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Maybe in another life I’m an assassin, or a restaurant worker, or an engineer like my mother wanted me to be. Vega could still work as a professor. Maybe in another life, I’m hers.

eleven

INDIGO

Ping.

“What was that?” I say with a yawn.

Ping.

“It’s your phone; it’s been blowing up for like a half-hour,” Vega says as she turns in bed to face me. I’m bleary eyed and groggy, but I’m awake. Vega’s face is stiff, like she slept with it smushed into a pillow the entire night, and I giggle.

“Should I check it?”

I unlock my phone to a plethora of texts from my mother.

Mom

Indigo, will we be seeing you today?

I’m so sorry

Indigo, I have to apologize for the other night. My medication had worn off and I’ve been very stressed lately. I know it’s not an excuse, but my therapist and I talked about it, and I wanted to tell you I really didn’t mean most of what I said. I mean I did, but I didn’t. I usually mean what I say, but not how I say it.

We are getting the Christmas tree this morning at 10. Do not miss it.

That sounded very bossy, but it’s family tradition. Your father would be very upset if you weren’t there.

I’m not trying to be annoying, but could you answer the phone? What if something happened to you? Don’t make your poor mother worry.

“Fucking hell on Earth, what is her problem?” Vega says from over my shoulder.

I sigh, typing up a single response.

Indigo

We will be there to get the tree.

“Is she always like this? Or did something recent make it worse?” Vega inquires.

“I mean, yes, and yes. The holidays are especially triggering for her, but this is pretty much the norm. She has good days and bad days–times where she hurts me, and times where she helps.”

Vega’s mouth twists to the side, and her septum piercing moves as her nostrils flare. “I don’t even know how to respond. How do you deal with this all the time?”

“Not sure. I think it’s easier because I moved away. Sometimes I just mute her number for a few weeks. Other times, she’s so busy with Iris that she forgets to text me. It’s a weird dichotomy.”

Vega sits up, pushing the blanket off of her. “So, where are we going?”

“Raemond Hill—it’s a plant nursery that imports Christmas trees. We go every year. We’re supposed to be there in forty-five minutes, so we better hurry up and get dressed.”

“Do you want me to make breakfast?” Vega offers, standing up in just her boxer-briefs and a sports bra.

“I don’t think we have time. Maybe we can get smoothies on the way back and then I’ll make us lunch?”

“I’d like to cook for you,” Vega says.

“Okay,” I say, cheeks flushed pink. She always wants to take care of me, and if I’m being honest with myself, I always want to let her.