“It’s beyond that. I…fucked up. Badly. I hurt people he cares about, and now he sees me as I really am. For so long, I thought I was unlovable because my mother left, but, as it turns out, it was due to my shitty personality.”
“Sam, what happened to you was tragic. We let you down because we didn’t see what was happening right under our noses. How your mother was…” Dorrine leans back in her chair. “I told myself I’d never speak a word against her to you, and here I am…”
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “She’s earned it.”
“Now that you know the truth, maybe you can heal, and so can your relationship,” Father says.
“Are you seriously suggesting I date a stripper?” I say with a raised brow.
“Heck, if you love him, I suggest you marry him,” Dorrine says. “It’ll only make it easier for me to weasel away your inheritance.”
“Wow—we’re really going there.” I laugh again, which is absurd considering the situation.
“Seriously, Sam, if you have feelings for this man, fight for him.” Dorrine pounds her fist on the table.
I’m so used to fighting my battles with snark and hostility, but I see where that got me. If I’m going to do this, which I desperately want to, it has to be different. I have to be real.
I close the portfolio and push it to the center of the table.
“I like what you’re saying, but we’re going to have to pivot…”
THIRTY
Toxic
Two MonthsLater
Nothing feels good anymore.
Sleep gives me no rest. Food, no joy.
And dancing isn’t the escape it once was.
Every day, I’m faced with what I’ve done. How I destroyed the only chance I had at happiness.
I get off the plane and climb inside Natasha’s old Corolla.
“Congrats on placing second!” Armando enthuses. “That’s fucking crazy.
“It definitely could have gone worse.”
Armando looks at me like I’m delusional. “Dude, you pocketed two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars over a weekend in Vegas—it certainly could have gone worse.”
The drive back to the bus is a little over an hour, but I notice Armando taking a detour, and a quick look at Google Maps tells me why.
“Seriously?” I ask as he pulls into the IHOP parking lot.
Armando shakes his head in frustration. “I just can’t quit those dirty carbs.”
As soon as we’re seated, Armando orders a Rooty Tooth Fresh ’N Fruity. I settle on pancakes, sausage, and eggs, but not before Armando turns downright hostile over the amount of time it takes for me to decide.
Across the restaurant, a small child dances in his high chair, and I feel the hollowness in my chest expand.
If I’m not careful, it’ll swallow me.
Armando tears into his food the moment it hits the table, which is a terrifying thing to behold. Syrup splatters off the plate, a strawberry is flung at the window, and there is whipped cream all over his mustache.
It’s like this every time we go to an IHOP.
