Mom & Pickles

Sunday Night

Four empty beer cans on the coffee table. One crumpled bag of tortilla chips. Something that might’ve once been salsa, now fossilized onto a napkin.

Pickles strutted across the back of the couch, making slow, judge-y passes like a bored flight attendant. I had unhooked his chain. One of us should be free.

I was slumped against a pillow, not blinking at a muted TV screen playing some late-night rerun of a cooking competition. Every dish looked like it wanted to kill itself.

I wasn’t far behind.

The phone rang on the table. I didn’t look at it. I let my hand fall onto the coffee table, then tapped the screen. Then the ‘speaker’ button.

“Hi sweetheart!”

Oh God.

“Hey, Mom,” I croaked.

Pickles tilted his head.

“You sound tired. Or drunk. Or both. Did I wake you?”

I shifted. An empty can rolled off the table with a hollow clunk.

“Nope. Fully conscious. Tragically.”

“Something told me to call. You know, mother’s intuition.”

Pickles clucked once, shaking his head like a disapproving sitcom wife.

“That or you finally got bored of internet recipes.”

“Don’t sass me, Damien. I had a feeling. Are you okay? Did you leave town? You didn’t tell me if you were going anywhere.”

I sighed. “No. I just got back from some team-building hostage situation in the woods.”

“Oh! Was it one of those pleasant retreats with hot tubs and yoga goats?”

“No, it was one of those retreats where my boss screams about synergy and makes us do trust falls. I almost died from secondhand positivity.”

“That sounds lovely. I should come visit. I never get to see you anymore.”

“Mom, you live in Florida.”

“I could still visit. Do you have space? I’ve never been to your apartment.”

“There’s a couch and a parrot with anger issues. You’d love it.”

“I never get to see you. You moved away. That’s on you.”

“You moved to Florida.”

“Yes, for my bones. But I miss you.”

“I just visited you last spring.”

“You stayed for two days.”

“That was enough.”

“I think you need me. Something’s wrong. You’re being cagey.”

I paused. Blinked slowly. Pickles flitted back to his perch.

“It’s just...” I exhaled. “There’s this woman.”

“Oh no.”

“Not like that.”

“It’s always like that.”

“Her name’s Angelica. We used to date. Now we work together. And she ... lives across the hall.”

“Oh, Damien.”

Pickles mimicked a soft whistle. “Whap-wap! Ooooooh shit. Screeee.”

“I know. It’s bad. We broke up over a year ago. But now she’s around again. And it’s like every time I see her, I short-circuit.”

“Did she cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Did you cheat on her?”

“Also no.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“We weren’t good at being together. At least, that’s what she said when she dumped me.”

“But were you good at making up?”

“Mom.”

“I’m just saying, sometimes that’s the glue, sweetie. You know, back when I was dating, guys liked me. I was good at ... you know. Making them happy.”

I physically recoiled. “Ewwww.”

Pickles puffed up.

“Momma’s got a squeeze box! Raaawk! Daddy never sleeps at night! Screeee! Yeah baby! Squeeze box!”

I gagged. “I just threw up in my mouth.”

“Who’s that? I heard someone. Are you with another woman right now? Are you asking me about Angelica while there’s someone else in your apartment?”

“No, Mom. It’s not another woman.”

“Because her voice sounds like she’s a heavy smoker. And you know I hate smokers.”

“That’s Pickles.”

“Oh. Right. Charming. Dumb name. But charming.”

I rubbed my temples. The muted TV was now showing slow motion footage of a flambé gone wrong. Flames everywhere.

“So what are you gonna do about this Angelica?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you still like her?”

Silence.

Pickles blinked one eye slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, do you think about her when you’re trying to fall asleep? Do you imagine her walking into the room and your heart does that little stupid flutter? Remember what it used to do when that girl ... Chelsea ... from school said hi to you in seventh grade?”

“Chelsea had braces and threw pudding at me.”

“Exactly. And you still liked her.”

I groaned. “I am not talking about seventh-grade pudding trauma right now.”

“You need to talk to Angelica. Be honest. Stop hiding in your sarcasm shell like a bitter little turtle. If you love her, do something. If you don’t, stop stringing her along emotionally.”

“I’m not stringing her along.”

“You told her you didn’t want her. But then you look at her like she’s air and you forgot how to breathe. You’re confusing the poor woman.”

I blinked. Sat up a little. “Wait. How do you know I look at her like that?”

“Because, Damien. I’m your mother. It’s in your voice. And I know what heartbreak looks like when it’s trying to pretend it’s over someone.”

