I really don’t know how’d I’d get through all of this without you whisking me away or sneaking into my room at night, visiting me when I’m at work. When I call, you pick up on the first ring. You’re the first person I go to when things get ridiculous and hard at home. You have been my lifeline and now it’s time I’m yours. I’ve promised myself that I’m going to stop falling out of love with you. I’m going to fall back in love with you because if I don’t you will kill yourself. I know you will. I don’t want to be selfish. Or rash. I want to do right by us. You deserve that—we both do.
I won’t let my mind wander to Gideon. Every time it does I feel guilty. I love you and we have been through so much together. You’ve had a lot of shit to put up with—my family, my schedule, me still being in high school. How could I let you go, after everything you’ve done for me? How can I break up with you right when you need me the most? So I force Gideon to the back of my mind. Again and again.
When I’m done I straighten up.
“Mom?” I call. “They’re clean.”
I hear her come down the hallway, Sam not far behind. She has dark circles under her eyes and her hair dye is fading. I can see strands of gray in her ponytail. It’s weird seeing my mom looking anything less than perfect. She’s practically religious about her hair and nails. She leans down and inspects the baseboards.
“You missed a spot,” she says, pointing to a little smudge on the wall above the baseboard.
I lean down and rub the rag over it, two seconds away from losing it. I think of you and our date and how much I need to get out of here.
But then she stands and shakes her head. “You should probably go over them one more time,” she says.
I can’t help it. My eyes fill with tears.
“Mom, please. Gavin is gonna be here any minute; we have a date—”
“The sooner you get to working, the sooner you’ll be finished.”
“But we have reservations—”
“WHAT DID I SAY?”
Her whole face is suddenly contorted with rage and I can’t help it, I give in and say everything I’ve been wanting to for the past few months.
“This entire house is clean, Mom, perfectly clean. And I am tired, exhausted, and I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. There’s something wrong with you—”
She raises her hand and slaps me, hard. I stumble into the entryway, staring at her in shock, my hand against my burning cheek. She grabs my shoulders, shaking me so hard I bite my tongue.
“Why is it always a fight with you?” she screams.
I see movement in the corner of my eye and you’re there, standing in front of the screen. My mom opened the door earlier today because the weather was so good. I look back at her, panicked. Mortified.
“Mom. Mom. Gavin’s—”
“You bitch,” she screams at me. She raises her hand and I hear the screen door open.
“Hey!” you say, but you can’t stop the slap, this one so intense my head knocks against the wall behind me.
“What the fuck?” You’re shouting now. I’ve never seen you so angry.
You grab me and pull me behind you. I’m sobbing and I can’t stop and my head is pounding and my cheek hurts and I love you so much, Gavin, I love you so much for wanting to save me.
“What the fuck?” you yell again.
I can feel you shaking, pure fury rolling off you, and I’m so grateful to you, to finally have someone stick up for me.
My mom looks at you and there are no words.
“If you ever, ever do that again, I am calling the fucking police,” you say. “I should call them right now.”
Mom blinks, as if she’s coming out of a trance. “Gavin, you need to leave,” she says.
“Gladly.” You grab my hand and push the screen door open. I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe as sob after sob comes out of me.
“Where do you think you’re going, Grace?”
I turn around and look at her and I can’t believe that after this I have to stay home.
“She’s coming with me,” you say.
I look at you, shaking my head. I don’t even want to know how much trouble I’ll be in if I leave.
“Grace Marie Carter, you get your butt back in—”
You ignore Mom and take my face in your hands and you are quiet and gentle.
“Baby, you’re coming with me. I’m not leaving you here when she’s like this.”
“But if I go, I’ll be in so much—”
“We’ll deal with that later. Come on. I’m gonna take you to my place.”
I cry even harder. “The restaurant…”
“It’s okay. We’ll go some other time.”
My mom slams the door shut and you lead me to your car. I stumble, my eyes blurry, and realize I’m not wearing shoes. You get me into the car and then we’re gone, heading toward your house.
“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m so sorry—”
You pull over to the side of the road and unbuckle your seat belt.
“Come here,” you say.
I fall into your arms, soaking your shirt in seconds. You wore a tie and that makes me cry even harder. You rub my back and it’s only when I start calming down that I hear you softly singing my favorite song, “California Dreamin’.”
I pull away and try to rub the tears off my face.
“I must look horrible,” I say.
I hiccup then and you reach over and smooth my hair.
“You’re perfect.” You put your seat belt back on and soon we’re pulling up to your house. Both of your parents’ cars are here.
“Gav, I don’t want them to see—”
You firmly grip my hand. “They can help,” you say.
I follow you into the house and your parents turn away from the TV when the door opens.
“Did you forget something, hon?” your mom asks.
You shake your head and pull me closer. Just seeing the shock on your mom’s face sends me back into tears. You explain what happened while your mom pulls me into a hug.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
She leads me to the kitchen and grabs a bag of peas out of the freezer.
“Put this on that bump on your head and I’ll go get you some Advil.”
You sit down next to me and when I raise the peas to the place where my head smacked against the wall you take the bag from me.
“I’ve got it,” you say.
Your dad is pacing the living room. He stops and turns to me. “I think we should talk to your parents,” he says. “Let them know that they’ll be held accountable for their actions.”
I shake my head. “Thank you so much, Mark. Really. But I think that will just make everything worse.”
“She can’t do something like that and get away with it,” you say.
I rest a hand on your knee. “It’s okay.”
You reposition the peas and wrap one arm around my waist, pulling me to you so that I’m sitting on your lap.
Your mom comes in with the Advil and gets me a glass of water.
“I don’t understand,” your mom says. “What was it that set her off?”
I tell them about the cleaning and your mom frowns.
“Your mother should go see someone. Is she on medication?”
I shake my head. “No. She doesn’t have health insurance. I mean, we don’t, like, talk about this. It just … is what it is.”
A buzzer goes off. “That’s the laundry,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t want you to go back there,” you murmur. “You’re eighteen—you don’t have to stay.”
I lean my forehead against yours. “And where would I go?”
“Here.” Your mouth turns up. “I’m sure I could squeeze you into my bed.”
Your dad hits the back of your head with a newspaper and you smile.