The Revenge Games Duet
“I have no choice. I can’t support paying for Mama’s care and keep the house. Besides, it’ll be nice to start fresh somewhere.”
She turns to face me, throwing the newspaper onto the floor. The bed creaks again, annoying yet comforting because it’s my bed. The same bed I have slept in since I was a kid.
“You’re lying. You hate fresh starts. You’re a homebody and moving to a different state, especially California, terrifies you.”
I nod my head quietly. I do hate fresh starts and am a homebody. For the past five years, I have done nothing but study and work. I have zero social life besides hanging out with Phoebe and my boyfriend, Liam. My weekends consist of more work, taking care of the house, and making sure my brother stays out of trouble.
I have worked hard on bettering myself and providing for Mama in her time of need. So what if I’m not hitting the clubs and partying like everyone else my age. I’ve been there, done that. Illegally, yet still, it’s not like I haven’t tasted what it’s like to walk on the wild side.
I walked.
I fell.
And now I’m back up.
“I have to do this.” I bury my head into Phoebe’s side, knowing I will miss her like crazy. “You can come visit, and I’m sure I’ll come back home for the holidays.”
“It’s not the same. I’m selfish and need my best friend.”
I smile into her shirt, inhaling the smell of cinnamon. A scent she purchased online after reading some article on how to attract men. As silly as it may seem, it’s so Phoebe. Naïve and waiting to land her prince charming.
“I promise nothing will change between us,” I reassure her.
“Pinkie swear it.” She holds up her pinkie finger, and I raise mine to link with hers.
“I pinkie swear.”
The radio sounds in the background, the local station playing the usual Friday afternoon ’90s mix. I grab the hairbrush from the top of the suitcase and sing to the tunes of Backstreet Boys. Phoebe can’t help herself, jumping off the bed and dancing in the room while we both belt out the chorus—off-key—laughing until my brother bangs against the wall.
The song ends, the same time that we both stare at each other with clouded eyes. I’m the first to turn away, avoiding the sadness that I’m forcing to bury deep down inside because if I allow myself to feel the extent of it, I will never leave.
I try to distract myself by folding a sweater until Phoebe’s arms wrap around my waist, her face buried into my hair. The sweater slips out of my hands as I pull her into me while we both begin to cry.
Phoebe pulls away first, wiping my old, ragged t-shirt of the stains she left behind. When we both wipe our faces with the backs of our sleeves, we smile, staring into the mirror and laughing at our panda eyes.
Phoebe’s more than a best friend—she’s my family.
I look at the time on the wall—it’s just after four in the afternoon.
“Phoebe, I have one more thing I need to do before I leave.”
You can see the sympathy in her eyes. It isn’t only saying goodbye to Phoebe but to my boyfriend, Liam. I’ve been dreading this since the moment leaving became a reality.
“You think you guys will last?”
Here’s the thing about hope—we cling to it and wish to the stars above that it’ll all work out. Liam isn’t the type of man to force me to do anything. Quite the opposite. He supports my decisions even if it means leaving him behind.
“I sure hope so.”
Chapter Three
I left Phoebe back at the house with my bags packed and ready to go.
The walk into town is short, but a much-needed one as I attempt to clear my thoughts and think about what I need to say to the man who has been my boyfriend for the past four years.
There’s the usual clinking and clanking coming from the garage, and without even calling his name, Liam slides out from beneath the car knowing I’m here. Instead of saying goodbye inside, I motion for him to follo
w me as I walk around the worn-out building and sit on our bench. The same bench where he asked me to marry him last year. Of course, I said no. I’m not ready for marriage. Twenty-five seems too young to settle down even though it has become common over the past few years. It seems like there are weddings after weddings, and all those marriages are high school and college friends the same age as me.