else before scowling back a little. The aroma of chicken noodle soup dances in the air.

"I'm here for you, if you need anything." He says, his gaze never drifting.

"Yeah... thanks." I swallow, keeping my expression neutral.

I open the door and thank him again as he leaves. I take a seat in front of the bowl of soup, imagining a woman with Jake's hazel eyes, cooking in the kitchen. Pouring the soup in the tupperware and handing it to him.

It's so thoughtful. So much time and effort has been put into it. These people exist? People do this?

I reach for the pillow again, sobbing into it.



~~ A/N~~

Interesting fact, I had a completely different ending in mind for this chapter, but Mia wasn't having it.

Also, isn't Jake just the cutest with his fresh juice squeezing and soup plating?

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