Pickles tilted his head. “Awwwwk. That’s sweet. Raaawk! Who wants trauma? Yeah baby!”

I exhaled.

“So what do I do?”

“Are you still in love with her?”

“Doesn’t matter ... she’s with someone else. I can’t just take her back like she’s a garden tool I loaned to the neighbor.”

“Maybe she’s not that serious about this new guy. You said she seems interested in you, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Sweetheart, if she wanted you gone, she’d have made it clear. You said she’s flirty. Comfortable. She keeps showing up in your space. That’s not a woman who’s moved on. That’s a woman who’s waiting for you to do something.”

Pickles blinked one eye slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“You either let her go for real, or you get your head out of your ass and try again. But don’t just sit there slowly fermenting into a regret burrito.”

“God, you’re so dramatic.”

“You’re thirty-three and calling your mother about your love life. I’m allowed.”

“You called me.”

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

I leaned forward, staring at the phone.

And then it hit me. Not in a big, cinematic way. No swelling music. No lightning strike. Just a small, quiet, horrible little click inside.

I still had it for her. Even if I didn’t want to. Even if I fought it like hell.

“Okay,” I breathed.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll talk to her. Maybe. Eventually. Just ... thanks.”

“See? You always feel better after we talk.”

“Mmm. Sure.”

“So I’ll come next week. I can stay a few days. Get you sorted out. Make some chili.”

“Oh my God, no. Please don’t make this worse.”

“I still have that Tupperware from 2009. It has your name on it.”

“Mom. I’m hanging up now.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you, too.”

I tapped the screen. Pickles gave a low whistle.

“Momma! Whaaap! Chit-chit-got a squeeze box! Yeah baby!”

I threw a sock at him.

Wednesday – 10:15 PM

It was late. Not ‘accidentally-stayed-up’ late. Not even ‘should-probably-start-winding-down’ late. This was ‘brain-on-fire, heart-in-a-blender, nothing-good-happens-after-this’ late.

I just wanted to get to my apartment, collapse onto the couch, and watch something dumb until my body forgot how regret worked.

But the universe doesn’t care what I want.

Angelica was already in the hallway.

Her again?

Heading toward her door. Purse slung over one shoulder. Hair pulled back like she’d just gotten home from somewhere that involved being impressive.

We made eye contact.

And for once? She didn’t smirk.

She crossed her arms. “Okay. What’s your deal?”

I didn’t even make it to my door before she pounced.

“Not now, Angelica.”

“No, exactly now.”

She followed me. Step for step.

When I stopped in front of my door, she didn’t keep walking. She leaned against the frame. Blocking my way in like she owned the lease.

I rubbed my face. Already tired.

“You’ve been weird since the retreat,” she said.

“No, I haven’t.”

Her voice was flat. “Really? Because last I checked, we were fine. And now, you barely look at me.”

I didn’t respond.

She waited. Gave me a beat. A chance.

I took the coward’s path.

“I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Oh, bullshit,” she said.

Angelica stepped closer. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t banter. Her eyes didn’t dare look away.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” she said.

My chest tightened. “What?”

“At the retreat. At the firepit. Every time we’re near each other and you pretend it’s nothing.”

The hallway was too quiet. Too still.

She dropped her voice. “Just admit it.”

For half a second, I almost did. I opened my mouth.

Then I panicked.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

Angelica’s brow pulled tight. “Excuse me?”

“Even if there’s something there—it doesn’t change anything.”

“Why not?”

I looked down. Looked anywhere but at her.

And I said it.

The sentence I’d regret for the rest of the week.

“Because you already left me once.”

Silence.

She flinched. Barely. But I saw it.

Her voice went cold. “Wow. Okay.”

“Angelica—”

She cut me off. “No, I get it. You’re scared. So instead of dealing with it, you’d rather pretend there’s nothing here. Cool.”

She stepped back.

The hurt was obvious. But she didn’t show it.

“You know what, Dak? Screw this.”

She turned. Walked into her apartment. Didn’t look back.

I stood there. Door still closed. Hand still on the knob.

Because that? That was the absolute worst way to handle it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Text from Max: “Soooo. How’s the self-sabotage going?”

Text to Max: “Not now.”

Text from Max: “So terrible, then?”

Text to Max: “I’m in hell.”

Text from Max: “Dude. If you don’t want to lose her again, fix this.”

Text to Max: “I don’t know how.”

Text from Max: “Well, figure it out before it’s too late.”

I stared at the hallway. The scent of her perfume still hung in the air. And the door between us might as well have been a mile thick.

Because this time? I pushed her away.

And she didn’t come back.