Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“Or man.” She smiled, and I did appreciate that. I never worried they wouldn’t accept me for my sexuality.
“I hope you treat them better than your father treats me! It’s in your genes. Your grandpa Hastings was the same way.”
How many times had I heard that in my life? I was destined to be like him, but did that make it doubly bad since they were both a mess? I got it from my mom and my dad. “I don’t know why you guys do this. Why you put me in the middle. I know Dad hasn’t been great to you, but the truth is, you haven’t been great to him either. You’re too volatile together. It’s both your faults.”
The door opened behind me, and Dad walked in. “Oh, of course. I’m sure your mother has told you a hundred horror stories about how mean I am. What about me? What about what she’s done to me? Did she tell you she was talking to Walter again?” Dad pushed a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“We were just talking! We’re friends!” Mom countered.
“You slept with him two years ago!” Dad shouted. And Mom had. She’d had a six-month relationship with him. It was an accident, she’d said, the cheating I mean but I didn’t know how something like that could be an accident. It was supposed to have been over a long time ago. She’d told Dad she wouldn’t see Walter again, but it wasn’t like my father was innocent either. He’d done the same thing to her.
“And you have room to talk? I saw the text on your phone about meeting that woman. You were cheating on me.” Mom threw her hands up in the air, and they were off. I sat there watching them yell at each other, watching them go back and forth, hurting each other and saying mean things only to know that it would never change anything. Eventually, they would say they were trying again, that they loved each other, and the cycle would continue.
Bile rose in my throat. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t let this be me.
“I’m gonna go.” Why in the hell had they called me over in the first place?
“No, don’t!” Mom said. “I want your father to move out, and he won’t. I need you to help me talk some sense into him.”
“He’s my son too, Evangeline. And why should I be the one to move out? Last I checked, the house was under both our names and we both pay bills on it.”
“Because…” Mom trailed off as if trying to think of something to say.
“See? You don’t have an answer for that yourself!” Dad countered, and then they were off again, yelling over each other, and I faded into the background.
I watched them for a moment, nausea churning in my gut, thoughts swarming my brain. This was what love was to me, what romance was to me. How could anyone sign themselves up for this? But then, as much as it made me squirm, I thought of Elijah. Of his laugh and his sweetness. Of his sarcasm and his ability to put me in my place. If there was a chance for real happiness, he deserved that.
I pushed to my feet, and neither of them noticed. I got all the way to the door and pulled it open before Mom asked, “Where are you going?”
“I can’t do this.” It was the first time I’d ever walked out on them that way. My chest was tight, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. I had no idea what was going on with me, as nothing like this had ever happened before.
I got into my car, drove around the block, pulled over, and worked on inhaling, exhaling, slowing my pulse, clearing my head. A few minutes later, I shoved the afternoon deep in the back of my brain and drove back into Midtown.
At home I took a hot shower, but my limbs still felt stiff, my body heavy with confusion. I couldn’t sit still, so I paced my apartment, ignoring the calls and texts from my parents. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, why this was different. How many times had the same scene unfolded before me?
I wanted to see Elijah. There was no getting around it. I hated admitting it, hated that it was true, but then the feeling transformed, and I knew it wasn’t hate. It was bone-deep fear.
Still, the want was there, trying to bleed out the panic. I grabbed my phone and typed out a text. Dinner?
Sure. Just getting home from ballet. Gonna jump in the shower. My feet are killing me. Can we stay in?
I didn’t know what it was about his reply that made me smile. We were staying in, which we mostly did, but it sounded…different. It sounded the way Richie’s parents or other happy people would when they’d say, Let’s stay in, as a unit. Yeah. Get your ass over here when you’re done .