Once Upon a Neighbor

Chapter 17

Thatcher stared at the empty weight room in front of him. The silence was odd, normally the tired people with full time jobs were busying themselves, as it was prime time for it- eight o'clock at night. Or perhaps they'd taken the night off, gone out on a cheat day or something. It didn't matter to him- he enjoyed the silence. He shifted into a deep squat, careful to keep his form in check. His forehead was slick with sweat after pushing himself so hard, but he silently reveled in it. Working out was definitely one area of his life where he could see the progress being made. Being able to bench, squat, or lift more was a surefire sign that he was doing something.

Plus it didn't hurt with the ladies. Jamie seemed to appreciate his physique.

Jamie. 

Screw, Jamie, Thatcher thought to himself. She's just another girl. No matter how many times he told himself that, it didn't seem to help his predicament. 

He remembered the feelings of her lips on his a few weeks ago, and nothing could help him forget it. He'd wanted that moment to happen between them for so long. So. Damn. Long. But he couldn't do that to his buddy, and the guilt made him nauseous. 

With great effort, he pushed into the back of his heels, coming out of the squat. He huffed as he finished his last set, maxing out at 210 pounds.

Weak, the self-conscious inner voice whispered to him. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his towel, promising himself to return the next day. 

After descending down the gym stairs, he walked down the hallway that lead to his apartment room. He was fumbling with the lock when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Thatcher?"

He turned, shock written on his face. 

"Mom?"

Staring at her, he took in her appearance. Her eyes were ridden with bags from sleep deprivation, her tight fitting shirt hanging loosely at the top of her frame. Her trousers were wrinkled and stained with fine, white powder. She looked like a cocaine addict.

Thatcher shook his head, anger pulsating in his shaking fingers as he swung open the door. "You haven't been home in days, Mom. Days."

"Baby, I know. I dropped the ball, and I'm sorry." She stood at the end of the kitchen counter, her small hands drumming on the tile. "You know how I get-"

"Wrapped up in the kids, like every other time you do this. You get so involved in taking care of your sister's kids that you forget you have one of your own." 

It was true- his mom loved younger kids, she got on just fine with Thatcher, but could never connect with him as well as she did with the others. Maybe she just didn't know how to act around him, after all he was the man of the apartment, despite how many "womanly" chores he did. He cooked, he cleaned, he baked, he did the grocery shopping. Hell, he even knew how to knit. Not that he'd admit that to anyone else. As a kid, Thatcher spent a lot of time with his grandmother, as his mother was mourning the absence of Thatcher's father. Nana taught her grandson everything she knew, especially how to take care of his mother. She couldn't be trusted to do it herself.

His mother said nothing, just dropped her head and stared at his hands.

Deciding to forgive his mother, his voice became softer. He could never stay mad at his mother for too long, she was all he had. "Have you been baking?"

Thatcher's mom cracked a smile and their eyes met. Her arm stretched up and to the back of her neck, massaging the tense nerves. "Attempted to. Burnt the damn brownies."