Page 20 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
Dad is the total opposite of Mom. According to him, when shit happens, you “pull yourself up by the bootstraps.” Which means he usually ends up pissed at both of us, Mom for babying me, and me for telling her to stop. His way might sound harsh, but I don’t want sympathy and I don’t want help. I may not be able to see Mom’s expression, but I know from her tone that she’s looking at me like I’m some pathetic thing.
I push away from her and move as fast as I can through the living room to the kitchen. I ignore the hushed argument behind me as I slide into my seat. There’s a white plate on the dark tabletop, and a bowl of something just to my left.
When Mom and Dad come in a minute later, I’m not sure what’s on my plate, but I’ve already served myself.
“Oh, good job, sweetie,” she says like I’m in kindergarten. At least she’s stopped cutting my meat.
I ignore her and we eat in strained silence—chicken in some kind of spicy sauce. When I’m done, I go to the sink and rinse my plate. When I set it on the counter, it clanks against another plate, and I’m not convinced at least one of them doesn’t break.
And I hate myself a little more.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell them on my way out of the kitchen so they’ll leave me alone.
“Good night, sweetie!” Mom calls after me. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
Oh, God.
I go through my bathroom routine, then change and climb into bed. I tug my Mac into my lap and type “plastic surgery for facial scarring” into the search window. For the hundredth time, I read the articles. The before and after shots aren’t all that helpful, because I can’t make out any detail, but all the testimonials say that they feel so much better about themselves.
I want to feel better about myself. I want to be able to stand in front of Rick and have a face-to-face conversation without him gagging.
But they won’t even start the process for another few months. And then there’s all the healing. I can’t put him off that long. I’d rather he thinks I’m a bitch than to know the truth. I need to end our little . . . whatever we’re doing.
I close my laptop and shove it to the other side of my double bed, then cry silently into my pillow until I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open.
I JERK AWAKE with the explosion still ringing in my ears and hear the screams even after my eyes are open. I know where I am, of course, but it doesn’t change where my subconscious takes me when it’s in charge. Mom has brought me to my Monday, Wednesday, Friday psychiatric appointments religiously. They’re not helping.
I wipe the sweat off my face with the hem of the sheet and pull myself up to a sitting position as my heart rate starts to slow and the adrenaline rush ebbs. It’s light out, but I have no idea what time it is. And, honestly, it doesn’t really matter. It’s Thursday, which means I have no appointments, and Rick won’t call till later.
I drag myself through the shower and tug on some clothes, then towel dry my hair. It’s really just short black fringe, growing back from where they shaved my head when they put me back together.
I grab my Mac and flick over to my audio book library, starting my current book where I left off. I press in my earbuds and lay back across my pillows. I’m just getting comfortable when a hand nudges my bent knee.
I rip out an earbud. “What, Mom?”
“You have a visitor.” She says it so softly, with a tinge of hope, but she may as well have dropped another bomb.
My whole body gasps as I sit and spin to face the window, my hand reflexively flying to my face to cover my scars. “Mom! No! I don’t want to see anyone.”
The hinges whine as the door swings wider.
“V?”
It’s the voice I dream about, when I’m not dreaming about explosions. The voice that makes me smile when I’m sure there’s no happiness left in the world. The voice I live for.
And I die inside when I hear it.
Two
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” I ask, the words catching in my throat.
“I had to see you, V. I couldn’t wait two more weeks.”
I pray for the floor to open up and swallow me. “I’m . . . not feeling good. You need to go.”
It’s not a lie. I’m going to throw up.
Rick’s voice is closer when he speaks again. “I just needed to—”
