It Started With A Book

Chapter 8

This may be news to you but I'm not the most interesting person.
___

Brin was sure that even the grocery store employee the next aisle over could hear the rapid beating of her heart.

She aimlessly rotated on the balls of her feet, waiting for the explosion.

Waiting for the exhale before the person on the other end descended into a well meaning but furious rant.

Waiting for... anything.

"Brin."

Her eyes were shut at this point.

She would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about chucking the phone and making a run for it.

It was what she always did anyway.

Not the throwing of the phone, that is.

She may have been the striking resemblance of her mother (strong cheekbones and all), but her flight response along with her brown tight curls were bestowed upon her by her father.

"Brin," her mother repeated.

At this point in time, she didn't even like hearing her own name.

Biting the bullet and her tongue accidentally-- she answered.

She was met head on with an exhale.

Typical.

"Finally."

Brin's jaw practically dropped to the polished concrete floor, she was astonished the employee walking past with a broom and dust pan didn't sweep it up.

Brin was sure she didn't hear a chuckle escape the lips habitually sporting Crimson red, come rain or shine.

"When I said you should get out of the house and do something, this isn't what I meant."

The phone was pretty much a part of Brin's body now, seeing as she shoved it closer against her ear, trying to differentiate between boisterous laughter and sentences that partially cut off before the predicate was even thought of.

"Are you laughing?"

"Maybe."

"Who are you and what have you done with Catey Henderson?"

Laughter ceased almost instantly.

"Don't forget I'm still your mother."

"Yes ma'am."

Brin could vividly picture her mother standing straight, shooting a look reserved for board meetings and occasionally in Brin's case, reprimands.

"You're making that face aren't you?" Brin flipped through a tabloid magazine that rested in a closed checkout lane.

Catey Henderson sighed, opening the fridge, moving last night's pizza out of the way, grabbing a bottle of red wine and pouring it out.

"I swear you are just like your father, so observant."

"Who's just like their father?"

Brin's voice was pulled back down into her throat.
Her eyes darted to the ticking clock on the wall.

It was half past five, the time when a certain someone would saunter through the door whistling, halfway through grading college bound students math quizzes.

"Mom, don't say a word to Dad."

Moving from the kitchen to the living room (wine still in hand), Catey climbed into the sofa, her husband shooting her a confused glance.