Page 36 of Fight For Me

“Are you unhappy with the show?” Mom asks.

“It’s not too late to back out,” Dad adds.

That’s totally not true—I have the contract to prove it. “I am not backing out. It just takes some getting used to. I thought a little break would be nice.”

I can tell they’re unconvinced. “So, tell me more about this restaurant,” I say, hoping to change the subject. Once my mom gets going on food, there’s no stopping her. Few things offend her more than paltry portion sizes. The doorbell rings and Dad goes to get the delivery while Mom and I head to the kitchen. She’s still bitching about the “three measly tablespoons of pureed peas they tried to pass off as a soup course” when Dad comes through with the food.

The three of us sit at the table and Mom passes around the burgers and fries. Without saying a word, Dad pulls her legs up so her feet are draped over his lap. He removes her heels and rubs her arches with one hand while he eats with the other. The entire thing is completely automatic, natural, like he does it every day—because he pretty much does.

I love the way my parents love each other. But lately, it’s been a little hard, watching these displays of their easy, well-practiced affection, these examples of the way they take care of each other. It still makes me happy but it also makes my chest ache with something like loneliness. I know it’s a rare thing, what they have. I don’t think many people get to experience anything like it.

I feel a flick on my wrist and I jerk with a start, realizing that I’ve been sitting in contemplative silence for a few beats too long. My dad’s eyebrows are raised. “Spill, Allie girl. What’s going on with the show?”

I shift in my chair. I’ve never been good at outright lying to my parents. It used to drive Everly crazy whenever we tried to get away with anything as teenagers—they could usually tell just by looking at me when I wasn’t telling the truth.

I decide not to try now. “It’s just weird,” I tell them. “Things are a lot more scripted than I realized. Nothing really feels natural. They ask us to re-enact stuff that’s already happened, they feed us lines. It feels like…well, I guess it feels like we’re constantly performing.” I shrug. “It’s a little stressful.”

“Are you sleeping?” my mom asks, voice a little too sharp.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I sigh. “I’ve been getting five or six hours.”

“You’re using your sleep tracker?” Dad asks.

“Every night.”

They’re both quiet, and I curse myself for bringing up my stress level. Now they’re going to worry about me.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Dad asks in an overly casual voice. “That way you can feel comfortable taking your meds.”

I clench my teeth. It isn’t a terrible idea. I’ve tried pretty much every sleeping pill in existence over the years. The one that works the best is also one that occasionally causes me to sleep walk. I’ve gotten up to some weird shit while on that medication. My mom once found me giving my old teddy bear a bubble bath. I’ve never been comfortable taking it anywhere but at home, where I know they’re around to keep an eye on me. That’s the main reason I lived here through college.

But moving to the condo was supposed to be about me taking control of my life. I don’t want to come crawling back to sleep here after only a week.

“Five or six hours of sleep isn’t bad for me,” I tell them. “Let’s save the heavy meds in case it gets worse.”

We spend the rest of the meal talking about the store. That’s the one part of the show that hasn’t bothered me. We’ve been over at the site every day this week, painting and getting set up. The place is starting to take shape, and I can envision the day when we’ll finally open it and show the world what we’ve been working on.

It’s after eleven when my dad makes a big show of yawning and stretching his arms. I give him a look. “Is that my cue to leave?”

“Ignore your father,” Mom says.

“But it’sdate night,” he whines, and I burst out laughing.

“Dad, are you saying I’m cramping your style?”

“You’re kind of screwing with my game, kid,” he says, completely unabashed.

“Levi!” Mom snaps, but I only laugh harder as I stand.

“What?” he asks innocently. “I just said it was date night. It’s not like I said I was hoping to get lai—”

“La la la,” I shout as loudly as I can, slapping my hands over my ears.

“Stop traumatizing our child,” Mom says, but I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.