Page 42 of Spicy Ever After
I text Beck. Because, even though I’ve never been stood up, I can’t imagine it feels very good, and I like Beck. I want him to feel good. So I don’t want him worrying that I might stand him up.
Because no way would I do that.
Me: RUNNING A FEW MINUTES LATE. SORRY.
With the Farmer’s Market as packed as it is, I don’t expect an immediate response, so I’m surprised when my phone buzzes.
Beck: All good. Thanks for letting me know. Can’t wait to see you.
And there it is.
That delicious, tingly little tugging in my chest that happens damn near every time he texts me.
Honestly, that little unnamable rush and the thought that I’d get to see him again—that we’d have the Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date—have helped to make the last three days bearable.
The October Skirmish is no longer just a skirmish.
Yet, I can’t really call it a war. War implies two opposing forces, each strong enough to be a tactical threat to the other.
But I am outnumbered. Outgunned. Outmaneuvered.
I am under siege.
It is the October Siege.
Clearly, I lost the Battle of Bon Temps, but I haven’t surrendered.
If Grandma Eloise is holding her breath for an apology, she has oxygen starvation to look forward to.
But when Dad heard my voicemail, his first action was to call Mom.
Ouch.
That was a blow.
They closed ranks. A clear drawing of alliances and battle grounds that leaves me?—
Well…
Alone.
Wednesday night was awful. Not because they came at me for the cranky old twat comment. But because they actually acknowledged that they, in fact, have thought about finding a group home for me.
And, worse than that, I “shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Because there’s too much going on right now with Margaret’s wedding, so we aren’t discussing it until later.”
See? Under siege.
That’s why texting with Beck—especially at night when I do my best catastrophizing—has been a kind of emotional lifeboat the last few days.
Because my parents don’t think I can live on my own.
But they clearly don’t want to live with me, either.
And, according to them, I’m not supposed to worry about it.
Ha!
