Dare You to Hate Me

“I wish I’d never married John and had the kids sometimes,” I hear her say into the phone receiver. I stare down at a picture of four badly drawn stick figures surrounding a house that looks like ours with a nipping feeling taking over the pit of my tummy.

When she looks over to the hallway and sees me standing there, her eyes widen before closing for a few seconds, blowing out a deep breath. “I’ve got to go, Janet.” Hanging up, she rubs her eyelids with her fingers and turns from the paper scattered table to me. “It’s grown women talk, Ivy. That’s all. I’m just—”

Stressed. She’s stressed. Dad’s stressed.

“…don’t worry,” she finishes, patting my arm before gesturing toward my room. “Why don’t you go make sure Porter is napping and then hang out in your room for a while?”

Her dismissal comes naturally, a common occurrence etched into everyday routine that I expect with every passing day.

As I turn back to my room, I notice an empty space on the wall where our family portrait used to hang. Mom made sure we all dressed nicely and smiled for the cranky woman behind the camera. I’m not sure why, but I glance at the garbage can and see the broken frame and shattered glass with the very picture still between the two destroyed pieces.

Mom doesn’t say anything about it.

I don’t often let myself linger in memories, pretending instead everything that led to my poor decision was simply a nightmare. The long sleeves I wear hide the reminder well enough where it’s out of sight out of mind, but the thick pink scars are there to taunt me when I need reminding of the reality I gave myself.

Seeing him again doesn’t help. Aiden was the one good thing in my life before it turned to shit. His house was my happy place when mine was a war zone. His tiny bedroom closet was my escape when mine couldn’t filter the noise—the screaming, the crying, and the blue and red lights.

Maybe I don’t mind the noise my housemates create because there’s a bite of familiarity in the loudness they produce. Even after packing a single bag and sneaking out of my childhood home in the middle of the night, I still think about that house and everything that went on inside, wondering what would have happened if I stayed.

From the outside, the home was what one would expect a blue-collar family to live in. My parents were the American stereotype—husband and wife, two kids, and a small store they ran with big dreams of success. Dad had a business degree and used to work at a bank until getting the loan approved for Underwood’s Grocer, and Mom helped out until she had Porter and decided to be a stay-at-home mother.

On the inside was a different story than the one people seemed to envy.

I usually refuse to think about the nights I spent huddled behind a row of clothes, using them to soak up the tears and whipped words while Mom and Dad argued about another pointless topic. Dad worked too much. Mom spent too much money. The house needed work. Porter ruined another pair of sneakers and needed new ones. It was always something.

To this day, I don’t understand why they never got divorced. The one time I asked my mother, she’d looked at me and said, “Where would we go?”

Maybe my skewed notion of love is why I never felt the need to fall into it. Not if it meant being trapped without anywhere to go like my mother seemed to believe. She had no degree, no job experience, and no money of her own.

My ventures after leaving home are worse. Instead of proving I could handle it, I had to sleep on men’s couches and floors, and let them between my legs for a roof and food. After a while, I didn’t mind it. They were a pastime. A means to an end. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t keep my anxiety under lock and key every time I’d get close to a guy—intimacy has always been less about feeling good and more about survival. And if I keep that acknowledgment buried deep, deep inside the back of my mind then it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

I’m not sure how long I’m stuck in the past when I hear the basement door open. I sit up quickly, realizing I must have forgotten to lock it when I got in.

“Occupied,” I call out. I learned the hard way that if I don’t close off my space, horny partygoers will try hooking up down here. After depositing my first paycheck from Bea’s, I went to a local hardware store and bought a deadbolt, installing it as soon as I got home.

The footsteps keep coming in heavy thuds on the creaky wood. I slide out of bed quickly, grabbing my phone and slipping my feet into the closest pair of shoes. I’ve invited my fair share of guys down here on my own free will. I know what people say about me because of the hookups I’ve kicked out after the deed is done since I’ve lived here, but what those people probably don’t know is that I’m empowered by telling the men that I let inside my body to leave because it’s my space and my right to do so.

I don’t find out who’s lurking before I climb onto the broken washing machine stuffed in the corner and shimmy out the narrow window leading to the front yard, brushing off the dust, dirt, and wet grass when I stand up. I hear drunken murmuring coming from the basement and quickly round the front of the house to see what I’m working with. The party is in full swing still, and I don’t feel like going back inside.

Maybe I should feel bad about not trying harder with my housemates, but they don’t put any effort in with me either besides Raine. As far as the others are concerned, I’m the person who gives them the last of the rent they need to keep the house and occasionally cooks them dinners when I get bored and feel like utilizing their otherwise neglected kitchen.

Sighing, I hug my arms to my chest and start walking down the driveway. The night breeze is chilly against my bare arms, and I regret changing out of my work clothes in favor of a pair of worn leggings and form fitting t-shirt. Normally, I don’t step outside my room unless I’m dolled up—face full of makeup, colored hair styled, and clothes painted on. I like clothes that hug my hips and cling to my narrow hourglass curves, and makeup that fills my lips, extends my lashes, and adds a little color to my otherwise porcelain skin.

I struggle enough liking who I am knowing the things I’ve done, so I refuse to let anyone else make me feel less than the voice in my head already does by judging me for it.

With the sound of the party fading behind me, I glance down at my phone and frown when I realize it’s going to die soon.

“Great,” I murmur to myself. It wasn’t a hard day at work, but it still dragged enough to make me grouchy at the smallest things. Elena must have caught onto my foul mood because not even she pushed my buttons when she came in after school. When Bea caught sight of my baggy eyes, she almost sent me home, but I refused. It isn’t like getting sleep mid-day is any better than at night. The girls like to talk, gossip, and do God knows what else at the loudest volume possible.

I’m a block away when the wind picks up, and goosebumps pebble my skin. I curse and teeter on my feet, covered in only flip flops, and almost trip when I try avoiding a tree limb that flies at me from the sudden strong gust.

A pair of headlights blind me as a large truck passes. I don’t think much of it until I hear the tires brake suddenly. My muscles lock when I look over my shoulder and see the reverse lights flick on. It isn’t the first time some guy has tried picking me up on the side of the road. And once, when I was really desperate, I even got in. But I learned my lesson then, and don’t plan on making the same decision now.

I have something to lose.

When the newer style truck st

ops beside me and the passenger window rolls down, my lips part.