When The Rain Falls

27. Snack Mom

27 SNACK MOM

AIMEE

Tate

You never told me about the date with the motorcycle guy.

Aimee

It was bad news. Forget him. He’s in the past.

Tate

Ok, then what about the hot neighbor? Is he biting yet?

Aimee

Tate.

Aimee

He’s a monster.

Tate

A monster in bed? Or just a monster period?

Aimee

I think both.

Hi, my name is Aimee. I have long, brown hair. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m playful. I have lots of energy. I love to go for runs and eat cookies.

I sit back and read what I’ve just typed. God. I sound like a puppy. Might as well add that I shed and love scratches behind the ear. Honestly, it’s not wrong. And people love puppies. I shrug and hit submit on my new profile for the friend-matching app I stumbled upon online. You know, when I was Googling what to do when you’re lonely .

I can’t believe this. Who would have thought that I’d need the powers of the internet to find friends at my age? Why don’t I have more friends? I’m fun. So much fun. I’m amazing at karaoke. I know so many drinking games. And if you are looking for an adventure buddy, I’m your girl. See? So fun.

The bridge of my nose tickles and water creeps into my eyes. Last night I came home and screamed into my pillow for an hour. I screamed because I didn’t know what else to do with the crushing heartbreak that I felt. It didn’t make me feel better. It just made my throat hoarse and raw. And my soul hollow.

I can’t believe it. I did it again. Just threw myself at someone. To be enjoyed, and used, and then thrown away. The worst part, it actually felt like something. Something real. But it was all a lie. And this only highlights exactly how much of an absolute fool I am. Because I clearly don’t know the difference between a fling and forever. And I’m starting to think I never will.

Ugh. I just want someone to waltz into my life and stare at me the way Dom stares at Tate. Someone to whisper sexy things in my ear. Someone to ask me about my day. Someone to cook meals with. And sit with on a porch. Which reminds me, I also need a porch.

For once, I just want someone to look at me and think, my life is better with her in it .

“Aimee, what is all over the kitchen table?” Greg’s voice disrupts my moment of soul-crushing pity. I look up from my laptop at the counter to see him, whisky glass in hand, staring angrily at the table behind me. I turn my head toward where he’s looking. Oh right. I did kind of leave a mess. The table is littered with white paper lunch bags. I decorated the outside of each bag with ribbon. And then I used Adobe Illustrator to design personalized stickers for each member of Vivian’s soccer team. The stickers are green and white soccer jerseys with each player’s jersey number. They turned out pretty cute, if you ask me.

Apparently, when life hands me Finn Hudson’s complete and utter rejection, I make lemonade. Or at least, I find productive ways to distract myself. And I still don’t like lemonade.

This morning, I tried to run the feelings away. But apparently eighteen miles is not enough miles to erase the memory of Finn Hudson’s touch from your skin. Honestly, I don’t think a thousand miles will be enough.

“I’m no longer Aimee,” I declare somberly. Because Aimee perished under the scalding rejection of the hot troll across the street. I want to be someone new. Someone other than someone else’s irresponsible sister or weird, single aunt. I glance up at Greg’s confused expression and try to cover up the depressing sentiment. “ I am Snack Mom,” I tease. Pain seems easiest to mask with humor.

“ Snack Mom ?” Greg groans. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” Geeeeez. Greg and Alicia really know how to make a girl feel competent and trustworthy. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to hide the scissors from me. You know, put them above the refrigerator where I can’t reach, just like Mom used to do.

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” I scold. I stand from my spot at the counter and place my hands on my hips defiantly. “It’s snacks. And if there’s anything I know in life, it’s snacks !” I shout angrily. I also know that Finn doesn’t want me. That every time he touched me he was thinking of her . When he held my hand and made me feel giddy and light headed, he was thinking about her . I feel so, so used. So pathetic. So na?ve. Everything Alicia has ever thought about me is true. I just rush into things carelessly. First my landlord. Then Jack. And now Finn. Damn it.

Greg walks over to the table and puts his nose in a paper bag to inspect my work. He does the same to another one. A look of disgust falls across his face.

“Wait. Is there a piece of cake in each one of these bags?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer him. “So? Kids love cake.”

“Parents don’t.” Greg raises his head and dresses me down with his eyes.

“I didn’t pack any for the parents, so it doesn’t matter what they think,” I retort. Then worry wrinkles my forehead. “Oh shit. Am I supposed to pack snacks for the parents, too? Like all of them?” I grab the stack of unused paper lunch bags and flip nervously through them. “Oh my God. And what about the little guy with the stripes?” I look at Greg in horror. “You know, the one that gets excited and throws the yellow flaggy thing when the kids make a good play? Does he need snacks, too?”

Greg looks at me like I’m a talking lizard.

Something inside me snaps. And it feels like a bucket of failure and criticism is dumped over my head. Soaking me to the core. And I know the truth of it. This has nothing to do with soccer snacks.

“Oh my God. I don’t know what I’m doing.” I toss the stack of paper bags into the air. They flutter down around me like giant pieces of confetti. “It’s not supposed to be this way. I don’t know how to fix my life.” I pull my hair and begin to walk rapidly in circles.

