Sugar and Spice

Zig Zags: Jay

The drive home was the only time I really let myself feel the ache in my lower back. My car, a rusted-out Honda that sounded like a lawn mower with an identity crisis, rattled every time I hit a pothole. The salt air blew through the open windows, feeling better than any high-end climate control.

I lived in a sun-bleached stilt house tucked away near the marshes. There was more sand than grass, and a collection of mismatched wind chimes hung from the porch.

I parked the car, snagged my damp shoes from the floorboard, and climbed the wooden stairs. The front door was already open, catching the breeze.

“I’m home!” I hollered.

The house smelled like incense, old books, and the slow simmering black bean soup my mom had been bragging about on the phone earlier. It was a mess, but it was a comfortable mess. The kind that invited you to kick off your shoes and forget what time it was.

“In the kitchen, honey!”

I found my mom, Cat, standing over the stove in a tie dyed apron. She held a wooden spoon in one hand, and a paperback thriller in the other. She looked up and beamed, her eyes crinkling in that way that always made me feel like I was ten years old again.

“You look like you went ten rounds with a pressure washer,” she laughed, setting the book down. “Rough day at the pasta palace?”

I groaned, dropping into a mismatched wooden chair at the kitchen table. “I took a dive in the lobby, mom. Full bus tub.”

She didn’t ask about the cost of the broken glass. She didn’t ask if Geri was going to write me up. She just walked over and ruffled my hair, even though I was a foot taller than her. “Well, at least you made an entrance. Did you hurt anything besides your pride?”

“Just my pride,” I muttered, leaning back. “And maybe my standing with the Missile Scientist.”

“The girl with the clipboard?” mom asked, moving back to the soup.

“That’s the one. Mallory,” I nodded. I thought about her helping me up, and the way her hand had been steady even when mine wasn’t. “She didn’t even yell at me, she just told me to change my apron.”

Mom turned around, leaning against the counter. “Sounds like someone has a soft spot under all that starch. Maybe she likes you, Jay.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I saw her folder. She’s got her whole life planned out in cents and minutes. It’s like she’s afraid if she stops moving for a second, everything will disappear.”

“Some people use plans as armor,” mom said softly. She brought a bowl of soup over and sat it in front of me, along with a thick slice of crusty bread. “They think if they control enough of the world, the world can’t hurt them. You were raised by two nomads, Jay. You know the best views are usually off the map. She just hasn’t seen the view yet.”

“I was raised by two hippies,” I teased, grinning as I dipped my spoon into the bowl.

She playfully swatted at me before moving back to the stove.

As I ate, the warmth of the kitchen and the soup washed away the last bit of embarrassment from the spill. We spent the next hour talking about her recent pottery class and the book she was reading.

Later, I laid on my bed listening to the frogs in the marsh. My walls were covered in old surf posters and Polaroids from my parents travels, and I had one of the French doors open to let in the breeze while I scrolled through the group chat on my phone. Mallory’s name appeared at the bottom of the “read” list, but she hadn’t said anything.

I thought about the big, quiet house she probably lived in. I pictured her sitting at a desk, checking her math for the tenth time, her back probably as straight and rigid as a ruler.

I opened a private message to her. I typed: Hey, thanks for not letting Geri fire me on the spot. I stared at the blinking cursor. She was probably trying to pretend guys like me didn’t exist.

I deleted the text.

Instead, I went back to the group chat and sent a picture of my damp sneakers on the railing outside with the caption: The victims of today’s tragedy are in stable condition, send flowers.

I tossed my phone onto the pile of laundry that was draped over my chair and looked out the door. Tomorrow was another shift.