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“Yep.” Naomi nods her head as if she completely understands Lena’s line of thinking. “Survival mode.”
I take a gulp of my apple juice, pretending it’s a nice glass of Pinot Grigio. “Let’s paint.”
An hour later, I’ve painted a damn good black Louboutin stiletto, Lena is tipsy and has made a good attempt at her pump, and Naomi is definitely drunk and gave up on painting fifteen minutes ago. Right now, she’s singing along with the 90s radio station I selected on Hunter’s fancy music sound system. She started with the Back Street Boys’I Want It That Way, then toLoserby Beck, and now she’s (badly) serenading us withNo Scrubsby TLC.
“How do you know all these songs?” Lena laughs as she eggs Naomi on.
“My mom can never stop talking about the 90s. It was her favorite decade.”
“You never talk about your mom,” Lena says, and it’s obvious she’s feeling a lot more comfortable talking now that she has a few glasses of wine in her. “Do you look like her?”
“People say I’m a perfect blend of my parents, but that’s because I think they don’t want to hurt my dad’s feelings. Honestly, I think I’m the spitting image of my mama.”
A moment of clarity strikes me like a thunderbolt.
The three of us are almost like three wounded baby birds. I didn’t know it about Naomi until recently but it makes perfect sense why the three of us get along so well. We all have a great deal of pain in our pasts that none of us wants to deal with.
While Hunter provided me with some sort of closure by dealing with my horrible family, I still haven’t done the real work of dealing with the trauma of it. I have nightmares about them, about what they made me do, and mostly about what kind of mother I’m going to be because of it.
Naomi suddenly hits a note that almost makes me spit out my mouth full of juice. The girl can’t sing to save her life, but I can’t lie— she definitely tries to, like no one is listening.
“You better sing the song, Naomi!” I applaud and Lena joins me as we stand to join in the chorus. There were three members in the group, after all.
When we finish, all three of us collapse on the cloud-like sofa in the living room and laugh with whole-hearted joy…until Naomi’s phone rings.
The moment she sees the name on her screen, her face drops, and any euphoria she may have been feeling while singing is quickly extinguished.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her on pins and needles, already fearing the answer.
And in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard my extroverted roommate and friend ever use, she tells us, “My fiancé.”
Chapter 47
Daddy Problems
Megan
Lena and I do the work of pretending to clean up our paint and sip as Naomi takes her phone call. Naomi's body language is strikingly different than her normal presentation. She is sitting stoically on the floor with her back up against the sofa, knees up, staring down at her red-painted toes. I’ve never wanted to eavesdrop on someone’s conversation as badly as I want to right now.
After ten excruciating minutes, she ends the call, and Lena and I immediately stop what we are doing.
“Well?” I say as Naomi continues to stare into space. “Are you going to finally talk about what’s going on with you and what the hell that conversation was all about?”
“Am I missing something?” Lena asks, staring between the two of us.
“My father is in trouble.”
“Your father?” Lena echoes.
“But who is your father, Naomi?” I ask, my mouth in a serious line.
Her head pops up, and she looks directly at me.
“You know?”
“Not much, apparently,” I say.
“Know what?” Lena demands.