“Are you spiraling?” Greg asks. “Like, literally spiraling in a circle? Is this what spiraling looks like for an insane person? Because I don’t know your people very well.”

I pause mid-pace. “Greg, stop. I’m serious. I don’t know anything!” I’m shouting frantically. All the hot, sticky turmoil inside me finding a way to finally ooze out. “No matter how hard I try, I do everything wrong. It’s like there’s a rulebook for life and everyone knows it but me! And I’m just walking around in the dark, tripping over love… I mean, snacks .” I feel myself sobbing now as panic grips my chest. I’m acting crazy. I know I’m acting crazy. That’s a good sign, right? You can’t be crazy if you know you’re acting crazy.

“Aimee, what is going on? I’m trying to put Logan to bed.” A tired and frustrated Alicia appears in the kitchen entryway, Logan hiked up on her hip.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Leesh.”

“What are you doing?” She looks at me, the messy table, and the paper bags on the floor.

“She’s spiraling. But literally,” Greg says. “Walking in circles and muttering nonsense.” Having said his part, he takes his glass of whisky and walks back out of the kitchen. To the hell from whence he came. Or at least, to the study.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and try to collect myself.

“Alicia. Cake. Cake is a good soccer snack, right?” I look up at her pleadingly. But my heart is asking a different question. Am I someone a person could love?

“Well—”

“Cake,” I remind myself of the topic at hand and blink back tears. “That’s what trail runners eat. At least the ones I follow.” I sniffle to bring the congestion back up my nostrils. “The ones who run fifty and a hundred mile races. I figured if it was good for them, then it would be good for soccer. Because you run a lot in soccer. And everyone loves cake.”

And no one loves me.

“Aimee, why are you packing soccer snacks? I think I missed something here.” Alicia shifts Logan on her hip. I reach both hands out to him. He smiles, leans towards me, and lets me take him. He’s so squishy, and chubby, and he smells so good. I cuddle him up against me and try to hold back the tears.

“I wanted to help,” I mutter. Because I’m not going to explain that jealousy made me do it. And isn’t it ironic. I was jealous of Maggie, when the whole time, the real threat was someone else entirely. Someone who isn’t even here. How do I compete with that? With a ghost? With a memory? With someone who was probably perfect.

“Help with what?”

“Help…” I have to gulp before I can say his name out loud. Because when his name passes across my lips, my chest still flutters wildly. It’s stupid. “Help Finn. For Vivian’s soccer team.”

Alicia takes a moment to study me. I recognize the familiar look of concern on her face. “Maybe you’re spending too much time across the street. Maybe you should just focus on yourself for a bit,” she suggests. Here we go again. More lectures. More criticism.

I don’t answer her. Because I have nothing to tell her. Nothing except that I don’t want to spend time focusing on myself. Because that will just remind me that I’m alone. And years of chasing fun has made my life shallow and empty. I didn’t realize how truly shallow my life had been until I met Finn. And he pulled a little curtain back, exposing the depth of his heart and now I ache. I ache to have that. Just a piece of it.

Logan grabs my nose and laughs. It’s a bright, contagious belly laugh that rocks his entire body against mine.

“Logie, buddy,” I coo softly. I lift up his shirt and blow a raspberry. A tear falls down my face and lands on his belly. I watch the evidence of my sadness bead against his smooth baby skin. Logan doesn’t even register it. He just laughs harder and grabs my cheeks with cold, wet fingers. I’m kind of getting used to that. To his slobbery, grasping touches. I smile at him and realize that it’s really hard to be sad when a baby is belly laughing in your arms.

“The bags are cute,” Alicia finally says. She lifts one up and inspects it. I can tell she’s choosing her next words carefully. And I’m grateful for that because I feel like I’m on the verge of tears again. “You know, honestly, I’m not sure about the cake. I don’t think soccer moms have the same appreciation for cake as trail runners. But tomorrow, I can help you pick out soccer-appropriate snacks if you’d like?”

“Really?” I ask, wiping away the single wet tear that’s managed to trickle from my eye.

“Sure,” she says. “Of course.”

“Oh my gosh. Thank you.”

“Do you know if anyone is gluten free? Or have allergies?” Alicia asks me. She must see the deer in the headlights look on my face because she quickly follows her comment up with, “We can pick out something for everybody.”

I lay on my back and stare at the ceiling. I can’t sleep. My head kind of hurts. And that feeling of loneliness is creeping back over me. Plus, my window literally faces into Finn’s living room. Kinda hoping he’ll start vacuuming again.

No, Aimee! Bad girl.

I’ve been pathetically swiveling my head in that direction at the tiniest bit of movement. Errant falling leaf? Swivel. Shadow across the ground outside? Swivel. Lights flickering on in his living room? Swivel.

Wait. Lights flickering on in his living room.

I sit up and peer through the window. Trying to make sense of the shadows and reflections. My eyes sharpen around his unmistakable outline. His hands on his hips in that familiar, broody stance. And, for a moment or two, there’s just the two of us. Shadows in the windows.

I put my hand against the glass. It’s cold, but I force myself to press into it. Because I need to feel something right now. To remind myself that I’m still here even when no one really sees me. When he doesn’t really see me.

