Chapter 6

I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. The instructions say the tater tots go on the bottom, but I know for a fact that the last time I made this, the beef went on the bottom. Probably.

I follow the instructions, anyway, hoping for the best. Tater tot casserole is one of the finer delicacies in life, and one that’s not for me to enjoy. My mom loves tater tot casserole. It’s possibly the only thing she enjoys more than a quick high.

Layering the cream of mushroom and chicken soup on top, I pop it in the oven for a full hour. I’m definitely not the domestic type. I’ve never baked a meal without completely destroying my kitchen. Can I cash in the dish-washing favor now?

The joke doesn’t even land with myself. My head hurts and my eyes are bleary from the lack of sleep, and I lost my glasses a few months ago and I don’t have the money to replace them, and now I have to smell a pan of goodness cook and not even eat it. In short, everything’s fine.

If Hermes was here, he’d probably call me an idiot and insult my living situation. But, he’s not. It’s nearly six and he’s still not back. Maybe I screwed things up yesterday with the whole wing thing.

I can’t even think about that right now. I might actually explode if any more emotions add to the mix.

Sinking down onto the couch, I pull my phone out of my pocket and just stare at the screen. My lock screen is still a picture of me and my best friend from college. Lydia. Pre-med. Probably thriving. Probably too busy saving lives to notice I haven’t texted her in an entire year. I wonder if she still makes her coffee with peppermint syrup. I always said it tasted like brushing my teeth and drinking gasoline. She said it was an acquired taste. I never acquired it.

I open my messages and scroll through the chains of old conversations. Even my coworkers only text me with questions. Most of them go unanswered. My next attempt is with the television, but nothing is stimulating enough to drag my attention away from the casserole, slowly browning in the oven. I’ll have to add cheese here in about forty-five minutes.

Resigning to my bored fate, I sprawl back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. My phone clatters to the floor. Awesome. Hopefully the screen cracked so I have an excuse not to look at it anymore.

My feet tap against the armrest. The sound is oddly comforting. Like a huge piece of my life isn’t missing right now.

Not huge. Less insignificant than I’d prefer, but not huge. I can’t let him be a huge part of my life.

If the ceiling had eyes, it would be judging me so hard right now. I wonder if the Olympus gods, or whatever they call themselves, are judging me right now. Can they see me? That’s kind of creepy. I hope they can’t see me. I wonder if he’s told them about me. I don’t even know if Olympus is an actual place or, like, a state of being. Is it like heaven, supposedly everywhere and nowhere at the same time? Or is it a physical place where gods lounge and argue and eat? Not that it matters. It’s not like I’m going to be visiting.

I’ve found that time crawls by impossibly slow when I’m by myself. What’s supposed to be forty-five minutes feels like hours. But eventually, the timer does go off and I peel myself off the couch to go sprinkle cheese on top of the casserole.

Fifteen more minutes and the golden cheesy goodness will be ready to go in the fridge. Until tomorrow.

I hate this feeling. Like I’m about to step off a cliff but can’t see the edge. I know seeing my mom is going to end badly—it always does—but I’m going to go anyway. Even if she’s shitty, she’s still my mom. That has to count for something, right?

It must, otherwise I’m doing this all for nothing and that would really suck.

“Whatever you are cooking smells delicious.”

Closing my eyes, I let out a sigh. I don’t know if it’s relief or disdain.

“Alira?” he calls in a sing-song voice, his footsteps growing closer.

“In the kitchen.”

He appears around the corner, smile and all, and I do my best to keep my face not-upset-looking. His eyebrows knit together when he sees me, anyway. “You look terrible.”

My lips pinch into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts himself up onto the counter, perching there like he owns the place. “So, what’s the occasion that has you cooking such a delectable little meal?”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. I’m not mad at him, I’m mad at the situation. “I’m—” visiting my addict mom tomorrow and have to bring her something that isn’t drugs— “making a casserole for my mom.”

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“Ooh,” he coos, kicking his feet like a delighted preschooler. “And what did Mummy dearest do to deserve such a fond gesture?”

Mummy dearest. That’s almost laughable. I scrub a hand across my forehead, as if that’ll dissipate the tension there. “Nothing. I’m just visiting.”

His smile falters for a split second before he slides off the counter. “You’re awfully serious today. What’s got you all bent out of shape?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” I want to stare at the ceiling for another twelve hours and hopefully be consumed by the couch.

He squints his eyes as he watches me, his lips puckering. “Are you two estranged?”

A humorless laugh punches out of me. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Then you don’t have to visit her, right? She’s not dying, is she?” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

I blink at him, and the air between us shifts. I know he’s trying to help. I know he is. But I want to scream.

