as I would have guessed, so I’m kind of wondering what’s going on with that as well.” Dad’s brown eyes stare into my darker ones. He’s pretty much hit on everything—aside from my disastrous day today. The signs of that incident are hiding under a book, a pile of ice, my hoodie, and what I hope is a perfectly neutral expression.
“Dad, I think your job as a shrink is bleeding into your role as my father. And honestly.” I smirk. “I’m a little concerned.” Ha! Diversion. That should be good.
He smiles. “Fine. But I’m worried about you. I’m not a shrink, I’m a therapist. And please, please , if something’s going on let me or your mother know, okay?” He stands up, his eyes still on me, waiting for a response.
“Okay.” I give him what I hope is another relaxed, reassuring smile as he steps out of my room. Then I allow myself to flop back over.
Talk to my mother? Funny. As much as I love my mom, she doesn’t notice things, not the way they really are. I sometimes wonder if she wanted to be a mom, or if it was really my dad who pushed to have kids. She loves me, I know this, so I’m not bothered. She just somehow doesn’t fit the mother stereotype I have in my head.
The other thing is that if I did talk, all they’d do is overreact. No one wants to hear about their little girl trying to come up with the courage to have sex. And both of them would freak if they knew what happened with Shawn today. I’m still sort of freaked about it. Even though I know it was a total fluke. It has to be.
***
The bruise just above my wrist is a startling rainbow of purple and blue, and shots of pain go up my arm as I turn my hand. My chest aches at the thought of Shawn so angry, and I have to blink back tears. If I didn’t have a bruise to prove it, I might not believe Shawn could do something like this. He hurt me. The Shawn who loves me, hurt me.
I run my good hand through my dresser drawers, throwing everything onto my bed in frustration. Now I’m on the floor, and searching the depths of my closet. I jerk out an old white, long sleeved tee.
It’s like I’m suddenly in someone else’s life, in desperate need of distraction. I slide on my shirt, making sure the sleeves are long enough for my lanky arms. When I check the mirror my eyes are only slightly red. I suck in a deep breath. Okay. I can do this.
I hoist my bag carefully onto my shoulders. My wrist isn’t broken because I can move my hand, but he held on a lot tighter than I thought he did when it happened. I’m not sure where we stand right now. We didn’t talk or text after he left last night.
When I open my front door Shawn’s standing there, quiet, with his hands in his pockets. Waiting. I suck in a breath. My heart is fluttering and my mind is uncertain.
His eyes are soft, sad, and sorry. And I’m more shocked than mad, really. Maybe everything yesterday caught us both by surprise. Seeing his apologetic face begins to melt my leftover frustration and fear.
The silence between us feels like an apology—he’s not even trying to defend himself.
“Hey.” I test the waters first.
“I’m so sorry.” His eyes catch mine. His breathing sounds off as he stares at the ground.
I reach out to him. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.” And I’m not sure if I mean it or not, but I really want Shawn and I to be back to normal.
His hand touches my wrist and I wince, both in fear of his reaction and because it’s still that sensitive. Maybe I should have gone for the hoodie so I could have used more ice today.
His brows come together. His fingers hold mine gently as he turns my hand palm up and tugs at my sleeve. My heart hits hard, what will he think?
The bruise is a sharp contrast against the white of my shirt and pale skin.
His hand covers his mouth as he lets go of my fingers. “Oh, God.” He leans over, resting his hands on his knees, and part of me thinks he might pass out or throw up. Just when I start to move toward
“Dad, I think your job as a shrink is bleeding into your role as my father. And honestly.” I smirk. “I’m a little concerned.” Ha! Diversion. That should be good.
He smiles. “Fine. But I’m worried about you. I’m not a shrink, I’m a therapist. And please, please , if something’s going on let me or your mother know, okay?” He stands up, his eyes still on me, waiting for a response.
“Okay.” I give him what I hope is another relaxed, reassuring smile as he steps out of my room. Then I allow myself to flop back over.
Talk to my mother? Funny. As much as I love my mom, she doesn’t notice things, not the way they really are. I sometimes wonder if she wanted to be a mom, or if it was really my dad who pushed to have kids. She loves me, I know this, so I’m not bothered. She just somehow doesn’t fit the mother stereotype I have in my head.
The other thing is that if I did talk, all they’d do is overreact. No one wants to hear about their little girl trying to come up with the courage to have sex. And both of them would freak if they knew what happened with Shawn today. I’m still sort of freaked about it. Even though I know it was a total fluke. It has to be.
***
The bruise just above my wrist is a startling rainbow of purple and blue, and shots of pain go up my arm as I turn my hand. My chest aches at the thought of Shawn so angry, and I have to blink back tears. If I didn’t have a bruise to prove it, I might not believe Shawn could do something like this. He hurt me. The Shawn who loves me, hurt me.
I run my good hand through my dresser drawers, throwing everything onto my bed in frustration. Now I’m on the floor, and searching the depths of my closet. I jerk out an old white, long sleeved tee.
It’s like I’m suddenly in someone else’s life, in desperate need of distraction. I slide on my shirt, making sure the sleeves are long enough for my lanky arms. When I check the mirror my eyes are only slightly red. I suck in a deep breath. Okay. I can do this.
I hoist my bag carefully onto my shoulders. My wrist isn’t broken because I can move my hand, but he held on a lot tighter than I thought he did when it happened. I’m not sure where we stand right now. We didn’t talk or text after he left last night.
When I open my front door Shawn’s standing there, quiet, with his hands in his pockets. Waiting. I suck in a breath. My heart is fluttering and my mind is uncertain.
His eyes are soft, sad, and sorry. And I’m more shocked than mad, really. Maybe everything yesterday caught us both by surprise. Seeing his apologetic face begins to melt my leftover frustration and fear.
The silence between us feels like an apology—he’s not even trying to defend himself.
“Hey.” I test the waters first.
“I’m so sorry.” His eyes catch mine. His breathing sounds off as he stares at the ground.
I reach out to him. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.” And I’m not sure if I mean it or not, but I really want Shawn and I to be back to normal.
His hand touches my wrist and I wince, both in fear of his reaction and because it’s still that sensitive. Maybe I should have gone for the hoodie so I could have used more ice today.
His brows come together. His fingers hold mine gently as he turns my hand palm up and tugs at my sleeve. My heart hits hard, what will he think?
The bruise is a sharp contrast against the white of my shirt and pale skin.
His hand covers his mouth as he lets go of my fingers. “Oh, God.” He leans over, resting his hands on his knees, and part of me thinks he might pass out or throw up. Just when I start to move toward
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