Page 74 of Lovesick
“I have a sixty percent chance of living to thirty-five. Why can’t you focus on the good in that?”
“Sweetheart, there is no good in that. No parent wants to hear that their child’s well-being is dependent on some percentage. It shouldn’t be that way. You shouldn’t?—”
Caught in the throes of rage, I don’t even register that my mother is crying until my father brings her into his arms and tries to console her. Her wails are loud, visceral, unrestrained, akin to the grieving howl of a she-wolf who just lost her pup. To hear them—to know thatI’mcausing them—is like a fucking punch to the gut.
Why can’t I just admit that I messed up? Am I really that stubborn and self-involved? I may have come to accept that I’ll die one day, but that doesn’t mean my parents have. They’re right about one thing—I’ll never understand the immense sorrow they feel when they’re reminded of my limited time on earth.
My fury shape-shifts into a mirror image of my mom’s anguish, and the first of my tears fall down my cheek, leaving a sticky web where they ultimately evaporate into the sterile air.
I’ve never screamed at my parents like that before. When it comes to alcohol intake, I’m always mindful when I go to bars. I seriously screwed up, and I don’t even have the courage to admit it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pawing away the rills that come steadier. My breath rattles as congestion fills my nose, and a swath of heat brutalizes my head, draining my water retention. Regret bites at me, teethes on my brittle edges like they’re nothing but a chew toy.
My mother still has her face pressed into my father’s chest, curling the back of his shirt in her hands. There’s no end in sight of the shrill cries that inundate our home. My father’s eyes stray to me as he embraces my mom—almost like he’s protecting her from my cruel words.
How have I turned into the bad guy here?
“If you’re not going to regulate your actions while you live with Irelyn, then I think we need to reassess that arrangement.”
My nebulous thoughts are going so fast that I can’t catch them. “What are you saying?”
The disappointed glare in my dad’s shiny eyes is one I’ve never seen before, and I’m the last person I thought would be on the receiving end of it.
“I’m saying that until you can respect the boundaries we’ve set in place for you, you need to move back home. End of discussion.”
Move back home? I…I can’t. I don’t want to. I’ll be miserable here. Is he crazy? He can’t just force me to move back.
“That’s not fair!” I scream, finally finding my footing and rising to a stance, my chair toppling over from the momentum. The tears are a revolving door—the harder I wipe them away, the more they reappear, merging with runnels of saliva and snot. “What? You’re just going to take my privacy away?”
My mother steps away to regain her bearings, which pretty much lets my dad off the goddamn leash.
“Ever since you moved here, you’ve changed, Merit. I don’t recognize my own daughter. You’re lying, you’re partying, you’re drinking. You used to be able to tell us anything,” he confesses.
“Because I can’t trust you guys anymore! I can’t trust you not to blow up at me like you’re doing right now. News flash, Dad, I drank and partied at Rutgers. You’re the one ruining our relationship by setting rules for me like some fucking dictator!”
“You willnotcurse at me. We allowed you to drink and party sparingly at Rutgers because we wanted you to have some semblance of normalcy. Knowing what we know now, we’re not going to make that same mistake again.”
“Oh, so the second I slip up, you go ballistic? How is that fair? I’ve been doing everything you want—keeping my grades up, dancing recreationally.”
“You don’t know what a real dictatorship is. We only have a few rules here—all of them regarding your health—and you’ve disrespected both me and your mother by not following them.”
I want to bang my fists against his chest. I have years and years of repressed rage built up because I’ve spent my whole life trying to be perfectly subservient, but now, it feels like the only way I’ll get my parents to hear me is if I explode.
So I do.
I collapse like a supernova, emitting a flashbang so bright that someone from space could see it, and everything in my orbit gets vaporized in a matter of seconds.
“I’m not moving back home, and I’m not adhering to your stupid rules just so you can feel like you’re good parents!”
Unfortunately, my father has a magnetic field that’s always been able to withstand my fiery anger. “You either move back home or we stop paying for your college tuition. Your choice.”
In that single moment, the world freezes.
There’s nothing I can say to change his mind. I thought moving here would be different. I was trying to make good out of an already-terrible situation, but all I’ve done is send us a million steps backwards. How am I supposed to choose between my independence and my academics? I feel so trapped—in my head, my body, my house.
“You can’t do that,” I splutter.
“I can, and I will. I’m your father. It doesn’t matter what roof you live under, I have the final say.”
