Free The Hazards of Sleeping Alone by Elise Juska

told her the school bus was late, or to take an umbrella because it was raining. “Yeah, Mom,” Joe would chime in. “No duh.”
    â€œHe’ll just ride back with me, you know?”
    â€œRight.” In other words, Walter would be here to suck up every last moment they had together. It would be too kind of him, too humane, to leave them with a few hours, minutes, to say good-bye. She feels her face beginning to get hot. “Of course.”
    Charlotte faces the counter, takes hold of the smooth Formicaedge. She can feel herself beginning to lose control, the pressure of tears building behind her face, stiffening in her jaws. It isn’t just that Walter is coming, but that it’s all happening so casually. So nonchalantly. A quick phone call, a few details, and voilà: the plan is in motion, the weekend ruined. And there is nothing Charlotte can do about it without looking like the bad guy.
    The more she thinks about Walter, the angrier she gets. It’s galling, really: intruding on their weekend, imposing on the hospitality of a woman he barely knows. Even if Emily and he had come up with this plan together—even
if
—Walter should have had the sense to refuse. He should know by now that Emily can be reckless, spontaneous, irrational sometimes. He should know he needs to be the one with the head on his shoulders. She wonders about Walter’s sense of manners, his upbringing. What must his parents be like?
    â€œI just didn’t know if Walter might have to work on the weekends,” Charlotte goes on, voice wobbling as she tries to override the tears thickening in her throat. She yanks open the utensil drawer and fishes for two spoons. “If he might have to be at the—where is it?”
    â€œWoodworking shop.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œHe’s an apprentice.”
    Apprentice.
It might be worse than “alternative learning environment.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have to work weekends. His master is cool about his hours.”
    His
master.
God Almighty.
    â€œWell, that’s good, isn’t it?” She rattles the drawer shut with the palm of her hand. “Isn’t that lucky? To have a master who’s cool about his hours?”
    And just as she feels her head might burst, she grabs the coffeepot and aims it over YOU CAN’ T BE COOL WEARING FUR. As she starts to pour, her hand is shaking so badly the coffee splashes over the lip of the pot. Charlotte just stands there, pot in hand, as spilled coffee leaks across the counter. She watches as it hovers for a moment at the curved lip of the Formica, then begins drizzling steadily onto the floor.
    â€œMom!”
    It’s the sound of her daughter’s voice, like some kind of Pavlovian trigger, that brings Charlotte back to life. She sets the pot down, rips a paper towel from the roll above the sink, soaks up the puddle on the counter, then crouches on the floor to blot the tiles dry. When she lifts her head, she notices a thin stain running down the front of the cabinet doors.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Emily says, grabbing another paper towel. She’s on her feet now, having abandoned her blanket in a pink heap by her chair. “Really, Mom. I didn’t know it would get to you like this.”
    Still crouching, Charlotte catches a glimpse of herself in the glass of the oven door. Her reflection is dark and mottled, but her eyes have the wide, panicked look she’s seen staring back at her from countless mirrors on countless sleepless nights. In that moment, she realizes how ridiculous she’s being. How much she’s overreacting. What’s important here is not what she wants. It’s what Emily wants: whatever makes her happy.
    Charlotte closes her eyes. She feels the anger that has been hardening behind her face begin to break up, soften into flesh again. When she opens her eyes, she finds Emily kneeling beside her, scrubbing at the cabinet doors.
    For a