I doubt he’d ever stop supporting me financially, but I hate disappointing him. Not that that’s stopped me from doing it in the past . . . but I always feel like crap afterward.
My dad just loves too much. He loved my mom even after she left him, and I think he still loves her now. He blames himself for her leaving, and that makes me want to bash her head in with a rock. When I was eleven, she had an affair with some loser she went to high school with and she eventually ran off with him to Vegas. The most contact she’s had with me since then is a Facebook friend request I promptly declined before blocking her.
She didn’t love my dad enough, but that’s not what makes me hate her. What makes me hate her is that she pretended she did. She made vows she didn’t keep and left my dad to raise me alone. Sometimes, I wonder if the reason he loves me so much is that I’m a part of her, and every day, I’m worried I’ll turn out just like her.
Which is why I’m never saying those three toxic words to anyone. Ever.
Joel would never want me to say them, which is part of why I can’t get him out of my head. After five grueling hours of half-assed customer service and another twenty minutes of nightmare traffic, I flick on the switch of my room, kick my work shoes off, and fall face-first onto my bed. I’ve wiggled my phone out of my back pocket so many times tonight that I’m surprised I don’t have brush-burn on my ass, but that doesn’t stop me from wiggling it out one more time and groaning when I don’t see any missed texts or calls from the idiot guitarist who’s apparently lost my number.
With my cheek smushed against my comforter, I pull his name up on my screen and hover my thumb over his number, fighting the urge to call him and ask him to come over. With an irritated growl, I let the phone fall back to the bed and close my eyes.
I’m having a weird dream about my phone ringing when I hear, “Hello?”
I’m still half-sleeping when I open my eyes. I’m still fully clothed. I’m on top of my covers instead of under them.
“Hellooo?” the familiar voice asks again.
I push myself away from my mattress and stare at my phone. Joel’s name is on my screen, along with a timer that ticks from 12 seconds to 13, 14, 15.
“Anyone there?”
OH. MY. GOD. I fucking face-dialed him! In my sleep! WHO DOES THAT?!
I hit the button to end the call as quickly as humanly possible, but my phone starts ringing a few seconds later and I end up just sitting there staring at it like it’s possessed by the devil. After three rings, I realize I need to pick it up or risk having this situation get even more awkward than it already is.
“Hello?” I answer as nonchalantly as possible, trying not to sound like a complete spaz who face-dials people in her sleep.
“Did you just call me and hang up?” Joel asks, and I wish there was a wall within head-banging distance because face-palming really just isn’t going to cut it this time.
“Why the hell would I call you and hang up?”
“Because you secretly love me and wanted to hear my voice?”
He’s joking, but I bristle anyway. “I must have butt-dialed you. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Joel chuckles. “So your butt is secretly in love with me. Interesting.”
“Hanging up now.”
“I’m glad your butt called,” he continues, ignoring my idle threat. “I was actually just thinking about it.”
I’m not sure whether to giggle or roll my eyes, so instead I say nothing.
“Come pick me up.”
I want to. I sincerely, desperately want to. Instead, I counter with, “Get a car.”
“Come on. I miss you.”
The crazy part of me wants to ask him why he hasn’t called then, but the rational part knows he’s just saying whatever he needs to say to get what he wants tonight. And Joel only ever wants one thing. “I’m tired. I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Hot date?” he jokes, but he has no idea how happy I am he just asked that.
“I guess you could call it that.” I grin as I steal the upper hand in our conversation.
“I thought you had to work?”
“I did.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence, and then I brave teasing, “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Why would I be jealous?” he counters. “I had a ‘hot date’ myself last night.” When I can’t even muster a response to that, he says, “Are you jealous?”
“Oh, insanely,” I counter, hoping he doesn’t realize how honest I’m being. I feel like I need a padded room and ice cream. A shit-ton of ice cream with sedative sprinkles.
“Seriously . . . come pick me up.”
“Seriously, why don’t you have a car?”
“Don’t need one.”
“You need one right now, don’t you? Because I’m not coming to get you.”
“Why not?”
“To prove that you need a car. You have money, Joel. Why don’t you get a car or an apartment? You make no sense.” I hug my covers tight, relieved that I’m finally hearing the sound of his voice after a full week and a half of wanting nothing else.
“Life is more fun when you don’t have those things,” he insists.