Say it Again-Tell Me l'm not just another deal to you

There were more unpleasant manners in which to come home than by walking in on your mother spread-eagled, against the glass back door, being eviscerated by her fiancé. But I could not think of any of them while standing at the door with my hand clenched around the door handle, fighting-and losing-a battle with my gag reflex.

"Yes, Dean! Sì. Down there, up there, dio mio-stop it." Her choking screams, muffled by his hand over her mouth as he fought not to wake the baby lying above, dripped into my head, searing themselves into my core memory.

The first automatic response of screaming, "MY EYES, MY EYES!" à la Phoebe Buffay and running out of the house, town, state, and world with my arms waving frantically in the air. Alas, I could not do so. One, for the fact that my three-year-old child slept upstairs and I was in no mood to abandon her. Two, due to the reason that at the age of twenty-six, I shared a place with my mama, although within the stunning mini mansion my brother had built her.

She owned a greater stake to this dwelling than I.

Third? No kidding, Mama. Kudos to you on living your life to the fullest.

Spitting a small amount in my mouth, I gently closed the door and pitched myself back into my bright red 1999 GMC Sam, giving them a break. I slammed the creaky driver's door. In revenge, it ripped off its hinges, landing onto the muddy ground with an indignant thud.

Closing my eyes, I strangulated the steering wheel, breathing deep.

Everything's all right. Better than right. Great, even. You have a place to live. A stable job. A kid who you love.

My cell phone flirted with the stretch of my front diner pocket, and the uniform comprised the pale pink minidress cropped to moon as a napkin and spotted apron covered in a spectrum of indeterminate stains from tomato sauce to coffee to puke and grease.

What am I saying? It was one of excess and decadence, but somebody had to do it. My eyes focused on the image of my best friend Timothy's face on my screen. It was a photo of her with her head thrown back, laughing wildly, my brother's demonic face pushed into her neck as he kissed her, in the background the Eiffel Tower.

I set this as her contact picture to remind myself of the only stain on her otherwise sunny personality: she was bonking Lucifer's twin, aka my controlling, domineering older brother.

I mean, they were married. And super cute together. Maybe I was just annoyed because everybody around me was in a couple, bubble-wrapped in their own snuggle worlds. My last previous boyfriends had been battery-operated and silicone.

I moved my finger across the screen but didn't speak. I was afraid I would puke if I opened my mouth.

"Klaus," Timothy laughed hysterically on the other end of the line. Pete growled in the background in that grizzly-bear way he always did when he kissed her.

I wasn't green with envy Timothy was happily ever aftering with her. She'd earned it by civilizing my half-civilized brother.

"You won't believe who we just ran into in Cannes!" she shrieked.

Closing eyes again, I chatted myself out of a spontaneous mental breakdown.

Ed Sheeran? Taylor Swift? King Charles? God?

Their lives were filled with celebrity parties and P*******t-perfect holidays and chow as well photo-perfect to gobble.

It wasn't Timothy's fault I'd just finished a twelve-hour shift on my nowhere job working at Jacka's Diner. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was a single mom. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was still living with my mother. It wasn't her fault my life was the middle section of a boring-as-sin book, the pages stuck together, a never-ending loop of to-do lists and adulting.

"Klaus? You there?"

Timothy growled after several moments of quiet.

Sadly.

I could swear I heard Pete whisper the phrase "stand still and just take it." Good grief, who'd I off in my previous life to score tonight?

Wind screamed and twirled in a nasty circle, sneaking into the car like a pickpocket, crawling into my marrow.

"Pete," Timothy reprimanded, "I'm trying to eat here."

"So am I."

Oh god. Would Child Protective Services step in on a twenty-six-year-old?

"I just walked in on Mama and Dean kissing each other by the backyard door," I babbled.

This is why you're bussering tables and not harboring government secrets, Klaus.

"Holy crap," Timothy-or Dot, given the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks, proof God had sprinkled her with fairy dust-retorted. "I mean, go Zeta. She's owed some action, but also.sorry for your loss." Timothy snort-laughed. "You know, of appetite, sex drive, etc."

"It gets worse." I forced myself to smile, mostly so she could catch it in my voice. "They're also going to leave a mark, and you know I'm the one who cleans the windows around here."

Jokes aside, my mother had endured a wretched marriage to my father. When he passed away six years ago, I hadn't thought she would jump into love again. I was pleased one of us had. Hell knew I wasn't going anywhere near another man, ever, with a ten-foot pole.

"Ready for a sibling?" Timothy teased. From the uncomfortable silence that lingered, I gathered that Pete had stopped attempting to grope his wife and was finally paying attention to what individuals were saying.

"Thanks. I already barfed in my mouth."

"I'd bet you might be pregnant, but I've known nuns who have more action than you." Timothy laughed. "Didn't she know you were coming?"

"I was going to do a double shift, but the night was slow, so Jacka gave me a head start for the day."

"Where are you now?" Timothy inquired.

"Taking advantage of the heat of Sam." I lay out to wipe off the dust from a thick layer that had accumulated on my dashboard. "But the driver's side just literally came off, so I am not even warm and cozy."

"This isn't exactly your day," said my best friend pitifully. "I'm sending cake." Stop. "And a charger for your Magic Wand, as I figure you always lose yours."

Pete gagged indignantly in the background. Good. I had had to witness and hear him defiling my childhood friend once a month since they became a couple. Least I could do was inflict similar damage back.

Chargers have legs," I objected, fighting down a laugh that was metallic and rusty on my tongue. "That's the only explanation for why they always disappear. So are you in Cannes at the moment?"

Pete and Timothy split their time between New York and London. Pete had two star restaurants there, but they liked to travel.

"Yup. We're going back to London tomorrow morning, probably for a good stretch of time. Pete is opening a new restaurant in Edinburgh. He'd like me and Rosemary close by."

Rosemary was my niece. She'd just turned two and had her mom's huge blue eyes, her dad's wild onyx curls, and the neighboring opera singer's lungs. The girl could scream her way to a catastrophic earthquake.

"Klaus..." Timothy hesitated. "I have an idea."

She and Pete always had ideas. They were all about how to attempt to fix my fucked-up life. Not that I held it against them. My life was the sort of pathetic that shouted rescue.