Part 2I Am Not Your Down Payment

Saturday arrived like an execution date. I stood outside the diner for ten minutes, watching the condensation drip down the glass windows, unable to force myself inside.

Through the glass, I could see him. A balding man in a severely wrinkled polo shirt, hunched over his phone.

A second later, my phone buzzed. My mother's voice sliced through the speaker. "I can see you standing out there like an idiot. Get inside."

I pushed the door open. The blast of over-air-conditioned air hit me, thick with the smell of old grease and burnt coffee.

"Trent, this is my daughter. Nina."

The balding man looked up. His eyes dragged up from my face to my chest, down to my hips, and back up again. He looked like a man inspecting a cut of beef at a discount butcher.

My mother hovered, practically vibrating with eager energy as she poured him water. "So, Trent, what do you think? She cleans up nice, right?"

"She's got good skin, she's tall, she knows how to work hard. Pulls in decent money in the city."

"Decent?" Trent sneered, his lip curling. "Girls working the line at the Amazon warehouse make that much with overtime."

"And my mom said she’s twenty-four. Where I’m from, that’s expired goods."

"Plus, I hear she’s got a sister with all kinds of medical issues." He squinted at me. "She ain't sickly too, is she?"

He leaned back, his eyes catching on my chest again.

"Got any boobs? My mom says flat girls have narrow hips. Bad for breeding."

The blood rushed to my face so fast it burned. I shoved my chair back and stood up.

My mother’s hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. Her nails dug deep into the soft skin over my pulse point.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "Nina. You walk out that door, and you are dead to me."

I pressed my lips together until they tasted like copper. Slowly, I sank back into the vinyl booth.

Trent smirked, satisfied. He flicked a sugar packet across the table. "My family name dies with me if I don't have a boy. When we get married, you're giving me a son."

"And if it's a girl, we try again. Until I get a boy. End of discussion."

The waitress arrived, sliding a heavy plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes onto the table, placing it right in front of me.

Trent immediately reached across, hooked a finger around the rim of the plate, and dragged it to his side of the table. "Women shouldn't eat heavy carbs. You get fat, it ruins your fertility."

My mother laughed—a high, grating sound. "Right, right, you're absolutely right! She used to be so chubby as a kid. Hogged all her sister's nutrients in the womb. She could stand to lose a few."

The waitress dropped off a few more sides. Trent hoarded all of them on his side of the centerline.

When the dust settled, I was left with a side salad and a cup of scalding hot tomato bisque.

I took a bite of the dry lettuce. It tasted like ash.

Beside me, my mother was practically pitching a business proposal.

"Her sister has delicate health, you know. Can't do heavy lifting."

"So Nina here dropped out of community college to work. She's so dutiful. Sends money home every single month."

"Paid her sister's way through state college!"

"That's fine," Trent mumbled around a mouthful of meatloaf. "But once we're married, that money goes to my house. I got property taxes to pay."

"Of course, of course! Once she marries you, she belongs to your family."

I took a slow sip of water. I listened to them negotiate the terms of my life like I was a used Honda Civic.

Trent picked his teeth with a straw wrapper, having finally exhausted his list of demands.

"Alright. Good enough for today. I'll go back and run it by my mom."

I had been quiet for so long that when I finally spoke, they both flinched.

"Are you finished?" I asked.

He blinked, confused. "Yeah. Why?"

I picked up the heavy ceramic mug of steaming tomato bisque, leaned over the table, and upended the entire thing over his bald head.

He shrieked—a high, reedy sound—and leaped out of the booth. The heavy mug hit the linoleum floor and shattered.

"You crazy bitch!"

He wiped frantically at his face. His skin was already blistering red from the heat, soup dripping from his nose onto his wrinkled collar.

He pointed a shaking finger at me, his voice cracking. "You psychotic bitch! I'm calling the cops!"

My mother lunged at me.

Her hand connected with my cheek. The slap cracked through the diner like a gunshot.

I stumbled sideways. The left side of my face was on fire, a high-pitched ringing echoing in my ear.

"Nina, you ungrateful, feral animal!"