Page 22 of Meet Cute

It’s six in the morning, but she manages to reply almost instantly. That probably—no, definitely—means she’s been worried about me for who knows how long. You can’t be dependent on other people if you push away all your friends, Duncan.

Haley

thats great but thats not an excuse. you really had me worried, dunk.

im sorry. ill try not to do it again.

gonna need a little bit better than a “try”

like im not kidding that was genuinely scary. what would i do without you?

She’d do a lot without me. Have a normal life with her normal friends, and her normal family who care about her. I’m just a blip in her life that serves as a reminder that things could always be worse, because they really could—right?

Of course it’s not her fault things turned out this way, but she’d never understand it in a million years. No one would. But again, it’s not her fault. I can’t be mad at her. That’s stupid.

i promise, haley.

okay. i have to get ready for work now. l love u dunky poo

i love you too lol

And I do. I really do. I wish I wasn’t so prone to negativity all the time. I'm predisposed to feeling so awful about everything and anything at the drop of a hat. She starts typing, but before her response comes through my phone screen flashes with a picture I sure as hell wasn’t ready to see just yet.

My mom’s happy face. Bright brown eyes sparkling with adoration while I awkwardly stand there in my oversized graduation gown. She’s so proud of me that it’s etched into the wrinkles of her tanned skin. So unlike how she was the last time I saw her, fuck—you'd swear she hated me.

Everything becomes a blur as my stomach lurches forward. The red decline button is so appealing, but if I don’t answer it she might not ever call me again. What does she even want? To apologize? To yell at me some more?

Only one way to find out.

SEVENTEEN

“...Hello?” As though I’m twelve years old again, my voice is small. Small, helpless, and shaky. All the makings of a socially awkward tween who never learned how to properly interact with people. “Mom?”

All I hear is rustling on the other end until she clears her throat and speaks in that same distant voice she’s had for the past year. “Duncan?”

“Yeah…?”

“How have you been, baby? You’re feeling better after what happened?”

“...No, mom.”

The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity. It’s exactly how I imagine being in Hell. “I wanted to talk to you, sweetheart. Are you… are you up for that?”

She hasn’t even said anything important and my eyes are already getting misty. “About what…?”

“Well, you see…” Another beat of hesitation tells me this won’t be good. Nothing about this can be good. “I was talking with your father, and… We might have found a solution.”

A solution to what? I should be asking her that, but part of me is still in disbelief that I’m even talking to her right now. “What do you… Mom, what are you talking about?”

“The church, baby.”

She keeps talking but for me everything is silent save for the sound of my own breathing. The church? The fuck does she mean the church? I know she isn’t referring to anything like that. I know it. She couldn’t be. My own mother would never say that.

Yes, she humiliated me in front of my entire family, but certainly she isn’t implying I go to conversion therapy to “fix” myself. That can’t be, can it? My mouth opens but no words are found, only ugly uneven breathing.

“Duncan?” Her voice is so grating through the phone speaker. “Duncan, baby? Are you okay? You need to breathe. You—”

“What are you saying?”