Free Pieces of You by Lisa Marie Page B

parents for a week. I haven't seen them since they left my place a few months ago. I miss Mom's cooking. I miss Dad's sports talk. I wonder how they like their new place in the city. If they found friends, or if the neighbors just kind of invited themselves into the postage stamp sized yard for a cookout one day and my parents just kind of took them in as their friends. Mom probably drives everyone nuts with her bragging about the son who survived death.
    My thoughts suddenly change to Mel, and it pisses me off.
    I storm the rest of the way home, knowing that I messed up tonight and amazed at how I can regret the past forty-eight hours, when I have never had a moment of regret in my life before this.
    Finally reaching my house half an hour later, I head straight to the kitchen for a big glass of water. Guzzling one down as quickly as I can, my next stop is the shower to get this smell of strawberries off of me.
    To wash away a mistake.
    A stupid drunken mistake.
    I turn off the water, grab a towel and tie it around my waist. I walk into the bedroom and drop to the bed. Not toweling off. Nothing. Pulling the blankets up over me, I close my eyes and sleep a dreamless night.
    BANGBANGBANG
    The sound wakes me, and I don't quite know where it's coming from. I sit up and cradle my head in my hands, rubbing my temples, trying to massage away the icepick that's stabbing my brain.
    BANGBANGBANG
    Someone is pounding on the front door, and each bang makes the icepick dig deeper into my gray matter.
    Standing, I slowly wrap the towel around my waist and plod through my home to the door. Pulling it open, Riley is standing on the doorstep.
    "Decided I didn't have enough yesterday? Thought maybe you would come to my house and continue on your little pity me rant?" She purses her lips and taps her fingers on the manila envelope in her hand.
    "I came to give you this. Your check, your bonuses. Thanks for everything, I'll make sure to put a good review up on Yelp for you." She pushes the envelope into my hands and turns on a dime. She's great at leaving, and she's proving that right now.
    "Don't bother. I don't need you to put that up. People in town talk. We communicate to get things done. We don't need the internet or fancy reviews." I slam the door and toss the envelope on the sofa before returning to my room to go back to sleep.
    Too frustrated to get comfortable, I angrily put on some clothes and storm into my kitchen to turn on a pot of coffee. Picking up my cell phone, I find my parent's phone number and turn to watch the pot percolate.
    "Good morning, Sunshine." My mother's cheery voice answers the phone. I can picture her wearing her apron, removing fresh cinnamon buns out of the oven and taking them to the table for her and Dad. He's reading the paper and drinking his black coffee.
    "Morning, Mom. How are you?"
    "Tyson! Oh what a pleasant call!" She is genuinely surprised to hear my voice. I think my parents are the only people in the whole world that don't have caller ID. She's also the only person in the world that still calls me Tyson. I wince every time.
    "How are you and Dad?" I take a coffee cup from the cupboard and lean back on the sink waiting for the pot to finish brewing.
    "We're fantastic, honey. Your father has taken up making models. He is really enjoying the old cars. His excitement is contagious." I can hear dishes bouncing off each other in the background. "I have a couple of ladies whom I have afternoon tea with every Tuesday and Friday. This week it's my turn to take a treat. I'm going to make crispy rice marshmallow bars, but I'm going to be sneaky and add some butterscotch." She sounds proud of herself, and it makes me sad that I'm not there to witness her excitement.
    "That's fantastic, Mom. I was wondering if I could come see you for a bit. A few days or so?" I push my fingers through my hair and wait for her response. Of course she's going to jump on it. Any chance where she can dote on me for any length of