Page 93 of Lovesick
Fuuuck.
“Do you taste what you do to me?” I ask.
She hums.
“Good. Now letmetaste,” I implore, lying down on the back seat despite my brain being as fried as an egg on an Arizona sidewalk.
My girl crawls on top of me, hovering before pursing her lips and letting a string of coagulated spit and cum dangle into my mouth. The generous glob splats onto my taste buds, carrying with it salt and grit and a habit-forming addictiveness.
I groan in absolute pleasure, swallowing the surplus. “God, Mer…”
A Cheshire grin slants over her mouth. “Still think the night was a bust?”
25
MENDING BRIDGES
MERIT
Even though the house is the most peaceful it’s been in days, I feel like I’m being force-fed guilt through a tube.
My parents are completely oblivious to the fact that I’ve not only directly disobeyed them but snuck my boyfriend into the house, ran away with him under their watch, proceeded to get freak-nasty with him in a public place, and then crawled back through my window like nothing ever happened. The lies are piling up. If I don’t come clean now, I’ll lose Crew forever.
I don’t know how I’m going to approach the talk with my father, but I can start by talking with my mother. I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. I don’t even have a pre-written speech prepared or anything.
With confidence weaker than paper mâché, my belly quivers, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my lunch made an unwanted reappearance. I seek safety in the comfort of Crew’s hoodie—which, yes, I did claim with the girlfriend tax and wore for emotional support.
Walking through my cold and foreboding house on timid feet, there’s an arctic chill ingrained in my sinew—one notentirely blown in from outside, but one that has been here a long time, subterranean, rotting through the floorboards.
I slowly inch toward my mom’s bedroom, trying to use Crew’s scent as aromatherapy before possibly burning the last rickety plank of the rope bridge between mother and daughter.
My fist hovers over the door.
Okay. Here it goes. Gonna drop the Times Square-sized ball. My mother will understand, won’t she? I mean, she is the more lenient parent. Wouldn’t any normal mom be happy that her daughter found someone who makes her feel special?
Crew was never my dirty little secret, and I’m ashamed that my actions made him feel that way. I can’t always be a people pleaser. I’ve spent my whole life making sure my parents were comfortable—with my decisions, my lifestyle, even my own goddamn health. I fabricated my life around their standards, and now it’s time that I choose my own happiness.
“Mom?” I creak the partition open.
My mother looks up from her romance novel, a sweater wrapped around her frame and a small smile folding over her timeworn features. “What can I do for you, honey?”
Mentally, I planned on saying something along the lines of, “I just wanted to let you know that I’m dating Crew Calloway…Dad’s star player. I’m so sorry I kept this from you for so long. I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was worried about how you’d react. I don’t know how to tell Dad. I’m scared he won’t accept it,” but that’s not what comes out.
Fear makes my heart hemorrhage, and I curl my fingernails into my palms, blood building underneath keratin. “Uh, I just wanted your advice on something. My friend…she…she’s seeing this boy her parents don’t approve of. She wants to come clean, but she’s worried about hurting her parents’ feelings. She asked me what I thought she should do, and I didn’t know what to say.”
She closes her book. “Did her parents outrightly state that they don’t approve of him?”
The paper-thin word is macerated between my molars, leaving behind a sulfuric taste that makes me want to hurl. “Yes.”
“And did she still see him anyway?”
“Uh, yes,” I eke out, stiffening.
My mother considers the hypothetical predicament for a few seconds. “Why don’t they approve of him?”
Actually, it’s the father who doesn’t approve of him. And for no valid reason either. He’s a fun-killing tyrant who wants to keep his daughter underneath his thumb because he believes it’s the right thing to do. News flash: the right thing to do would be to trust her and come to the realization that he can’t control her for the rest of her life.
Unfortunately, my brazenness is in some sort of fugue state, and anxiety is the only thing needling me toward that radioactive finish line. “They never really gave her a reason aside from his career. He ‘works’ for her father, and I guess they believe that business and pleasure shouldn’t mix.”
