To how well she did this. How scared I am I'll mess it up. How hard it will be doing it alone.
But that's better.
No one to leave.
No one to abandon me.
No men to disappoint me.
Why do they always disappoint me so thoroughly?
Sunday evening, I spend an hour on the beach. The cold seeps through my black hoodie, but I don't mind. Between the shining stars, the crashing waves, and the soft moonlight, it's a beautiful night.
The kind of night you spend with a lover.
Where you drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness.
Or, well… for other things.
I give up on blocking out thoughts. Pause my podcast. Listen to the roar of the waves.
They're so steady. Crash, recede, crash, recede. The same pattern, over and over again, until the end of time.
What's it like to feel that steady? That stable? That sure?
Of course, the ocean isn't a person. It doesn't feel anything. It's a force of nature, controlled by gravity the way I am.
But, still, to have that power, that fury…
The roar fades to white noise as I leave the sand, walk the blocks to our place.
Forest is sitting at the dining table, hands around a mug of coffee, eyes on me.
It's not the first time he's sat here, waiting for me, and it's not going to be the last.
This conversation is not happening.
"I need to shower." I pull my hoodie over my head. Toss it on the couch. Cross the room.
He stands. Gets in front of me. "We need to talk."
"Talk? You mean that thing where two people get equal say in a conversation? I didn't realize you understood that concept."
"Ariel."
"I fuck who I want."
"Did I say—"
"Yes." I push my brother.
Stupid strong basketball player. He doesn't budge.
God, I really need to start lifting. So I can hold my own against assholes who think they can dictate my life.
"Please move." I blink and see red. Forest is there, in one of his usuallook at me, I'm an aloof tattoo artistoutfits. Jeans and a t-shirt. Sneakers. But God knows what color they are. Everything is red. It's fury. It's righteous indignation.
I am the Samuel L. Jackson character in a movie.