Hot & Heavy (Lightning 2)

Might have, could have, would have—none of those phrases mean anything since I walked away from him in the marina parking lot two days ago. It was the right thing to do. I know it was the right thing to do. I just didn’t know how hard it was going to be, didn’t know how much a part of my life Shawn had become in such a short time.

He texted me Sunday night after I got home from the marina and again around midnight. I didn’t answer and he hasn’t texted again. Which is good. It’s what I wanted. But it still feels really, really shitty.

The knock comes again, and this time it sounds way more impatient. Too bad I don’t give a damn. Emerson has a key to my place, and none of my other friends would be banging down my door at ten p.m. on a Tuesday night. Which means whoever it is has the wrong address.

Or it’s Shawn. The thought comes unbidden, and though I tell myself he’s the last one I want to see—the last one I need to see—I find myself stumbling over to the door.

Not because I want to see him, because I don’t. But because it would be rude to leave him out there knocking.

Except when I throw open the door, it’s not Shawn standing there. It’s my mother, dressed head to toe in traditional Indian clothes—a lehenga, a choli, even a pavadai in bright pink.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t home, darling! I texted you to come get me from the airport, but I didn’t get an answer.”

Because my phone is off and currently buried in my nightstand so I won’t be tempted to text Shawn. Or search social media for his name to see if he’s in some bar somewhere drowning his sorrows with a groupie or three.

“I thought you were staying in India for a while.” Not the warmest of greetings, but bluntness is pretty much all I’m capable of right now considering how much wine is sloshing around in my stomach. And considering the way she stole all the yoga studio’s money right out from under me. If she hadn’t, I never would have said yes to Shawn and then I wouldn’t be in this mess.

The thought has me narrowing my eyes at her. My mother really does have a lot to answer for.

She, of course, doesn’t even notice as she breezes right past me. “I had a dream two nights ago that you needed me, so I spoke with my teacher. He agreed that I should come home right away.”

“I’m pretty sure a phone call would have sufficed.” Still, I don’t try to stop her as she moves deeper into my home. Of course, she leaves her bags outside, because she’s my mother and that’s what she does. If it doesn’t involve a yoga pose, my mom isn’t interested in expending any more energy than is absolutely necessary.

I pull the bags inside, then close and lock the door. My mom takes one look at the coffee table—with its empty wine bottle and crumpled-up ice cream container—and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“I don’t want coffee,” I say, and I’m woman enough to admit that I sound like a petulant child.

“Who said anything about coffee?” she asks and I enter the kitchen just in time to see her opening the next bottle of wine I have lined up on the counter.

She pours herself a glass, then carries the bottle back into the living room where she finds my glass and pours a healthy amount into it as well. Then she settles herself on the couch, kicks her feet onto the coffee table and says, “So, who is he?”

I’m starting to sober up, the warm buzz that had blocked (almost) all of my feelings dissipating a little more with each second my mother is in my apartment. As the pain of walking away from Shawn starts to creep back, I reach for my glass and drain it in a couple of long swallows.

“How do you know there’s a he

?” I ask just as carelessly.

“There’s always a guy.” She pours me another glass without so much as a raised eyebrow.

“It’s no big deal. He’s no big deal.” I take another sip.

“The way you’re throwing back that wine says otherwise.”

“Maybe I’m celebrating. Did you ever think of that?”

She casts a pointed look at the ice cream tub, then follows it with a critical once-over of my dirty sweatshirt and holey yoga pants then ends with a glance at my flat, greasy hair.

“Point taken.” I sigh. “But seriously, it’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will be, but you aren’t now. That’s why I’m here.”

The bitter bitch inside of me wants to ask what makes this time so special, considering she’s missed pretty much every important moment in my life for as long as I can remember. But I don’t have the energy to fight with her right now. I’m too sad.

We sit in silence for several long minutes, drinking wine and waiting for the other one to break first. It’s a pattern I remember well from my adolescence—just because we haven’t done it in years doesn’t mean it’s not familiar.

Usually, I’m the master at this game but there’s something about the sadness rolling around inside me, something about having my mother in the same room with me for the first time in months, that loosens my tongue.

“He’s a football player that I was doing some therapeutic yoga with. He’s actually the reason I managed to keep the yoga studio’s doors open after you took all the money—he wrote a really big check to be able to work with us.”