↶Chapter Two
CHAPTER THREE
I lay in bed, feeling the spring breeze creep through my window. It is Friday and it's raining lightly today; the smell of petrichor turns my room into a bed of soil, I may as well be in a lounge chair in a garden of freshly mowed lawn. The radiators are turned on and I am enjoying the contrast between hot and cold, I'm wrapped in a thick duck feather duvet, with the radiator to the side of me.
I hear my phone ringing and I roll over to reach my marble bedside cabinet. I pull the plug out of the bottom of my phone and look at the screen.
Chris is calling me.
I turn onto my back and answer the call.
"Chris?" I say, quickly putting the phone on loudspeaker.
It is quite unusual for him to phone me.
"Verona! Do not tell me you have just woken up!" He guffaws loudly through the phone.
"What? No, I have just been lying in bed," I respond in a tone as carefree as I feel.
"Doing what?" He says, sounding slightly cheeky, I hear him gasp for air, then he cuts himself off from whatever he thought to say. "Thinking about Atticus? Where is that flaky sop anyway? He still has not responded to my birthday text. It says he has been online. Did you two have a disagreement or something?" He continues.
Wait a minute. Didn't Atticus mention this? I sigh, a long frustrated sigh.
"Why would I be thinking about Atticus? I noticed that too," I reply defensively.
"You know you're freezing sometimes Verona," he teases.
"What?" I say in a cold tone of voice.
"I said your best friend hasn't replied to the group chat in two days and he's not even on your mind?" He explains.
I suppose he is right. I was getting concerned, but I assumed he is playing games; I am sure he did mention this when we last saw each other. He is just trying to reel me in to what he said, to get me to believe it. I am not sure what to tell Chris as I do feel a little guilty for not checking in on Atticus, but I am in a mood.
"Well, I don't need to know everything he's doing. You said he has been online," I reply.
"Freezing Verona, you're freezing," Chris says, not sounding too playful anymore.
I sigh.
"Is that why you called me?"
"No, actually. It is my girlfriend's birthday tomorrow and I know you are the expert at gifting. I called to borrow some of your wisdom," He states.
"I've never even heard of her nor met her; how will I know?" I respond, still sounding a little bitter from his last comment.
"You're a woman! You should know!" He jokes.
I roll my eyes and huff loudly at him through the phone.
"Women are not made from the same circular cookie cutters, Chris!" I retort.
"Well, I don't know. She likes makeup, puppies, and music," he tells me.
"What kind of music?" I ask.
"Grunge, a typical Seattleite," he answers, I can hear him smirking.
"You're dating a grunge fan?" I speak curiously.
"What's up with that?" He asks me.
"Nothing, you just don't like grunge," I explain.
The line goes silent and I stare up at my ceiling thinking for a moment.
"I don't know; get her a t-shirt or something. Or how about a concert ticket," I finally advise him.
"Thanks, Verona. Hey, you want to roll through to her party tomorrow?"
Party tomorrow? I definitely heard it, but I didn't hear Atticus say it. I let out a quiet sigh of relief and smile to myself slightly. I knew he was teasing me. A party could be good. It has been a while and I guess Olivia and I can pick up a new outfit tomorrow when we are shopping.
"Could you do me another favour?" Chris asks me.
"What?" I reply.
"Could you call Atticus and invite him?" He says.
"Why can't you?" I respond, feeling my annoyance perking again.
"Freezing Verona, you're absolutely freezing," Chris laughs and hangs up the phone.
I am quite warm. I roll back over to the radiator and go through my contact book. I wonder if Chris invited Olivia.
Atticus is on speed dial, number three after my mom and my dad. I press it in, and the phone starts ringing. He answers after three rings.
"Verona?" He says, he sounds quite annoyed.
"Atticus, where have you been?"
I am quite annoyed at him too and it's noticeable in my voice.
"I've been busy, I've lost out on one of my whole investments and I'm damned vexed," he explains.
I feel bad. Why didn't he call or text me? Usually, he tells me these things. I do not know what to say to him. It must have been a big investment as he does not typically distance himself from the group over a loss. It is more likely for him to invite us all out to the bar so he can drink his sorrows for the night and get back to work the next afternoon.
"Chris invited you to his girlfriend's birthday party tomorrow, tell me about it there?" I relay to him.
"Why couldn't he ask me?" He says in a huff.
I sigh, his reply has left me feeling frustrated me once again.
"Why don't you ask him? You did not reply to his birthday invite and he's upset," I retort.
He sounds as though he is about to say something in anger, but he stops himself. There is a moment of silence.
"Well. I will call him. I am sorry Verona; I don't mean to take it out on you guys," He says feebly.
"Don't apologize, its fine. We were just worried," I reassure him.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he replies, and hangs up the phone.
As soon as he hangs up, I get a text from Olivia. Chris has invited her to the party, and she is wondering if we should get ready at my house. I respond to her message, that we should and then I think about what I should do for today.
