99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

15 | Thatcher's Reason

Yeah, yeah, I know, I suck at updating. That pesky thing called life keeps getting in the way. Enjoy! Dedicated to secondGENESIS for her top-notch, two comment review.

Thatcher's Reason

He did not, in fact, have double fudge ice cream. His entire freezer was stocked with cartons of Neapolitan and stacks of rubber bands, and, according to Thatcher, they were almost the same thing.

I hoped he was referring to the ice cream flavor.

“I swear I own a scooper!” Thatcher cried in frustration, slamming yet another drawer. He’d been through every single one, twice, with nothing remotely close appearing.

I was unsure about how to respond to this. It wasn’t like loosing the glasses you had ten seconds ago – his ice cream scoop was mostly likely not balanced precariously on the top of his head. “Where did you see it last?” I asked.

Thatcher thought about this for a moment, snapping his fingers. “Dishwasher!” He crossed the linoleum floor in two easy strides, yanking it open with enthusiasm. “I had ice cream the other day, so I must have put it in the –“

Empty. Not a single, forgotten spoon in sight.

“Maybe it has a dryer complex,” I suggested. “Instead of feeding on mismatched socks, it eats cutlery.”

“I just don’t get it,” Thatcher moaned, slamming the door shut again. “This apartment is like a black hole.”

I scoffed, pointing at him accusingly. “Did you not just here me? Dryer complex.”

“It’s called the ‘dryer complex’ for a reason. It’s not contagious, and I refuse to put it in quarantine.”

He had a fair point. “Maybe the dishwasher’s just having an identity crisis.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. Defend his almost ancient appliances, while wielding some floral printed lampshade and giving some tacky battle cry. But the phone rang, ruining any staring contest we may or may not have been having when he made a mad dash for the receiver.

“Lucas residence, forever alone speaking,” Thatcher greeted, making me laugh out loud. I only hoped the poor soul hadn’t gotten the wrong number. “Mom, hiya.”

I waggled my finger in a wave, as if Jane could see me. “Hey.”

Thatcher looked at me quickly, smiling. “Bronwyn says ‘hey.’ She’s not really on the happy mobile today.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The happy mobile?”

He waved my comment aside. “So, what’s up?”

Apparently, quite a lot. I could just hear a long line of babble from the other end, and, distracted, I wandered over to the refrigerator. Just like everything else in the tiny, chaotic kitchen, it was plastered with stuff. You could just see cracks of the shiny metallic surface through the wallpaper of pictures and decade-old math tests.

He must have been really proud of that seventy eight in calculus.

“Mom, chill.”

“Mom –“

I brought my face up to one picture, drawn in by Sofia’s smiling face. The woman beside her looked familiar, but at first I couldn’t place her. A distant relative from the wedding, maybe?

The wedding.

Gina.

She looked completely different, albeit happier. Her hair wasn’t an endless wave of bleach, instead a pleasant strawberry blonde. Her cheeks were rounder. Her lipstick was a pale pink, and her whole vibe just put me off. Cotton candy and rainbows, in comparison to her new motto; make everyone and everything near my ex husband feel like crap. This wasn’t the Gina I knew – this was the Gina I could understand falling in love with.