ing at the screen.
Good luck in San Diego. I’ll be rooting for you. Xo, Dani
Danielle
THE BOXES PEPPER HAPPENED TO have in her store room are spread around me. I sit in the middle of the living room, a haphazard collection of figurines on my left and a box of donuts on my right, bubble wrap in front of me.
I managed to get dressed, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I made it to the Smitten Kitten and took all of the boxes, two cappuccinos, and the pastries and made it home without crying. It’s a victory. Small, but a victory anyway.
Macie called and made sure I wasn’t talking out my ass and was really coming. I told her I am. I have to. I can’t stay here. There’s nothing for me here and everything I loved before Lincoln is tainted by my love for him.
My love for him. I’m so damn stupid. If I would’ve listened to my brain from the start, I would’ve been going through life like normal. Work. Smitten Kitten and cappuccinos. Baths and books. I was happy like that for so long and I went and screwed it up.
A twist in my stomach catches me off guard and I know I’m lying to myself. I wasn’t happy then. Maybe I thought I was, but it wasn’t until Lincoln that I realized what happy could mean. At least, in the midst of this heartache, I know what it feels like to love someone.
With a sigh, I grab a donut and shovel half of it in my mouth. The chocolate glaze coats my lips and the roof of my mouth and I can barely chew, or breathe, but it’ll be a delicious way to go out. “Death by donut” somehow seems to read better on my tombstone than death from a broken heart.
I wrap my little teacup in bubble wrap but can’t find the tape. Standing, I wipe a bit of chocolate off my lips with the back of my hand and head into the kitchen where the bag from the store sits. As I pass the foyer, the doorbell rings.
Pulling it open, I say, “Pepper, you didn’t have to come. I can pack . . .”
My mouth drops and my hand falls from the door. I immediately glance in the mirror and feel the panic bubble set in. There’s chocolate icing on my lips and smearing to my right cheek. My hair is in a messy bun. My clothes are clean but wrinkly and definitely not to my usual standards.
Oh. Fuck.
“Hi, Dad. Mom,” I say, gulping. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Maybe we should’ve called,” Mom says, taking me in from head-to-toe with a look of disgust.
Stifling an eye roll, I paste on the best smile I can.
I don’t invite my father inside, but he doesn’t wait on an invitation either. He clamps my shoulder as he walks by. “I’m not sure this place is safe,” he says, looking around. “Do you have a security system, Ryan?”
“I’ve lived here for three years. It’s safe.”
My mother enters too and I shut the door behind them. My gut, already twisted from everything with Lincoln, is pulled tighter. So tight, in fact, that I think I might pass out or vomit.
“What are the boxes for?” my mother asks, taking off a pair of gloves that extend to her elbow. It’s not that cold out, but they make a statement.
I consider not telling them anything. I usually don’t. I’m not even sure how they got my address. But with them in front of me, face-to-face for the first time in maybe two or three years, I can’t just not say anything. “I’m moving,” I tell them, smoothing out my shirt. “To Boston. I got a great job there with a nonprofit that works with inner city kids.”
“Ryan, when are you going to do something real with your life?” My father turns and faces me. He’s aged, the lines in his forehead harsher than I remember. Or maybe it’s just that I’m used to looking at the picture taken almost ten years ago. Either way, he almost seems like a stranger to me.
“Something real with my life?” I balk. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, something real,” he huffs. “Kids your age have no idea what it’s like in the real world. You’ve been pampered and coddled your whole damn lives and don’t even take something good when it’s offered to you.”
“And what’s been offered to me that I haven’t taken?”
Instead of answering my question, he shakes his head. “You go from one dead-end job to another, wasting your potential. It’s such a shame that you have no interest in being anything.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. We just stand in the foyer, between the front door and the living room, and look at each other. A group of people tied together by blood, but divided by a poison that infects every strand of our relationship.
His words hurt. Sting. My wounds are already there, gaping from losing Lincoln, and he pours salt in with no consideration.
When I was eight years old, my parents told me they wouldn’t be home for my birthday. I cried. Instead of comforting me, they laughed. They said it was silly to think I wouldn’t get a cake or gifts; they’d arranged that. My tears weren’t for teddy bears and chocolate icing. My cries were because it was apparent that day that I didn’t matter.
I haven’t cried in front of them since then. That is, until today.