Orange Juice Fears

I woke up and ran my fingers through his scruffy hair. I was very aware that I no longer shared my bed with only a teddy bear. I left my hand in his hair and thought about Georgia, now 728 miles away. It was still dark but the faint street lights allowed me to see James still sleeping peacefully by my side. Yesterday morning the distance between our homes disappeared. We packed up my silver Impala and drove thirteen hours to my new home in Farmington MI. Now I’m here and my stomach is full of nervous flutters. I grinned when he scooted closer to fill the gap between our bodies. I climbed over his shoulder to see the clock blinking six A.M., sighing I rested my head on his warm body and took in the smell of his cologne. The mixture of warmth and spice usually lulls me to sleep, but not this morning.
Realizing the number of paint specks on the celling aren’t high enough to distract me I got up and headed to our kitchen. I poured a blue mug too full of orange juice. I don’t like coffee, not even the musky smell of it. Coffee is for those afraid of being their own stimulate. My heart thudded enough with everything on my mind that morning. Picking up the newspaper, I saw a eerily happy family plastered on the front page. Mom’s hanging onto her daughter while dad’s looking on with a football sized smile. Thoughts rushed to the definition I hold of family: A) A father shoving me into red oak cabinets. B) A mother too busy to notice the swollen purple bruises. I wanted a second opinion on what family really could mean. James’ family gave me that second opinion and I couldn’t help but feel like I’m on trial run here. These new people I have to earn. I have to earn the trust of his tiny mother, and the laughter of his man-scaping brother. So here in my new home I’m picking my nails and scrambling for the right answers. I hoped that if I was able to pick the right words they’d decide to keep me around long term.
I felt something wet and sticky underneath my fingertips and realized I spilled juice over the glass table. James always pokes fun of me for being clumsy. “Try not to break anything today, okay babe?” he always says before work\]. I deserved that kind of comment after breaking the blinds on our bedroom window while swatting a fly. I cleaned up the mess and started washing the dishes we left in the sink the night before. I never washed dishes when I lived with my mom. I just figured she’d do it for me. I guess that’s how our relationship worked. I picked out the corner pieces. Then she’d come in and finish the puzzle. The way she liked it, no talking needed. And now I’ve moved and I have to finish my own puzzle, and she has to find the corners herself. No more repeating the same events every day of my life. I have to scrub my own dishes and learn to cook more than a microwave meal for one. James and I weren’t married yet, but the family dynamic worked its way into our little home we made in apartment number 320. I wanted to learn the best way to get ketchup stains out of t-shirts and how to make his mom’s spaghetti sauce. And it scared the hell out of me. I’m twenty one and trying to fill the shoes of a mother I never had. I didn’t want to mess anything up, wanted to be the best live-in girlfriend that has ever existed.
Soon I heard grunts coming from the bedroom and sleepy yawns walking down the hallway to wrap arms around my waist. I turned and pressed my body into his chest and looked up into his seafoam eyes. “Good morning, angel” he said barely audible. Yea I’m scared, but that moment is worth being scared for.