TAVIAN
07.20.15
Johnny Cash sings about a boy named Sue as I drive from the University of Pennsylvania campus to my mom’s house, but I’m too preoccupied with rehearsing what I’m going to say when I get there and calming the rolling nerves in my gut to pay attention. At least I don’t have to break the news to her that a wedding with Annie isn’t happening, since my psycho ex-girlfriend took care of that for me.
And yes, the woman who I at one time thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life with has totally proven herself to be certifiably crazy after not only running to my mom to tattle on me, but then trashing my apartment when she came to get her things yesterday. I guess she was mad I wasn’t there to beg her to stay, so not only did she take things that weren’t hers, but she also knocked holes in the wall, dumped all of my clothes in the middle of the kitchen floor, and damaged the furniture she left behind. Bitch.
Surprisingly, when I got home late last night from Lyra’s, I wasn’t all that surprised… if that makes any damn sense. Annie showed her true colors Friday night, and at this point, I’m just glad to have her out of my life. All that material shit can be replaced. Hell, I was considering just moving apartments and starting over so I don’t have any lingering bad memories, and she made that decision even easier. Tomorrow, I’ll call the building management company and see if they have any open units I can transfer to. With the settlement Ma and I got from the factory after my dad and brothers were killed in the explosion, money isn’t an issue, even if I have to pay two rents for a while.
But right now, the most important thing is catching my mom up on everything. Which includes telling her about Lyra, though apparently, she already knows something.
I pull my silver Honda CRV into the driveway of my childhood home and kill the engine. Despite the balance in her savings accounts and financial portfolio, my mom refuses to move out of the house she and my dad bought shortly after they got married, the same one she raised all three of her sons in. She does a great job with the upkeep of the small three-bedroom bungalow, but unfortunately, not all her neighbors can say the same. The area is aging and declining in both value and reputation, and I really wish she’d move somewhere safer that requires less work. But she won’t even consider it.
“Their spirits live here. I can’t leave them,” she’s told me on more than one occasion. And really… what kind of son would I be if I tried to convince her otherwise?
The same kind who’s about to tell her about a woman who will not only win her heart, but also break it when she dies in less than a year.
Scowling at my own contentious thoughts, I slam the door to the truck and stomp up to the wraparound front porch. The knob turns and the screen door flies open before I can rap my knuckles against the glass. Thankfully, my boots are planted firmly on the ground, because my mom nearly bulldozes me over with a massive bear hug.
“My baby boy is home!” she squeals, squeezing my neck until I start sputtering from lack of oxygen.
“Hey, Ma,” I say once she finally releases her death hold on me. She’s always been a bit overbearing, but I think the attack in Pamplona really has her shaken up. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
I kiss the side of her head and usher her inside the house to escape both the stifling heat and stares from other people outside, and immediately, I’m greeted with the mouth-watering smells of homemade lasagna and fresh garlic bread. Any traces of earlier frustration are gone. There’s almost nothing my mom’s cooking can’t make better.
“Come on, into the kitchen we go. I need to put the brownies in the oven and take the bread out. You can make the salad for me,” Ma instructs as she scoots by me, grabbing my arm and dragging me along.
I follow her into the cheery yellow kitchen that truly was the heart of our home when I was growing up, and she wastes no time retrieving the head of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber from the fridge and putting me to work. Memories from cooking for Lyra Saturday night flood my mind as I chop the vegetables, and a sly grin creeps across my face. The girl wasn’t lying when she said she couldn’t cook, which I find funny with as many Food Network shows she has saved on her DVR. But I didn’t mind teaching her a thing or two… especially since she wore my T-shirt with nothing underneath.
“Well, let me ask the obligatory ‘how was your day’ questions before we get to the reason for that shit-eating grin on your face,” Ma says as she walks past me to the oven. “So, how was your first day back at work, son? Anything exciting happen?”
I laugh and shake my head, but keep my focus and concentration on the sharp knife I’m maneuvering on the cutting board. “It was good, typical first day stuff. Nothing too exciting. One kid fell asleep after lunch, and I was gonna let him get some Zs in until he started snoring louder than I was lecturing. So I had to make an example of him by making him stand the last two and a half hours. I don’t think anyone else will be catching a nap in class from this point on.”
“Octavian West, you did no such thing,” she playfully scolds, popping a dishtowel in my direction.
“Oh, I most certainly did,” I snicker. “Little shit can sleep at night when the rest of us do.”
Well, except for the nights I spend with Lyra. Sleep only comes after we both do—several times.
“All right, all right, enough with that. I want to hear the good stuff.” She uncovers the piping hot pan of lasagna from under the foil and places a spatula next to it. “Make yourself a plate and let’s go to the table. I may need to be sitting down for this.”
I do as I’m told, loading my plate up with the cheesy, meaty, gooey goodness, salad, and buttery garlic bread, and then sit in the same chair I’ve sat in since I can remember. Ma sets two bottles of water on the table then serves herself and takes the seat across from me. I shove a forkful of food into my mouth before she has a chance to start her interrogation, stalling the inevitable.
