Page 94 of My Merry Mistake
Oh. That’s unexpected. “What about her?”
“She reminds me of me.”
Raya
I’m not sure what it is—the quiet in the car, the fact that we’re driving at a snail’s pace, or simply that Finn cared enough to ask how I’m doing. Something most people don’t bother to do. Something Justin definitely doesn’t do.
I get it. I mean, my answer will always be the same—“Fine.”
I’m always “fine.”
And if I’m not, I make myself. It’s in my DNA.
If I had to guess, it’s in Grace’s too. But seeing her take care of her brothers—so competent, but so young—has me feeling out of sorts.
If I had to guess, her mom has no idea she’s putting all this pressure on herself. She’s probably just thankful to have the help.
I’m not a person who analyzes why I am the way I am, but watching Grace, all I could think was—What does she do for fun?
Followed by—What do I do for fun?
Stupid Finn is getting in my head.
“I can see the similarities,” Finn says. “You’re both cranky little perfectionists.”
I laugh out loud. “Yeah, that. But also—she’s just a kid. She shouldn’t have to take care of anyone.”
“I don’t think she has to,” he says. “I think she just does.”
That lands. Because the same could’ve been said of me when I was her age. Nobody asked me to help with my sisters. Nobody told me I needed to be perfect and follow the rules. The pressure I’ve put on myself to achieve—that’s mine to own.
I don’t know when it started, I only know it’s been there for as long as I can remember.
I became the person who watched out for everyone, the person on high alert in case there was a crisis. I became independent and strong. The girl who didn’t need anyone for anything ever. And once that’s who I was, I owned that identity.
And now I’m not sure how to soften it.
“She’s like an adult in a tiny body,” Finn says. “Which is probably how you were, right? You were a full-fledged adult at age ten, and my maturity peaked when I was twelve.”
I bark out a laugh.
He grins. “Someday I’ll tell you the story of how me and my brothers flipped our dad’s tractor during a midnight joyride across the creek.”
I laugh again, probably because I need to. “Do you think you’ll ever have a day where you grow up?”
“I hope not,” he says, then smiles again.
And I think,it’s a nice smile.
He goes back to watching the road.
I want to ask him how it feels to be the only person who’s seen the vulnerable side of me, but I wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction. Instead, I let out a dramatic sigh and say, “Can you go around this truck?”
He shakes his head. “You’re so impatient.”
“And you drive like a grandma who just took a Benadryl.”
He chuckles. “Do other people know that you can be funny?”
