Dear Life,
How do you know if people like you? If they are being nice to be nice, or if they genuinely want to be nice to you? I’m not quite sure how to read Jace, Hollyn, and especially Carter.
He scares me, but then again, he’s so much like me. Wanting to be free, wanting to break out of the confines, the imprisonment he’s been living in. I know the feeling. But where he seems to have someone holding him back, I have fear keeping me in place.
Fear, probably my biggest enemy. I’m scared for so many reasons, but one of my biggest fears is never knowing what it’s like to experience life, to live on the edge, and to laugh with true friends.
Do you think they like me? Or do you think they pity me?
I have no clue how to approach them and I don’t want to look desperate. Gosh, why is this so hard?
I’m ready to let go of the old Daisy, but there is that little hint of fear dragging me backward with every positive thought. How do I push that fear away? Just dive in head first, sidestepping past the worry? Am I brave enough to do that?
I sure hope so.
Kind regards,
Daisy
Dear Life,
Letting go. Huh, easier said than done when it sits so fresh in your mind. There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about Hope, that I don’t picture her face, or smell her sweet, fresh baby scent. So how am I supposed to let that go when I’m still grieving? How could I ever stop grieving the loss of my flesh and blood?
Fuck, the pain is too overwhelming to even think about anything else.
Jace
Dear Life,
Fuck you.
Carter
Step Three: Grow Your Support
CARTER
“Toss me a beer, man,” Fitzy calls from his recliner, his entitled ass stretched out while Joe Buck talks about his winning prediction for the Super Bowl. “Buck is an idiot if he really thinks the Broncos are going to win again. No way. Their quarterback is way too young to carry the team.”
I reach into the cooler Fitzy firmly planted in the barrel of his coffee table and toss him a beer. “They won’t need their quarterback. Don’t you remember last year? Peyton Manning barely did anything, as it was all about the defense. Cam Newton wasn’t able to penetrate their unbeatable shield. Buck is right, Broncos are going to take it.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re a hometown boy.”
“Damn straight.” I sip my beer and dip a chip in my famous buffalo chicken dip I make every year for our Super Bowl party. And when I say Super Bowl party, I just mean the get-together of Fitzy and me. We like to keep things simple, too many people, too much talking, and too many unnecessary voices putting in their unwanted opinions drives us fucking mad.
Two years ago, we threw a Super Bowl bash, and it was the one and only after Fitzy and I could barely hear what the announcers had to say during the game. Plus, the people who came over were more interested in the halftime show and commercials, so we decided keeping it to just us was much better.
“I’ve been seeing this girl,” Fitzy says out of nowhere, a smirk on his face.
“You’ve been seeing a girl?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. Ever since I’ve known Fitzy he’s never once made such a statement. He’s a pump-and-dump douchebag. I’ve had my fun, but I always felt the most fulfilled when I was in relationship, well, that was until Sasha ripped my testicles from between my legs. I used to like relationships. Now, not so much.
“Yeah. I met her during at my SkeeBall league.”
I direct a quizzical eyebrow at Fitzy, completely turning my body now to face him. “SkeeBall league? When the hell did you join a skee-ball league?”
He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Can’t expect me to lie around here by myself, waiting for you to get off work to play. Some guy at work told me about it and I signed up.” Smiling at me, he pridefully says, “Come to find out, I’m pretty damn good at it. That’s what got the attention of Martha.”
“Martha?” I can feel the furrow in my brow and the scrunch in my nose. “Please tell me she’s young and not some sixty-year-old you think is a cougar when in fact she’s a sack of wrinkles.”
“Martha is a sixty-year-old woman, with a hot-as-shit granddaughter. I was skeeing it up against Martha, giving her a run for her money, when her granddaughter came up next to her to cheer on the old coot. I was so distracted by the miniskirt she was wearing, I blew my last toss, handing over the win to Martha. But it wasn’t too much of a hardship because I had a front row view of Clara jumping up and down in excitement for her grandma. Totally hot, man.”
“You were playing skee-ball against a sixty-year-old and lost?”
“Hot granddaughter in miniskirt? Were you not paying attention to my story?” he asks, slightly annoyed.
“No, I was, that’s still no excuse. You should have been killing it.”
Fitzy shakes his head as he slowly pulls from his beer bottle. “Listen, I want to recruit Martha for my team, that walker-wielding mistress hits the upper corners like it’s her job.”
“Is that the real reason you’ve been seeing her granddaughter? To poach Martha for your team?”
“Hey, if Martha wants to join us, that’s her choice.”
“There is something seriously wrong with you. Do you at least like Clara?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” Fitzy leans over, scoops up some buffalo dip, and plops it in his mouth. “She’s an accountant for some company downtown. I made her wear her glasses and carry a calculator to bed the other night. Fucking an accountant, never thought I would see the day, but hell, it’s hot.”
“What the hell did you do with the calculator?”
“It was a prop. She pretended to crunch numbers while I drove into her from behind.”
I shake my head, laughter rattling my shoulders. “I don’t want to know the kind of trauma you put that poor calculator through.”
“Eh, it’s not like it was a graphing calculator.”
“Why?” I ask, snaking another handful of pretzels from the bag in front of us.
“Come on.” Fitzy looks at me as if it’s completely obvious. Sighing from my ineptitude of calculators, he enlightens me, “You have to treat graphing calculators with respect. Those handheld geniuses work with multiple equations and ranging variables at the same time. No human brain is quite as smart as a graphing calculator.”
“Really? Even though humans are the ones that created it,” I deadpan.
“Pshaw, don’t be jealous, man. Push your worries to the sidelines. I treat you with the same respect as a graphing calculator.”