Page 65 of I Love to Hate You
“I saw the way he was looking at me. He looked down on me, but he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. All he knows is whatever bullshit you tell him, and I don’t care if he slaughtered ten men to protect you, he’s not welcome back here.”
“Why can’t you ever just let me be happy?” I snap. My entire body aches as I swing my legs over the side of bed and stare at the drunk asshole who has nothing left to offer me but pain and frustration. “Even in this environment and after losing my mother, I graduated from college and have an internship at a great marketing firm. I’m doing well for myself, and all you do is drag me down. The anger and resentment I’ve felt for so long and taken out on people comes from you. That’s all I feel—anger and resentment—because that’s all you let me feel, and I don’t want to anymore. If you want to drink your life away, that’s fine, but let me be happy, Dad. Please.”
“Fuck your happiness,” he snaps. “How can you even mention happiness to me with the ten-year anniversary of your mother’s death coming up? How dare you try to be happy right now. Your mother is worthy of sadness.”
“Mom wouldn’t want us to be sadforever,” I bellow, causing so much pain in my head that I can barely see straight. “Instead of using the ten-year anniversary as an excuse to be sad, maybe you should use it as motivation to do better for her. That’s what she would want.”
My father scoffs. “You don’t know what she’d want. You didn’t know her like I did.”
“Of course not, because I wasn’t married to her, but she was my mother.”
“And you killed her.”
“No, I didn’t,” I bark, as tears sting my eyes. “She died in a car accident, and it wasn’t my fault.”
“But you’re the reason she was in that car,” he says, pointing a trembling finger at me, and beating me in the head with the same argument he’s been using for over nine years. When I don’t respond, he turns on his heel and steps onto the first stair before looking over his shoulder at me. “You should be sadder than me.”
I watch him slowly walk up the stairs, holding onto the handrail for dear life until he reaches the top and slams my door shut. Dread fills my gut, mixing mental pain with the physical pain I already feel, and I curl into a ball as I lay back down on my side. A tear falls out of my right eye, immediately wetting the pillow, and I realize that what I’m feeling isn’t just sadness. I’m exhausted. My father exhausts me and makes me feel like giving up. As much as he wants me out of the house, I want to be away from him just as much, because no one has ever managed to bring me down the way he does.
Before the resentment can take over and send me into another pit of despair, my phone begins to ring at my feet. My first thought is to not answer it, but I decide to endure the pain of reaching for it, and when I answer, I’m glad I did.
“Hey,” Kendrick’s voice croons in my ear. While it doesn’t completely wash away everything my dad just said, it softens the blows a bit.
I smile when I reply, “Hey.”
“Are you okay?” he immediately asks.
I attempt to chuckle, but it doesn’t feel good. “It’s that obvious right off the bat, huh?”
Kendrick is silent for a moment before saying, “Do I need to come over?”
As much as I wish I could be with him right now, I decide not to cause any more drama for the night.
“No, it’s okay,” I answer.
“Maya, I will gladly come over and handle a situation if a situation needs to be handled. Did he put his hands on you?”
“No. Never,” I say, before my frown gives way to a smirk. “But of course you would be interested in that since you’ve become the hand serial killer.”
“Thewhat?”
“You heard me, finger murderer.”
Kendrick laughs. “You are something else, you know that? You answer the phone sounding all sad, and now you’re calling me a finger murderer.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I say, shrugging as I smile. “You’re easy to joke around with, and I need that after the bullshit my dad just said to me.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. I love joking around with you, too,” he says, before turning serious. “But what did your father say?”
“Just more shit about my mother and the reason she died,” I reply.
“There is noreason she died,” Kendrick immediately says. “Sometimes shit just happens, and while that doesn’t make anyone feel better about it happening, it does take away the need to blame someone and fill yourself with resentment like your dad has. Look, I don’t know the guy, and I only just learned about your relationship with him, but I’m already tired of his bullshit.”
“Imagine how I feel. Plus, the ten-year anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up in a few days, so he’s being extra. He gets this way every time, and I certainly have my own issues with it every year, too, but this year feels different. There’s a giant, ominous cloud hovering over our house, and it feels like it’s about to storm like never before. I just want to get out of here.”
Kendrick sighs. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I wish there was something I could do, but I understand that dealing with death is next level grief.”
“You’re dealing with your own grief,” I say, “and it’s more recent than mine.”
