“Hey!” Marie comes closes and wraps her arm around my hunched shoulders. “Don’t get in over your head. It’sjustvoices.”
I put down my hands and listen to her.
“You should tell him because you have to be honest with yourself,” she assures me. “Also, I’ve him for more than a year and we’re best friends. I’m telling you he’s already waiting at the love stop. I’m pretty sure he fell for you weeks ago.”
My heart races. “You think so?” I ask in a small voice. Getting my hopes up despite what I told myself a minute ago.
“Yes,” she says.
“But how?”
“Because you’re an amazing girl and he’s so damn lucky to have you,” she replies without skipping a beat. As if it’s pretty obvious.
“Is there a rule about confessing love on your first date?”
“Nope. But even if there were, who cares. Every love story is different.”
I look up at her and smile. “You’re right.”
She smirks. “I know.”
I giggle, feeling lighter in my bones and excited about the date.
Marie leaves my side and stands on the other side of the bed and presses a dress on herself. “So, let’s pick a dress for the date.”
“Are you sure?” I hesitate.
She only shoots me a mega-watt smile.
Somehow that says it all.
25
HOPE
It’s Friday evening,when I come downstairs for dinner—not because I wanted to but Mom insisted. She took the day off from the hospital for Dad. She said the three of us haven’t eaten together in a while. What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been trying my best to avoid sitting at the table with him.
The second I got home she had a long chat with me to not skip tonight’s meal. I tried reasoning with her but it was useless. It was like what happened two weeks ago had been wiped off from her memory and she couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to have dinner with them.
The moment I enter the kitchen, the atmosphere changes. A dense cloud of tension hangs in the air, ready to bring down a storm.
Dad’s gaze locks on me like a laser. Hate and anger swirling in those dark irises.
Confusion prickles my head as I try to wonder why he hates me? I’ve never done anything to hurt him. I get good grades, stay out of trouble and have a good reputation. What is it then that I’m lacking? Why does he look at me like that? What is my fault?
“Hope, don’t just stand there. Take a seat.” Mom reprimands as she passes close, giving me a quick nudge.
I hesitate, which goes unnoticed by her but not him.
He smirks.
With a troubled head, I sit across from him—not that I have much of a choice. There are four chairs, two on one side and two on the other, facing each other.
“I bet you’re hungry,” Mom muses, standing over the stove and tasting the gravy off the spatula.
She gets busy with preparing the food and the silence follows.
With each passing second, my heart rate rises until it feels like the organ is beating in my throat and not my chest.
