A photograph sits on my dresser. It faces the wall 365 days of the year. I’ve gotten used to the sight of the black backing of the frame, a cardboard square collecting a gentle sheen of dust. But now I turn it around.
Mom, Dad, Kat, and I stand behind the glass, preserved in a summer afternoon. Every year, Dad insisted on taking our Christmas photo six months before Christmas to the day, to mark the point at which we started getting closer to the holiday. Kat’s smile is radiant, Dad’s grin pushes dimples into his cheeks, and I’m in the middle of a huge laugh. Mom always got a joke ready so our smiles weren’t canned. That year, it was, “What do you call Santa’s helpers? Subordinate Clauses.”
God, I want our family back. I would kill right now for Kat’s quiet understanding or Dad’s gruff reassurances. I want Mom to tuck my hair behind my ear, or make up a bedtime story on the spot, or rub my back and promise it’s going to be all right. She could speak quickly, quietly, for hours on end, until there was nothing but her voice wrapping me up in warmth and acceptance. I used to have the knowledge that the world could hammer at me all it wanted, but she would always be there to lift me up. Mom with her bitter-smelling perfume and her jangling bracelets and her full, wild laugh.
But the good memories of her are soured by the ones that hinted she would leave. In hindsight, it seems so obvious. She took random trips without warning, overnight drives and weekend sojourns, unable to stand Kansas for longer than a few weeks at a go. She scooped up and dropped hobby after hobby, everything from tennis to painting. She never held down friends, either, always dropping out of touch for one convincing-sounding reason or another.
I force myself not to fling the photo away. I drop the frame back into place and crumple onto my bed, trying to deaden the anger. Thunder grinds to life outside, lazy and languorous and so deep, my house shudders.
My phone tempts me. I can’t call Juniper—I can’t add this to her plate. Claire? God knows what she would say.
My finger hovers over Matt’s contact for a second. He just found out about his parents’ divorce, for God’s sake. Can I load this on him, too?
Apparently I can. God, I’m selfish, I think as I hit call. It rings once, twice, three times before he picks up.
“Olivia?” he says. “I—hi.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice thick.
“What’s, um, what’s up?”
My throat ekes out a tiny noise, and I crush my hand to my lips. Don’t be so weak. You don’t get to cry. It’s bad enough that you’re making this call.
For a second, I can’t talk. I can’t even breathe. Weight presses on my chest, tangled up in my ribs like thick hair gnarled in a comb. My heart pounds, every beat a burst of pain.
“H-have you talked to your parents?” I manage. “About Russ?”
“No. I will after dinner, once he’s asleep.”
“Good. Good, great.” I look up at the ceiling, breathing in and out on eight-counts.
“What’s going on?” Matt says. “Hey, you can say.”
“It’s not—there’s not—”
“Yo,” he says. “Talk.”
More lightning. The lights flicker. Looks like night outside already, and it’s barely 5:45.
“Just . . .” I shake my head. In the absence of words, the rain splattering on my window is louder than a snare drum.
For a minute I stay quiet on the line, wondering how I can feel this outside myself.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, I just . . . Dan called me and . . .”
“Oh Jesus. What did he say?”
“That I’m a slut and deserve to be treated like one. And by ‘treated like a slut,’ he means ‘treated like I’m open for business at all times to everyone.’?” I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. This is so self-indulgent.
“He’s a dick,” Matt says.
“I mean, I wouldn’t care if it were just him, but everyone thinks that. Richard Brown’s a huge man-whore, but girls never say, ‘He’ll probably sleep with me if I give him the time of day, and if he doesn’t, well, false advertising.’ Why doesn’t it work like that? Why is it just me?”
Matt pauses for a second before saying, “?’Cause guys think about sex all the time, so it seems normal when they see girls in terms of . . . you know. Sex?”
“But some girls think about sex all the time, too. So why do boys get to be like, oh man, bro, dude, I’m gonna get mad * tonight, and people are like, ah yes, so normal, but if a girl goes out like, yeah, I’m trying to get some dick, everyone gets all puritan?”
Matt’s quiet.
“Also,” I say, in full steam now, “you don’t think about sex all the time, do you?”
“I mean, not all the time,” he says. “A lot, sure. But it’s not, like, a problem.”
“So why do people act like all dudes are sex-obsessed maniacs? That’s messed up, too.”
“I guess?” he says, sounding bemused.
“Sorry. I’m ranting. I just—thinking about hooking up with Dan now is so gross. My track record is so, like, besmirched by his presence.” I pull my covers over my head.