I should get breakfast first, that is what I think.
I get out of my bed, neaten up my duvet, fold up my throw and place it near the end of my bed. My room is spacious, I have a walk-in closet with sliding doors and an en-suite bathroom. All the walls are white apart from one wall that has a wallpaper feature which has silver trees printed on it. I have pictures of my family, friends and myself on canvases hanging up on the wall. I have a grey fluffy rug which turns darker from movement that I have had for years.
When I was younger, I would spend a lot of time rubbing my feet and my hands against it and watch in awe as it changed colour, then I would carefully neaten it up so it would all perfectly stay in its original colour.
I throw a robe over my pajamas, and I exit my room to go down the stairs.
To my surprise my mom is in the kitchen, which is conjoined with our living room. I thought she had work early today. She is sitting at the light wood counter with her head in her hands.
"Mom?" I call out to her softly.
She looks up at me and straightens herself up, giving me a small smile.
"Good morning, Verona," She greets me.
"Are you okay?" I ask her.
"I'm fine, Verona and you?" She responds.
She does not seem genuinely fine. I take a seat in one of the tall black stools right in front of her at the countertop. I stare at her for a moment. She has not brushed her hair yet, her dark brown hair has formed loose messy curls, and her skin looks a little dry and rough, like she's aged ten years overnight.
My mom is only fifty-three and she is a health freak, which is only natural considering she is a nurse, so her textured complexion is a mystery for me. Since I was a little kid, my mom always ingrained the idea into my brain that skin was the largest organ of the body, therefore it needed to be cared for, like a temple.
When I was a teenager, we would have a pamper day once every weekend and we would use facemasks, different exfoliators, and creams. I have the best skin because of this. Today, my mom looks in need of a pamper day and another eight hours of sleep. Her eyes look tired and the skin around it looks dark and slightly red, as though she has been rubbing on them.
"I'm fine, mom," I finally reply, "but you don't really look it."
She looks down at the coffee mug in front of her on the table and taps her finger lightly against it.
"I was working at the hospital late last night, Verona. I think I've caught some kind of stomach bug from one of the patients there," She explains.
She does not really look sick, only tired and stressed.
"Anyway, what are your plans for the day? Do you want breakfast?" She asks me quickly, getting up in a hurry, she moves to the kitchen work surface that we use to prepare food.
"I've got some streaky bacon," She continues.
"Sure, mom," I accept.
She gets the bacon out the fridge with some bagels and eggs, then she gets a frying pan out and ignites the fire on the hob.
"So, your plans for the day?" She repeats herself.
"Oh, I haven't got any plans today. Are you working?" I answer.
"I took the day off I'm feeling unwell."
But just a moment ago, she said she was fine.
"How's Atticus?" She asks me.
I do not know why I feel so frustrated and tense whenever someone mentions Atticus to me these days. It is not entirely about the conversation we had the other week, but it is a large portion as to why. I was confused, to be fair and worried about him. After the conversation ended, he became withdrawn and uninterested in talking to me, like I was not there. I had stayed for an hour trying to catch up with him and see what was new in his life, but he barely responded and gave short, simple responses. So, I gave up and announced I was leaving for dinner.
Usually, he offers me to stay for dinner as his mom cooks and my mom has not usually arrived home from work at that time, so he prefers me to eat with company. But he did not, instead he just walked me to the door and the scent of his mom's meatloaf followed me until I returned to my house and got out of my car to an empty home.
"He's fine. Upset that he is lost out on an investment," I tell her.
"Well, why don't you go see him?" She suggests, sounding more eager than before.
"I'll see him tomorrow at Chris's girlfriend's birthday party," I speak.
"Chris has a new girlfriend now. Or is he still with Mindy?" She replies.
"Not Mindy. He's been posting her on his socials, but this is the first time I'll meet her," I explain.
"Well, give Atticus my love and tell Chris I said hi. Is little Livi going?" She continues questioning.
Mom adores Olivia. She used to always ask me to invite her to our girl’s nights and Olivia would lap it down. She would say I had the coolest mom and she wished she would adopt her. Olivia's parents are not bad; they are just completely different to her. They are more modest and focused on challenging work rather than keeping up superficial appearances.
"She is, actually we'll get ready here tomorrow. Will you be home?” I speak.
"No, I better get back to work tomorrow," Mom replies.
She walks back to the countertop and gives me the bacon and egg bagel on a plate. She has made one for herself too.
We sit and eat together then decide to sit on the dark grey, velvet sofas to watch a movie in the front room. She does not laugh the way she used to whenever funny parts come on and she does not seem that interested in keeping up with the storyline, usually she asks me about a million different questions that I don’t know the answer to yet because I have only seen as much as she has. However, we keep watching in silence, until the sky turns dark, and my dad returns home from work.
All throughout, I cannot help but notice that something appears to be wrong with my mother.
Chapter 4↷
