Switch (Landry Family 3)

“Yes, it’s true,” I insist. “You can get up every day and decide what you are going to accomplish, what goals you’re going to work towards. Think about that. Every morning is an opportunity to change what you aren’t happy with.”

“My head hurts,” she laughs. “Today was a long one.”

“You have yoga tonight. Is that right?”

She nods. “I do. I need it. I’m teaching an all-girls class. But if you want to come, I’ll make an exception.”

“No yoga for me,” I grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car. I know how much you hate being late.”

I gather my things, listening to her ramble about essential oils and yoga, and we walk to the elevator. I don’t listen to the words, just hear the delight in her voice. This is what I’ve found myself craving, more than anything else, late at night when I’m home alone.

The elevator is packed. We squeeze in and ride to the executive parking floor. When we exit, it’s empty.

Her shoes tap against the concrete as we make our way to a small, four-door, red compact car.

“This is it,” she says, unlocking it with a key. “Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

“I didn’t even know car doors could be opened with keys anymore.”

“This one can,” she laughs. “I had a newer car with Eric, but I couldn’t afford the payments so I left it with him. This beauty gets me where I’m going.”

“Does she?” I give the vehicle a quick once-over as discreetly as I can. It’s probably more than ten years old and looks like something a greasy-haired used car salesman would sell you, only to have it break down a week later. “How long have you had this?”

“A couple of weeks. It’s fine. Not fancy, but good.” She looks at the floor and I realize she’s embarrassed.

“Hey,” I say, lifting her chin so she’s looking at me. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get that look on your face.”

“Don’t feel pity for me,” she says, brushing my hand away. “I’m driving this hunk of metal because I choose to. That alone, that I made the choice to do this, means a lot to me.”

I look at her in disbelief. How many people do what she did? Realize they deserve more and leave behind everything they have for a life that’s harder, at least materially?

“I respect that,” I say, my tone somber.

“Yeah, well, I’ll remember how respectable it is when I’m trying to figure out how to add windshield wiper fluid.”

Tossing her bag in her car, I hear a crunch. There are a host of take-out bags and Styrofoam cups littering her passenger seat and floorboard.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it?” she giggles.

“I know what you’re getting as a Christmas bonus.”

“What’s that?”

“Your fucking car cleaned. Just . . .” I can’t take it. Stalking back to the elevator, I grab the plastic garbage can and haul it across the parking lot. It squeals as the bottom rips along the pavement.

“Graham!” she shouts over the ruckus. “What are you doing?”

Shaking my head, I nudge her out of the way. “My God, Mallory,” I groan. Bag after bag, cup after cup, napkin after pieces of plastic that are semi-damp, get swiped up and dumped into the can behind me.

I’m leaned across her console, the crunch of the debris muddling the sound of her objections. The carpet is a mess and there’s a weird smell that reminds me of bacon, but at least you can see the carpet now.

Making a face, I climb out of the driver’s seat and dispose of the last items in my hands. “That is a fucking disaster. Park in the front tomorrow morning and I’ll have someone shampoo it out.”

“You will not!”