I tell the suit, "You're lucky I like you," but, of course, I mean the man.
Nick met my mother when she was temping as a receptionist at a law firm in Boston about a year ago, but I didn't meet him 'til six months later. He's not the first guy in a suit to be tempted by her fair skin, long blond hair and youthful curves, but he's one of the few worthy of her. Nick's from New York, but he travels between there and Boston regularly. When he's here, he chooses to stay with us, despite the hour and a half commute. He wants to get a place together closer to the city. I think the only reason my mother hasn't given him an answer is because of me.
I've learned not to get involved in my mother's social life. We don't exactly have the same optimistic outlook on love. But it's obvious that Nick is dedicated to taking care of her. And I won't get in the way of my mother's happiness. She deserves to be happy. She deserves him.
I toss the jacket back on the chair. And, just as I begin to walk to the fridge, a clang reverberates against the floorboards. I stop and slowly turn, my stomach already reacting before I see what fell from his suit pocket. I stare at it for a moment, wishing I'd hated him just like the rest of them.
Now I do.
"Oh, you asshole," I say, bending to pick it up.
Nick's exotic spicy scent enters the room. My jaw clenches as I stand, keeping my back to him.
"Good morning," he says cheerily. "You're up early."
I turn to face him. He must have just taken a shower because his dark hair is still wet, combed neatly and slicked away from his face. Everything about him is expensive--from the crisp white shirt to his perfect, charming smile. He looks so out of place in this dilapidated kitchen. He rolls a suitcase next to him, resting it near the doorway.
I don't respond, only stare, wondering how I didn't see it. I have a gift for knowin
g when someone isn't who they appear to be--for seeing through the lies. But I never saw this coming. He was so convincing. I believed him!
The betrayal burns deep, or maybe it's just my pride that's singed. Regardless, now I want to punch him in the throat.
"Everything okay?" Nick asks, his brows furrowed in concern. "If it's about the suit, I can take it with me, ask the hotel to send it out. I just thought--"
"Or you could ask your wife," I say, cutting him off. I raise my middle finger to reveal the dark titanium band embedded with black diamonds. "Isn't she waiting for you in New York?"
"What ... Lana, I--" he stutters.
"Don't." I shut him up before he can lie again. My voice is edged with venom. "Leave. Never come back. If you do, I'll murder you in your sleep. Understand?"
He remains frozen within the doorframe. His eyes flicker in panic. "It's not ... "
"Piece of shit." I shove past him, causing him to stumble back a step.
I walk to the front door and hoist the straps of the Army bag over my shoulders with a grunt. Without looking back, I warn him, "Tell her the truth, or I will."
"Lana?" My mother's voice carries from her bedroom just before I slam the front door.
I look down at the wedding band on my finger, and my jaw flexes with unrelenting anger. This is going to kill her. Releasing a heavy breath, I trudge down the flight of stairs, the Army bag banging against my thighs with each step. It's practically as big as I am, and I fight not to fall face-first down the stairs.
The street is uncharacteristically quiet when I step outside, only because of the insane hour. The sun's rays peek between the neighborhood buildings, barely having risen itself. The cool morning air soothes my heated cheeks as I walk down the sidewalk.
We don't live in the best neighborhood, but there really isn't a good neighborhood in Sherling. At least we don't have gangs tagging every surface. Our street is a small side street, lined with about a dozen multifamily homes. Laundry hangs over porch railings. Broken-down cars take up space in pocked driveways. Most of the time, the sound of arguing or crying kids filters out the open windows, floating along the streets like white noise. I don't really hear it unless it's an overly dramatic fight. So now, with the street vacant of cars and everyone still asleep, the silence makes the anger in my head so much louder.
My mother doesn't belong here any more than he does. I know she's lived here most of her life, but she never quite fit in. She's a dreamer. A believer. A fragile bloom fighting for light in the middle of a landfill. He promised to take her away from all of this. He was supposed to save her from a life that continues to drain the color from her every day.
She sees the good in every person, regardless of who they are or what they've done in life. I always considered this naive. But she genuinely wants to believe every person is worthy. The liars. The cheats. The manipulators. The bastards who use her for their own self-serving needs. Not just the men, but the women too. Those who pretend to be a friend, until jealousy unveils their selfishness and insecurity. They're all the same. But she refuses to give up on them because, when my mother loves, she loves with everything. It's why Belief is her curse. It's that belief that will eventually break her.
My fingers curl into a fist, short nails digging into my palm. Oh, I hate him. Everything about him is a lie. I wish I'd seen through him. But he was so sincere. Maybe that's his curse and the reason I couldn't recognize his deception ... Sincerity.
If Nick's curse is Sincerity, then he's the worst kind of human. Convincing people to believe him, to trust him, only to destroy them when they let him in.
The twenty-four-hour Laundromat at the end of the block is just as deserted as the street, except for the homeless man sleeping under the dryer vent in the alley.
After loading the washer, I sit on the chipped laminate counter and prop my best friend's textbook open on my crossed legs, trying to distract myself from the boiling rage that continues to churn in my stomach.
The distinct ting of a glass bottle rolling along the pavement draws my attention from Tori's algebra assignment. A woman in a leopard print skirt and black bustier stumbles across the street, running a hand through her disheveled dark hair. Smeared liner shadows her eyes, and her lips are smudged with faded red lipstick. I watch her zigzag across the desolate street. She falters when her stiletto heel catches the curb. I wince, expecting her to fall, but she corrects herself with a few stuttering steps.