“You don’t get it,” I say, and the words come out sharper than I mean. “It’s not about whether or not I have to go. It’s that I do have to go.”

He opens his mouth—maybe to joke, maybe not—but I cut him off.

“Look,” I start, pinching the bridge of my nose, “I appreciate you trying to make this funny or whatever, but I’m really not in the mood.”

“Is everything alright?” His voice is so genuine it makes me want to scream. He reaches out to touch my arm or grab me or comfort me in a way that I can’t handle, and I take a step back.

“Hermes, I cannot do this right now.” My breath is coming too fast, my hands are clammy, and I can feel the headache splintering across my temples. “Just leave this alone.”

He gives me that wounded puppy look and all it does it make me angrier.

“If I can help, then let me,” he says in a tone that’s too sincere for his mouth. “Please.”

“Yeah?” I bite out a bitter laugh. “You wanna help?” My words come out so much angrier than I want, but I can’t stop it. “You wanna spend tomorrow holed up in a trailer while my mom tries to pawn her shit off to you for meth money?”

“Yes,” he answers too quickly. “If that’s what you need from me, then that’s what I’ll do.”

My hands scrub over my eyes. If that’s what I need from him… “You know what I need?”

His eyebrows raise and I already feel bad for what I’m about to say.

“I need you to leave me the fuck alone.”

His eyes soften, jaw clenched, but I press on.

“I don’t want to be an obligation to you anymore. If that’s all I am, fine. But this isn’t for you to meddle in. This is my shit, so I’m going to deal with it. If you’re just here to make me feel bad about it; leave.”

He blinks at me a few times, like he’s startled at my words. I am, too.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he starts, his hand reaching out to me before he stops himself, his fingers curling as he pulls it back in. “I just want to be here for you.” He swallows thickly then continues, “And you’re not an obligation to me. You never were.”

Inhaling deeply through my nose, my fists clench as I rub them on my thighs. “You can’t do this right now. I—” My voice cracks and I hate myself a little more for it. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you need to leave before either of us say something we’ll regret. This isn’t a game, this is my life. And I don’t need you to be just another person who pretends this is all fine while I’m stuck in the middle rotting.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but no words come out. His jaw ticks and he takes a long breath. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I don’t need your help!” I shout, my eyes blurring with unshed tears. “I’ve been doing this for years. And it was way easier before you got here and made things feel like they might be okay. What I need is for you to get out.”

His lips purse as he watches me like I’m a wounded animal. I don’t want his pity. I don’t even know what I want. Just not for him to look at me like that. I need him to not leave. I need him to tell me he’s not going anywhere.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just lowers his hands to his sides and says, “Okay.”

The air around us tenses, and then he’s gone.

All the breath leaves me at once, like he just kicked me in the ribs instead of leaving. Like I asked him to.

Tears slide down my cheeks as I sink to the floor. Why can’t I just accept that he wants to help? What is wrong with me? He’s not my mom, he’s not my sister, he’s not my dad. Or Lydia or Sophia or any other people who can’t keep up with the storm. He’s Hermes, and he was the only constant in my life, and that’s more terrifying than anything else.

I didn’t mean what I said. I wish I could tell him that. But he’s gone, and I’m alone again. It’s probably better this way. He would’ve eventually left like everyone else, anyway. Maybe that little nagging voice in my head is right. Maybe I am the problem.

The timer going off feels like a betrayal.

I pull myself off the floor and let the casserole cool before wrapping the dish in tin foil and shoving it in my fridge. Life goes on, I suppose.

I stand with my back against the fridge, not really knowing what to do. I haven’t felt this alone in a long time. And it’s my fault. Of course it is.

Cleaning the counter is my first attempt at a distraction. Then the dishes. Then I vacuum for the first time in, like, six months. It isn’t until I’m scrubbing the stove top that it hits me.

Why won’t you let me help you?

I don’t know.

I don’t know why I can’t just be grateful for the support. I don’t know why I have to ruin everything. I don’t know.

A single tear drips down onto the freshly clean stove and I slam my fist down onto the counter. “Fuck!” I shout at no one. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The hours pass in an agonizing blur of nothingness. At some point, I wind up with the leftover bottle of Nectar in my hand. I just want to sleep. And this stuff made me so sleepy last time.

I unscrew the cap and take a sip. It burns like acid and honey.

Hermes told me not to drink it straight. I don’t care.

That’s how I end up slumped sideways on the couch, the half empty bottle somewhere on the floor by my feet. An infomercial about steam cleaners plays on the television. Maybe I’ll just skip out on tomorrow. I could just leave. Pack my bags and fuck off to some small town in Montana where no one will ever find me. That sounds glorious.

I don’t really know what I want, and maybe that’s okay.

All I know is this isn’t the change I prayed for.