Page 19 of Our Sadie

I open my eyes, unaware of when I closed them, and unfurl my hand from around the pool cue since I’m gripping it so hard my palm hurts. The uppermost part of my stomach hurts, too, as does the area around each temple. That last one is because I’ve been clenching my teeth. I relax my jaw.

“Sadie? You okay?”

I should do my best to return to some kind of behavior that approaches normal, but instead, all I do is bite out, “Your turn.”

The game continues, and soon, it’s apparent that I’m not going to win. Hell, I’m not even going to come close to winning. Everything in my bloodline detests this, and if relatives rolling in their graves is a thing, my parents are no doubt doing precisely that right now.

I try and try. I’m no quitter. But nothing improves. Doing my very best only nets me a single point before the advantage goes right back to my opponent.

Date, I mean. Dom, my date.

I lose. Miserably. So, when he suggests a change to darts, I’m so onboard that I might as well be wearing boat shoes.

Yet the situation there isn’t much better. I’m barely able to hit the board when I’m accustomed to nailing the bullseyes dead center nine and a half times out of ten. My stats are suffering this afternoon, as is my pride. Dom attempts to cut the game short, perhaps noticing my consistent failure rate, but I’m not giving up. It ain’t over till it’s over, baby.

And then, it’s over.

With—obviously—Dom stomping my game into next week. Not that he rubs it in my face or anything. He’s too nice a guy. Yet all this coming up short on expectations is doing a real number on my internal leaderboard. Not to mention my confidence levels.

Dom: 2

Sadie: Zip

I can hear the shit now.

Dad would spout, “Is that all you’ve got? Thought you claimed you’d be the one doing all the trouncing.”

Mom wouldn’t say anything. Instead, she’d just regard me with that vicious sneer of disappointment as if I’d singlehandedly let down all the past females of every related generation. As if to remind me that my performance wasn’t good enough and that means I’m not good enough.

I once had to live that all the time. And somehow, I’m still living it, even if they’re dead and gone.

Comprehending that makes me want to rampage through this room like a bull, trashing all the game tables, knocking the neon off the walls, and smashing all the appliances and everything else to the goddamn floor.

SEVEN: Richter Scale

DOMINIC

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