Sweet Girl by Quell T. Fox
Charlotte
Aweekgoesbywithnotmuchofanythinghappening.TherewereplentyoftimesIthoughtI’dimaginedtheentirethingwithJonathan,butIknowIdidn’t.Istillfeeltheghostofhisfingersdiggingintomythighs,theheatofhisbreathovermyclit.It’sallstillthere,lingeringacrossmyskin.
I’ve talked to Jace every day, who’s told me his mother is not doing well. I offered to go over to help, or keep him company, still feeling weird about what happened when he was here, and also worried he may think something is up, but she didn’t want the company. I don’t blame her, I’d probably be the same way.
Mom and I are going shopping today. It’s the first day we’ve actually spent together, since my being home. The summer will go by quickly and before I know it, I’ll be back at school alone and mom will be here. With Jonathan.
The thought makes my stomach sour, so I try to ignore it.
“I like that one, Charlie. You should get it!” Mom says excitedly.
“Yeah? I don’t know how I feel about it.” I admire myself in the blue cocktail dress. Blue has always been her color, not so much mine. We’ve been at the mall for close to two hours and I’ve yet to find something I like. One of mom’s friends is getting married and we’ve all been invited to the reception Saturday night. I hadn’t planned on needing to get dressed up for anything so formal, so I didn’t pack anything. I went through my mother’s closet but found nothing I liked.
I change back into my clothes, knowing this dress is not for me. Grabbing the handful of hangers that hold dresses I tried on and didn’t like, I take them to the rack and hang them up before heading out of the changing room and back into the store.
“I need something black,” I tell her.
“Oh, honey. For a wedding?” She looks nervous, worried about me making a spectacle.
“I was joking.” I wasn’t, but the breath she releases tells me I need to be. I let out a sigh. If I ever get married, I’m wearing a black dress.
We leave that store and try another. When I set my eyes on the short, gray dress, I know I’ve found it. I find my size, pull it off the rack and bounce to the dressing room. The material is soft and stretchy. I put it on and it looks better than I hoped.
“That is perfect!” Mom says excitedly. “Is that the one?” I look at myself in the mirror again, noting how perfectly it hugs every inch of my body. It’s a little shorter than it should be for a wedding, but I think I can pull it off. It’s simple, body forming, and sexy as hell.
It is. This is definitely the one.
The one that is going to bring Jonathan to his knees.
Only that isn’t something my mother can know. She can’t know I’m looking for a dress with him in mind. I’ve kept from looking at her all day, unable to meet her eyes. Afraid she’d be able to see right through me and find out what Jonathan and I did. If I keep thinking about it, I’ll be sick. So instead, I pretend this whole scenario isn’t happening. Jonathan isn’t my mom’s boyfriend. In fact, in my head, she doesn’t even know who he is.
The woman bags the dress for me and I pay her. Mom and I wander through the mall, walking around aimlessly. We make our way to the food court and decide to sit and eat. It’s just about lunch time and I’m starving. We don’t have any shopping left to do, but I admit, I enjoy just hanging with my mother.
“How’s school?” she asks. It’s the first time she’s asked me something that has to do with me all day. We’ve never been close but she’s a good mom, that’s for sure. I’ve always had clothes on my back and food in my belly. I think she raised me right, instilled good morals into me—for the most part.
My dad was never around, he wasn’t even there to see me born. He visited a few times when I was a baby, I guess, but that’s all I know about him. Can’t say I blame him either, he was just as young as Mom was when she got pregnant. He didn’t want me but mom couldn’t terminate the pregnancy. As much as she knew it was a mistake, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She also never forced my dad to be in the picture, never asked for anything or made him feel guilty about it. Something I agree with wholeheartedly. Mom wanted me, dad didn’t. It’s not fair for him to live a guilted life over his choice.
“It’s good. My classes are fun, my professors are great. I made a few friends and my grades are all good. How’s work?” She must have forgotten this has been the only thing she’s really talked to me about since being here. She’s asked me this same question twice before.
Her eyes are glued to her phone but she shrugs. “It’s work.”
She’s tired. She’s always tired. I was never upset that I didn’t get to play games with my mom or go out to get our nails done or that sort of thing. I always looked up to her for working, and doing what she wanted and loved while also raising a kid on her own.
“Are you sure you won’t be called into work on Saturday? You look like you could use a day off.”
She huffs out a laugh, picking at her chicken. “I’m sure. I asked one of the girls to cover for me,” she explains. “A night off would be nice. I haven’t had a vacation in quite some time.”
“I’d hardly call a day off a vacation.”
“Well, when you’re constantly working doubles, with only a few hours in between, a whole twenty-four hours will feel like a week.”
“I guess that’s true,” I say with a laugh. We finish our food in silence, Mom talking to someone on her phone and me just watching her. I find myself wondering how it would be if our life was different. If she wasn’t the kind of person she was… would I still be me? If I’d have grown up with a father in my life… would I still have a thing for older guys?
I guess none of it really matters, I can’t change the past.
“So, have you guys set a date yet?” I know I shouldn’t dig into their relationship. Asking questions about her and Jonathan is probably the worst thing I can do but… I can’t help myself. There is a lot at stake here. It’s nothing I can do on a whim and expect everything to be okay. This isn’t someone else’s family I am messing up, one I can just run away from and ignore. This is my own family, my own mother.
She looks up at me, her face emotionless. “No, we haven’t.”
Something in her tone tells me not to press the subject, which I guess is a good thing. The less I know, the better. But I’m still curious… My eyes dip to her hand and notice the ring is still not there. In fact, there isn’t even a trace showing she ever wore it. No mark, no tan line, nothing.
How long has this been going on?