Waking up in my childhood bedroom isn’t anything like what you see on television. My room isn’t bubblegum pink with posters of boy bands adorning the walls. My prom queen tiara isn’t hanging from my vanity with my singing trophies. Nothing like that exists in this room. Now, this is where guests sleep. They crawl into a queen-sized bed with decorative pillows. They can watch TV on the flat screen mounted to the wall. They never know that this used to be a girl’s room.
The walls are yellow, it’s calming and inviting according to my mom. I have no problem sleeping here. In fact, I like it. It brings back memories. Sometimes I miss the safety of my parents' house. I bury myself deeper into the pillows. I don’t want to start the day. I don’t want to think about yesterday and what it means. I don’t want to constantly check my phone hoping he’ll call, knowing that he can’t. Maybe I shouldn’t have turned off his phone, but I had to. I’d be too tempted to contact him. The desire to hear his voice is already pounding in my head.
My parents took today off work to help me deal with Ian. I told them it wasn’t necessary, but they insisted. My dad said I’m still his baby girl and if he wants a day off to watch over me, no one is going to stop him. I didn’t want to show him how much his words had affected me, so I curled up on the couch and rested my head on his leg. My mom sat at the other end holding my legs, much like they do when I’m sick.
I finally drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Dad's cooking and Mom's sitting at the bar sipping her requisite cup of coffee and reading the paper. I sit on the stool next to her and steal a piece of her toast.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Dad smiles at me as I sit down.
I shrug. “Whatever you’re making is fine.”
He winks before turning back to the stove. Mom pushes the rest of her toast over to me as she closes the newspaper. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine, actually. But anything is better than a hotel bed.”
“I don’t know why you insist on staying in a hotel when you’re in L.A. Why not just buy a place?”
“Because I don’t want to live there, Mom,” I say as I pick at the toast. My dad sets down a plate with eggs over easy, bacon and hash browns.
“What time will Ian be here?” she asks. I look at the clock and sigh. He and Cole took the red-eye, which arrives in New York at six and that means any minute.
“They're probably on their way now unless they checked into the hotel first.”
“Well, it will be good to see Cole.”
I give my mom the stink eye. I know she loves him, but come on. She puts her hand on my wrist and gives it a squeeze.
“I’m just saying it will be nice, not that I want you guys back together.”
“Uh huh.”
I give her a kiss on her cheek and head back to my room. I dig through my old dresser for some sweats and a t-shirt. I wasn’t planning on staying the night, but as soon as Mom came home last night I realized that I needed my parents.
I quickly hop in the shower. I know Ian will be here soon. He never misses an opportunity to rub it into my parents that he controls my everyday life. But after getting me out of that mess in Brookfield, I owe him. I have no idea how he plans to collect, but I’ll be ready. I have to be the good little girl from here on out. No more messing up.
No more falling in love.
Ian and Cole are here when I’m finally presentable. Well, as presentable as I’m going to get while lounging at my parents’. My hair is up in a messy bun, no make-up on and I’m wearing a tank top and sweatpants with flip-flops. Everyone stops talking when I walk into the kitchen. Ian looks at me and says nothing and shakes his head, but it’s Cole and the way that he looks at me that makes me smile despite how I feel about him. He’s frozen mid-bite, his mouth hanging open and spoon dripping milk back into his bowl of cereal.
Some things never change.
“Close your mouth, dear; no one likes to see what you’re eating,” Mom says to Cole, making me laugh. He closes his mouth and clears his throat. I sit down next to him, his eyes watching my every move. Creeper. Ian is across from me, a pile of papers in front of him. He picks them up, shuffling them around. Dad pulls out a chair and takes a seat, my mom following suit. I guess this is it. Time to detail how messed up I am and what I have to do to fix it.
“Last week we had a discussion about your behavior. I admit I employed some shady ploys to keep you in your hotel, but when I tell you that I did those things to keep you safe, I mean it.”
“I know,” I say, catching Ian off guard. He looks up quickly, his bangs falling in his face. That’s the one thing about Ian that I’ve always liked: he doesn’t look like a manager. He’s not walking around in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. He’s dressed for the music scene.
“You know?”
“Yes. I can see that now.”
“It took you getting arrested to see that I’m only trying to help?”