Crumbs (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

Terrible Cream Puffs

Maryland is a swamp.  The lovely, mild Spring weather lasts all of two weeks and then it goes straight into deep, deep summer.  Even though it is mid May, it already seems to be in deep, deep summer mode.  It's about 88 degrees with a humidity and heat index of closer to 100.

My luggage is ridiculously heavy.  Why did I pack so much? I am almost 100% sure I packed a winter coat, just in case of...the apocalypse maybe?  I guess it sort of feels like the end of the world to me—being back on the east coast.  I step outside the air conditioned walls of BWI and the air hits me like a heavy, wet blanket.  It smells like cars, and engine fuel and just sort of damp.  I take a deep breath and it makes me cough.

"Charlotte! Char!" I hear my name being called and I turn and see my mother.  She looks the same, if aged just a tiny bit.  It is unbelievable that I haven't seen her in five years.  I feel a tug of guilt and push it back.  No time for that. Not now.

"Hi Mom!" I say in a sing songy voice as I walk over to her.  My mother looks like me.  People always remark on it.  Same petite frame.  Same dark, chocolate brown hair and matching brown eyes.  She's thinner than me, always has been.  I like to say I'm average, if not a bit more on the curvy side. She's sort of thin in an unhealthy way.  The way nervous, worried people are thin.  When she eats, its usually just more like picking at her food.  I'm not sure I've ever seen her truly finish a meal.  We don't have that in common, as evident by the steak dinner.

"You're so tan and beachy!" My mom says, releasing me from a hug.  We start walking and I wheel my wobbly suitcase behind me.  Tan? Beachy? I haven't seen the woman in five years and that's all she can think to say to me?  I wonder if she googled "California" and looked for the most stereotypical things about it, so she could have a conversation with me.

"Am I?" I say under my breath.  I don't honestly go to the beach that often.  I'm usually too busy baking during the part of the day when it's light out.

"Yes! And you look very healthy." She says, patting my arm. This is her way of telling me I look fat.

"Thanks Mom. I am healthy." I say.  And I am! I am healthy! I go to the gym, occasionally.  I watch what I eat, sometimes.  I go running with TW every...couple of weeks.  I know he hates it when I invite myself along, but I do it everyone once in awhile anyway when I'm feeling particularly sporty.  I just hold him back, and complain the whole time but Tom still smiles at me, and keeps pace (walks) with me, and doesn't complain all that much when we go two miles as opposed to his normal like...37 miles.

"It's good to see you, Char." My mom refuses to call me Charlie.  It's always my full name—Charlotte, or Char.  I can't say I'm a fan of either.  Charlotte is too proper and girly, and Char sounds like something you do to a boneless, skinless chicken breast.

"You too, mom.  How have you been? How's Al and B?"I ask, referring to my mother's cats.  They are more like her children than I am.  Al is short for Alan, and B is short for Brandon and I'm certain that they are the most serious names ever given to cats.  At this point, those cats are also at least 65 years old.  I'm sort of worried that when I get to the house, they will just be petrified lumps of fur sitting on her mantel.

"Al is fine.  He's got a bit of a hip problem, but I've been giving him a joint tablet, and he's starting to act a bit more frisky.  B is having a grand old time lately with this new yarn ball I've gotten him." My eyes glaze over a bit, and I wonder if I should get my mother some human friends.

"Glad to hear it, Mom.  Thank you for picking me up. I know it's last minute." We make it through the maze of a parking lot, and Mom pops the trunk on her ancient, tan colored Buick.  I throw my suitcase in the back, and wipe the back of my hand across my somewhat sweaty forehead.  Ugh.  I miss west coast weather already.  Hot but not so humid.