Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter Eight:

                  

When I woke up Sunday morning, I was stiff and I had a line of dry drool snaking across my cheek. I furiously wiped it away, completely amnesiac to the fact that I was bruised. I reaped what I sowed. The pain brought tears to my eyes.

            I gently wiped my eyes.

            Last night's sleep had proven uneventful, the first time in a while to sleep somewhat soundly through the night without nightmares. I reached over to my phone which was plugged into its charger; I unlocked it and chanced through my notifications. Tate had called six times, left fifteen messages, and had tried to FaceTime me twice. I sighed and called him.

            He picked up on the first ring. "Penny?!" he screamed into the phone, his voice echoing through my head, making pain flash behind my ears. I put my fingers to my lips, shushing him, despite him being unable to see me.

            "Not so loud," I said, my voice a dull whisper.

            Tate lowered his voice accordingly. "Penny, what happened yesterday? Please, tell me you're alright. Please?" I licked my bottom lip; it tasted like salt and pennies.

            "Penny?" Tate asked, his voice filled with worry. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and took a breath, willing my voice steady.

            "I'm okay," I told him.

            He didn't seem convinced.

            "Penny?"

            "Tate, I've gotta go eat something. I'm sorry." Before his voice could fill the phone, I hung up and stood up from my pallet. I put my phone in the waistband of my shorts and stretched, instantly regretting it. I winced, straightened, and walked out of my room. Mom was awake and standing in the kitchen flipping pancakes.

            She looked over her shoulder when I came up behind her.

            The smile that spread across her mouth was sorry: sorry for me, for her, for everyone, sorry in itself. I tried to give her one back, but my lip throbbed and my smile faltered. Mom went back to flipping pancakes as I pulled out a dining room chair and sat down. The clock on the stove said ten-fifty-six.

            "How'd you sleep?" she asked.

            I shrugged and remembering that her back was turned, opened my swollen mouth to answer. "I slept OK," I told her, scratching a hand through my hair, feeling the tangles pop under my fingers. Mom nodded, her back still turned to me. Her hair was tangled at the back of her head, aftermath from sleeping with her head in the crack between the couch cushions.

            She transferred a stack of four pancakes onto a plate already stacked with hot breakfast, and reached around the plate for the ladle stuck in the bowl of batter. Mom ladled batter onto the griddle and I listened to it sizzle.

            "You wanna flip some?" Mom asked. She held out the metal spatula to me and I lurched to my feet, wandering over to her, taking it from her hand. She took a step to the side and leaned her side against the edge of the counter, watching me.

            I flipped a pancake sideways off the griddle, my hand shaking. As I scooped the sorry excuse for a pancake from the counter, Mom pursed her lips. "Penny," she started.

            I shook my head, the hand gripping the spatula shaking fiercely. As Mom pried the spatula from my hands, I sucked in a deep breath past my swollen lips.

            "Don't stare at me like that, Mom," I said, going to sit back in my chair at the dining table. Mom's back was to me, but I knew she was frowning. Her arms moved in the motions of flipping and dipping pancakes on and to the griddle.