I remember what it feels like to have his steady chest against my palm. The comforting rhythm of his heart beat. We’re so close and yet, we might as well be miles apart. Cities apart. Years apart. Lifetimes apart. And still, every part of my body is aching for him. For the hidden kindness in his eyes. The protection of his arms. The way he made me believe…

The man gave me butterflies. And those butterflies turned into wasps.

His outline hasn’t moved from the window. I notice the tilt of his head. And this reveals something new. He’s watching me. Just like I’m watching him.

Why is he watching me?

Finn’s outline shifts. Then I see his face light up with a subtle glow. And then my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Why is he calling me?

The name Finn Hugson flashes across the screen. I hover my finger over the accept button. Finn Hudson dollops hurt and pleasure with equal measure. And apparently, I’m a glutton for both. Because I find my finger pressing accept despite my better judgment.

I bring my phone up to my ear and I wait.

“Aimee?” His voice breaks the silence. And I realize how pathetically lost I am for him. Because the way he says my name makes my thighs instantly quiver.

“What?” I answer. My voice is surprisingly calm, with a hint of edge. There’s a moment of hesitation. A pause. A drag of breath. And then he continues.

“The 2:00 a.m. friend thing,” he says. “Does it go both ways?”

I bite my bottom lip. I want to smile at that. At the memory of the night we stayed up late eating greasy food in his van. The way we sat together and shared little pieces of ourselves. But the memory just tugs my heart farther into darkness.

“I don’t know,” I reply, a little salt in my voice. “It’s barely ten. Maybe you should call back at two and find out.” Through the window, I watch Finn run a hand through his hair.

“Aimee…” He drags out my name and then goes silent. His voice sounds as raw as my heart feels.

“At least you call me the correct name.” God. I hate how whiny I sound.

“Fuck,” he mutters quietly. “Aimee, what I did was unacceptable. It was fucking shit. I know that.” He pauses again and I can tell he’s struggling with words. It doesn’t matter, though. I can’t imagine anything he can say that will repair the way my heart feels caved in. “I struggle…with things.” His voice sounds shaky. He pauses again and it almost feels like he’s trying to say something, but his thoughts refuse to form into words. “A lot of things. It’s no excuse. I’m not making excuses. It’s like I said. I get stuck sometimes.”

I sigh into the phone and rub the bridge of my nose. He said I made him feel unstuck. And I realize that must have been a lie, too. I was just a body for him to hold. Someone stupid enough to get too close.

“I just needed to tell you I was sorry. And if it makes you feel better, you can hang up on me.” I blink and try to think of a witty response. But my mind is blank from emotional exhaustion.

“I’ll call multiple times. Back to back. So you can hang up multiple times,” he offers hopefully. “If it will help.”

“Can you walk in front of traffic?” I say dryly. I pick a piece of cat hair off my sweatshirt. “Maybe get hit by a bus? Because that might help.”

Finn lets out an awkward, but amused breath.

“I’d let myself get hit by a bus. If I knew I could call you to tell you about it.”

“Why?” I wield my words like swords, and stab them in his direction. “Why would you want to do that?”

His response is a soft, “I miss you.”

My forehead wrinkles as I try to unpack that statement. I place a hand over my chest, where my heart feels tender and bruised. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Not if he was thinking of Laurel the whole time we were together.

Why does he miss me?

“Right. You miss me ,” I bite back at him. Does he think I’m stupid?

“Yes, Aimee,” he says calmly, with a bit of forced patience. “You.” There’s more silence. And I think the emotional exhaustion is making my head feel fuzzy and hot. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m still desperately wanting him when I shouldn’t. “I’m not going to ask for forgiveness. I don’t want you to give it to me. I don’t deserve it. And even if you hate me for the rest of my life, I think I could live with that. But not talking to you? Fuck. That would be the real torture.”

“Why?” My voice comes out accusatory and harsh.

“I don’t really know how to explain it.” His deep voice is so warm and comforting that I almost forget he’s the cause of my shattered soul. “I like talking to you.” I hear him shrug. “More than I’ve liked anything in a long time. And you make me laugh.”

“I have yet to see you laugh,” I protest.

“I laugh on the inside,” he says quietly. “When I’m with you, I’m laughing all the fucking time.”

“Yeah, well, too bad none of that was real. When we were together, nothing was real.”

“Some things were real, Aimee.” I hate the way his voice dips low and husky. And I hate how sexy my name sounds passing through his lips.

There’s silence again. I nervously chew my thumbnail as I try to sort through his words and find their meaning.

My body is betraying me. When someone rips out your heart and then stomps all over it, you probably shouldn’t still want them to fuck you stupid. But all I want right now is for the man across the street to fuck me stupid.

“You want to keep talking to me?” I demand pointedly. “Fine. You can keep talking to me. I’ll see you at your doorstep at 6:00am tomorrow.”

“Wait, what—” Finn starts. I don’t let him finish. I hang up. Well, I hang up as best you can with a smartphone. By jabbing furiously at the end call button on the screen.

I turn away from the window and refuse to look outside the rest of the night. Mostly.