Somewhere between seasons three and four, I remember I was supposed to phone Mom back. I press dial and put it on speaker, then rest it against my chest.
“So. Did you see it?” she asks.
“If you’re referring to the image on Facebook, then yes. I saw it.”
“I hope you took it down,” she says. “Canoodling with a professor? I’m disappointed in you, Becca.”
“I’m disappointed in you using the word canoodling,” I mutter.
“Not amused, Rebecca. I hope that’s all you did. I asked Jake whether you had sex with that man, but he wasn’t much help.”
“Because he was probably more inebriated than I was,” I say, shocked that she would ask him that. “Look, I’m paying for drinking too much already, okay? I don’t need you making things worse. Was this the only reason I had to call you back, to be harassed?”
“Treat me with some respect, Rebecca. The last time I checked, you’re still living under my roof,” Mom snaps.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. I’m just angry at myself. How’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s okay,” she says, her voice softer. “They want to keep him in another night, just to keep an eye on him.” She pauses. “Before I forget, are you still reading the poem for the ceremony?” She pauses. “I hope you are.”
“The ceremony to celebrate your sex achievements, you mean?” I refrain from saying anything more, because I know it will only make things worse. “Yes, so long as I can choose a different poem. I’m sorry, but reading a poem about where Dad plants his seed suddenly has meanings that I never want to think about.”
“Fine. Pick another poem,” Mom snaps. “But you should know that passage is a classic verse about love and longevity. I’d also appreciate you not announcing to everyone that it’s a ‘sex ceremony,’” she adds. “I’m beginning to really regret telling you.”
“Funny, because I regret hearing it,” I say. I groan, feeling bad about being so negative about everything. “Look, I’m not going to tell anyone,” I assure her. I don’t add that’s because the thought of anyone else knowing about it makes me cringe. “I better go,” I add when Khaleesi appears on the screen. “I’m in the middle of a very important study session.”
“Really? I thought you found other ways to get passes in your classes—”
“Goodbye, Mother.”On Monday morning, I stand in front of my closet and frown. I should’ve spent my Sunday doing laundry, instead of watching four more seasons of Game of Thrones, but it’s too late to do anything about that now. It did give me some horrifically weird and downright dirty dreams involving Liam and Jon Snow.
I pull out a shirt, then toss it in the no pile, which is about ten times the size of the maybe pile. The yes pile in nonexistent. I laugh and park my ass on the floor. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I’m not usually one of those girls who spends hours fussing over her appearance, but the idea of facing Liam today is really making me nervous. I could have made a total dick of myself on Friday—which isn’t that unlike every other day. I guess the difference here is that I don’t remember it.
Releasing a sigh, I get to my feet and snatch a purple shirt out of the maybe pile, along with a pair of skinny jeans that I’d already worn twice. I pull the jeans up over my curves and throw on the shirt, then study my reflection in the mirror. I could pretend to be sick and not go in at all.
No, that won’t work. I have a test in the afternoon.
Besides, skipping his class won’t solve anything, it’s just going to delay the inevitable.
I scoop my hair up into a messy bun and secure it with some clips, then I put on some mascara and lip gloss. I guess I don’t look too bad.Walk through those doors, make eye contact with him and sit down.
That’s all I have to do. I nod, determined that I’ve got this. If I act like I’m in control, then I am in control. Taking a deep breath, I clench my hands into fists and then relax them.
I hold my head high as I stalk through the lecture hall, only making eye contact with Liam when I sink into my seat. My confidence falters for a second when I see the way he’s smirking at me, but I recover fast and leer right back. Nothing happened. And if it did, then I’ll own it.
I rifle through my bag and pretend to look for something, but really, I’m just keeping myself busy, so he can’t tell how nervous I am. I open my laptop to my notes and pretend to study them, but the reality is, I can’t concentrate on anything other than Liam. I’m almost relieved when a message pops up on my screen. I assume it’s Amy, but it’s not.