Contrary

Follow-up to "We're All Mad Here" (takes place 3-4 years later).

I woke up at 1am to the sound of Mo puking. Groggily, I crawled out of bed and made my way to the bathroom.

 

“You’re drunk,” I said disapprovingly, standing in the doorway with my arms crossed.

 

“Shut up,” she groaned, her voice thin and slightly slurred.

 

I had to breathe through my teeth to lessen the smell of vomit and alcohol that saturated the air. I tried not to think about my father. I had to remember that this was different. Mo was different. Mo was my girlfriend and I was here with her by choice. Besides, who was I to judge? How much of my own self-destructive bullshit had she put up with over the years? I owed her an ounce of empathy.

 

My expression softened as I made my way over to her, stooping down to put a hand on her back.

 

“Thanks,” she gurgled before throwing up again. I gritted my teeth and held my breath.

 

I rubbed her back as she hovered over the toilet a while longer. After what seemed like an eternity, she announced blearily, “Okay, I think I’m done.”

 

“You sure?” I asked, “You puke in bed and you’re sleeping on the floor, tonight.”

 

She grabbed a wad of toilet paper to wipe her mouth and blow her nose, “Yeah, I’m good now.”

 

“Okay,” I said, helping her up. I tried not to think too hard about the time I’d found my father sleeping on the couch in a pool of his own vomit when I went for a midnight snack as a kid.

 

Mo stumbled over to the sink and leaned over to drink straight out of the faucet.

 

“I’ll go get the mouthwash. I think it’s still in the grocery bags,” I said softly.

 

Mo nodded as she fumbled around for her toothbrush.

 

Once she had finished brushing her teeth, I walked her back to our bed, which was actually a queen-sized mattress on the floor. I helped her into bed, then joined her. At six inches taller and roughly double her weight, I was an automatic shoe-in for big spoon in most of our sleeping arrangements. I wrapped an arm around her midsection and gently nudged her closer, then pulled her quilt over us. Her maternal grandmother had made it for her the last time her family visited Nigeria, which was almost a decade ago. Mo’s Iyaiya was the only member of her family who she spoke well of, though I was never quite sure what bone she had to pick with the rest of her family. The few time we’d visited her house together, they seemed like perfectly nice people.

 

Mo was sound asleep and snoring in a matter of minutes, but my sleep was limited to scattered bouts of restless dozing. Around 6 am, I gave up on sleep entirely and went to the living room to softly strum on my guitar as the sun rose through the window.

 

~*~

 

I waited until noon to wake Mo up. I took a seat on the edge of our bed and gently shook her shoulder, “Wake up, sleepy head.”

 

She groaned and swatted at my hand.

 

“Mo, it’s noon,” I said, leaning down to kiss her shoulder.

 

She grunted and pulled her quilt tighter around herself.

 

“Come on, we’re not playing this game,” I coaxed, “Get up. You slept 10 hours.”

 

She opened her eyes and glared at me through squinted eyelids, “Is that coffee?” she asked, pointing at the mug in my hand.

 

“No, it’s water. I’m brewing coffee. You can have caffeine once you drink some water.”

 

“Fine,” she grumbled and sat up slowly, whining all the while. Once she was upright, she snatched the mug of water from my hand and began to sip it with a sour expression on her face.

 

I softly wrapped an arm around her waist and gave the top of her head a quick kiss, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

 

She made a disgruntled noise, and I got up to finish preparing her coffee.

 

When I returned, she looked marginally more alert. I set her coffee down on the milk crate we were using as a makeshift bedside table and sat back down beside her. We sat side by side in silence for a few minutes as she sipped her water.

 

Finally, she spoke to me without looking up from her mug, “Sorry for being a piece of s**t.”

 

I reached up to lightly brush her smooth, umber cheek with my fingers, “Mo, you’ve been a piece of s**t since before I met you, and that’s never stopped me from loving you.”

 

“Yeah, but I was a really big piece of s**t this time,” she repeated sullenly, “I wanted to get back at my dad and all I did was hurt you.”

 

“What happened last night, anyways?” I asked.

 

“Just some stupid argument,” she said, reaching behind her to swap her water out for coffee. She still hadn’t made eye contact with me.

 

“About…?”

 

“My parents are still bugging me to move back home,” she explained, “‘Respect is reciprocal,’ they say. ‘Do you respect your roommate mo’ dan you respect your own parents?’ I swear their idea of respect is cooking and doing dishes.”

 

“Well in that case…” I said, glancing meaningfully over at the stack of Easy Mac cups that had accumulated on top of our dresser.

 

“Plus, they’re still calling you my roommate,” she whined indignantly, “They’ve known about us since we moved in together a year ago, and they’re still calling you my roommate?”

 

I shrugged, “They’re middle-aged parents and their only gripe with you sharing a bed with your same-sex partner is that you’re no longer at home doing their cooking and dishes for them. I’d say that’s more of a win than a loss, personally.”

 

“Whose side are you on, anyways?” she said, looking up from her coffee to glare in my direction.

 

“Yours,” I assured her, “I just thought it might help to look at things from another perspective, I guess.”

 

“Why look at my own situation from someone else’s perspective when I can look at it from mine?” she said with a contrary shrug before returning to her coffee.

 

I paused to think for a moment, then suggested cautiously, “Have you ever thought about family therapy?”

 

Mo snorted so hard that I was afraid she would spit coffee all over the bed, “Yeah, I’m sure that’d go over great with my family.”

 

“I dunno. It helped my family a lot when my parents were getting divorced.”

 

“First of all, you were like 15 and actually living with your parents when that happened. Second of all, last I checked you weren’t on speaking terms with your dad. And third of all, can you imagine my dad’s reaction if I suggested therapy? ‘What do you tink I am? Crazy? How dare you disrespect me like dis! I will show you crazy!’”

 

“I’m not on speaking terms with my dad because I don’t trust him,” I explained, “But at least the family therapy let me forgive him. That was a big deal.”

 

Mo rolled her eyes, “Can you just stop trying to solve my family s**t and admit that we come from completely different families?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” I said, backing down, “I’m gonna go play some more guitar in the living room while you finish waking up. Maybe you can try and come up with a solution of your own, since mine clearly suck. I’m sure this isn’t an unsolvable problem, even if my white-people-from-the-suburbs suggestions fall flat.”

 

She grunted and I left the room.

 

Sure enough, about an hour and a half later Mo poked her head into the living room with her phone in her hand, “Ash, we’re having lunch at my parents’ house next weekend. They’re buying groceries and we’re cooking.”

 

I smiled, “Sounds great, Mo.”

 

She grumbled and made a face before disappearing around the corner again, but I could tell she was feeling better already, if only slightly.