I finally find my charger cord and trace it back to the phone that’s now oddly gone silent. A chirp goes off, lettin’ me know I have a voicemail, and I groan again, because now I’ll have to open my eyes in order to listen to it.
I peel my lids back, and my head throbs in protest.
Damn, how much did I drink last night?
My mouth tastes stale, and I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth as I unlock my phone and play the voicemail. I hit the speaker button and then wait for what I expect to be Kiara or AnnaMae givin’ me shit for the rare form I must’ve been in last night. It’s usually them who get all drunk and wild, but I guess they talked me into one too many shots.
“Medley Bell, how dare you leave your truck parked in the lot with the keys still in the ignition! If there had been any doubt before, you can rest assured that you are fired. I oughta take this out of your hide, but lucky for you, there’s no damage to the truck. But if you see me in the street, you better cross the road, or we will have words, missy. You hear me? I want you to come in and get your things. Oh, and stay away from Bob Grace. He’s mine! Good for nothin’ trailer trash—”
The message ends, cuttin’ off the string of colorful words I’m sure Patricia was spoutin’ off. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t call back and leave a message just to be sure I heard exactly what she thought of me.
I have no idea why I would’ve left the keys in the ignition, but that bitch has been lookin’ for a reason to get rid of me for a while now, so really I shouldn’t be surprised. Guess I don’t have to work that double today after all.
Somethin’...somethin’ about that thought feels off.
Wait. What day is it?
I check my phone for answers and sit up. Saturday?
What the heck?
And then it all comes floodin’ back. The dog, my asshole boss, the late delivery and last write-up, the stick, the spiked drink.
Oh, shit!
I feel all over my body for any signs of a fight, but it all feels normal. I bump somethin’ hard under the covers with my leg, and I fling the quilt and sheet back to find the stick tucked in next to me like it’s my bed partner of choice.
I breathe through the rush of adrenaline and panic as I recall my last memory and the blackness that overtook me in that bar.
Lord, what the hell have I done now?
I leap out of bed and throw the door to my room open. I hurry into the livin’ room and snatch the TV remote right out of my daddy’s hand. He’s perched in his usual spot on the couch in our double-wide, pretendin’ to fix the toaster in his lap while some kinda sports show plays in the background.
“Hey, I was just about to...”
I tune him out as I flick through the channels. “Come on. Come on.” I frustratedly chant until I find what I’m lookin’ for. I stop on the channel and watch as though my life depends on it. Who knows, it just might.
My mama is in the kitchen, and she takes one look at my very rumpled appearance with a raised brow. “Well, don’t you just look like you was shot at and missed, shit at and hit.”
“Shh, Mama, I’m tryin’ to hear,” I say and then bat her hand away from my hair. She no doubt just licked her palm to smooth back a flyaway or two.
Ew.
She giggles, not fazed in the slightest by my irritation as she walks back into the kitchen, an apron tied around her figure, and her red hair blown and hairsprayed within an inch of its life.
“I’m just pickin’ your peaches, HB,” she calls. “What’s got you in such a tiff this mornin’?”
I roll my eyes at the nickname I can’t get her to stop usin’ and turn up the TV, listenin’ for anythin’ that sounds like mass slaughter in honky-tonk bar, or eight injured in unexplainable bar fight, or for my name in general. It wouldn’t be the first time I was on the news.
“I’m fixin’ grits. You want some, Love Spuds?” Mama asks Daddy.
I huff out an annoyed breath. “For the last time, Mama, that’s a name people use for a man’s balls, not a term of endearment!”
She just giggles again and waves me away. “Well, I do love his love spuds too, so what’s the real issue here?”
I give her a disgusted face, which just makes her smile even more. I totally walked right into that one. There’s no shortage of TMI when it comes to my parents and their love for each other.
The news breaks for commercials, and I mute the annoyin’ and overly loud ads as I rub a hand down my face.
“You need some aspirin, HB?” Mama asks, already openin’ the bottle and forcin’ it to spill out some pills.
“Yes, ma’am,” I concede as I give my daddy the remote back. I kiss her on the cheek when she brings the pills over along with a glass of orange juice, and then plop my butt on the couch next to Daddy’s. He’s wearin’ his usual faded jeans and a worn-out T-shirt, his brown and gray beard lookin’ like it could do with a good oil and comb.
“You have another one of your tribulations, baby?” Daddy asks as he unscrews the outside panel of the toaster. He fiddles with it every day just so Mama won’t make him go get a hobby like golf or gardenin’, even though I don’t think he knows what the heck he’s doin’.
I nod, my throat gettin’ tight.