“So good, Ma. You really have to give me the recipe one day. I promise I won’t screw it up.”
She swallows her own bite then shakes her head and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Don’t even try that crap, mister. I’ll allow you three uninterrupted bites, but then you can eat around your answers. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod, and then proceed to take three of the biggest bites possible, chewing slowly and methodically, fully aware of her amused smirk while she waits me out.
Fighting my own smile, I finish my final mouthful and wash it back with a big swig of water. The second I place the bottle on the table, she’s got her first question locked and loaded.
“Is it the girl from New York you were with on your trip? What’s her name again?”
“Yes. Her name is Lyra,” I confirm with another nod.
“Lyra,” she repeats slowly. “That’s different. I like it.”
I remember the night at the observatory when she told me about the origin of her name, and my chest constricts. So badly I wanted to take her pain away while she scattered her parents’ ashes around the hilltop, but I knew I couldn’t. It was a goodbye she needed to say on her own terms.
“She’s named after the constellation Lyre. Her dad was an astronomer at NASA,” I further explain before stealing another bite as she contemplates her next question. Honestly, I am a little surprised she’s not grilling me for answers about Annie.
Ma’s blue eyes sparkle around her numbers, reminding me that for the next twenty-one years—until she’s reunited with my dad and brothers in the afterlife—I need to be the best fucking son in the world for setting her up for this heartache.
“How old is she? What does she do? Give me the basic rundown.”
“She’s twenty-three, lives alone in an apartment in Brooklyn, and works as a photographer for Wanderer, the travel magazine,” I say proudly. Talking about Lyra triggers a strange warmth to fill my chest. “We are almost exact opposites. She’s as quiet and reserved as I am social and outgoing. I like all things math and numbers, and she prefers the arts and history. Her cooking skills are lackluster at best, and I’m not sure she’s ever watched a baseball game in her life.”
My mom gasps at that last part, and I stop to chuckle before I continue. “But from the moment we met, the first time we touched, I knew she was different… and I don’t just mean different from me. She does something to me, something I can’t explain. All I know is she’s it—my One.”
“And you never felt that about Annie?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
“Not only were Annie and I so young when we met, but the circumstances our relationship was formed under....” I struggle to find the best way to explain it. “She was my crutch, and I was hers. We used each other for what we needed, but as we’ve grown older, we’ve grown apart.” I shake my head and look down at my plate, not wanting to see any disappointment on her face. “I never should’ve said yes to her proposal, but I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of all those people. Hell, I never should’ve taken her back after she left me for a year. I didn’t want to rock the boat. She was just… comfortable. Easy.”
She reaches across the table and covers my fidgeting hand with hers, calming my anxieties with her simple motherly touch. “Tavian, stop beating yourself up. I understand why you said yes and why you stayed with her. She’s been a huge part of your adult life, and simply because you want to end the romantic part of your relationship, it doesn’t make you a bad person. These things happen. I’m glad you didn’t let the engagement carry on any longer than that night.”
“Did you tell her that when she came crying to you?” I huff, still irritated about her running to my fucking mom to tell on me.
“Her pride and ego are hurt right now,” Ma says matter-of-factly, “and even though you didn’t turn her down in front of the other people there, she still has to face them and tell them you guys have broken things off. No one likes to be rejected, especially if they know it’s for someone else. You told about her Lyra, yes?”
My shoulders slump as I realize I shouldn’t have brought Lyra into any of the conversation with Annie. A simple “I’m not in love with you anymore, and I think we’ll be better off going our separate ways” would’ve been sufficient.
“Live without regrets, son. What’s done is done. Don’t lose focus on the present by dwelling on the past.” My mom interlaces our fingers and squeezes, drawing my gaze back up to meet hers. “Now, eat up before your dinner gets cold and tell me when I’m going to get to meet Lyra. Do you have any pictures of her?”
We spend the better part of the next hour finishing our dinner and indulging in way too many brownies while I tell her stories about the trip and show her the couple of photos I took of the two of us from my phone this past weekend. I promise her I’ll invite Lyra to my annual dinner at Stan’s Steaks for my birthday, with equal parts nerves and excitement jetting through me at the thought of them meeting. There’s nothing I want more than my mom to love and accept Lyra, but at the same time, it’s also what scares me most.
By the time I leave her house and head to my mostly unfurnished, disaster of an apartment, the sun has long since set and my entire body sags with exhaustion against the leather truck seat. The jet lag, time change, and two sleepless nights I’ve spent here without Lyra are taking their toll. Not to mention I was on my feet lecturing for eight hours today. Yet despite the fatigue I feel physically, mentally, and emotionally I’m more balanced than I’ve ever been. And it’s all because of one woman.
Now I have to figure out how to get her here and keep her here. I want every day of hers I can get.