Hannah slides into my bedroom, sticking to the wall between my dresser and the doorframe.
A year ago, she would’ve been at my bedside, helping Mom aim that flashlight in my eyes merely to be evil, then plopping down at the foot of my bed to give me crap about hitting my head.
Today, she’s vibrating with a different kind of energy I can’t decipher and, honestly, don’t have the bandwidth for.
“You told my mother,” she hisses.
“I—” I cut myself off, becauseI didn’tisn’t exactly the truth.
Hannah glowers. “You toldTavi Lightly, who told my mother.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, realize that’s a bad idea when my brain sloshes against my skull, and I meet Hannah’s eyes. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You know it’s impossible to stay mad at you when you just own it without making excuses.”
“You’re glowing. She would’ve known the next time she saw you.”
“And that too!” She fans her face, but I don’t know if it’s because her eyes are getting teary or if it’s because me saying she’s glowing is making her blush. Could go either way today. Or maybe it’s both. Either way, we’re tighter than I should be with her. “You’re complimenting me to get out of trouble.”
“Guilty.”
“No, you’re not. You’d say that even if you weren’t in trouble.” She takes three more steps into my room, then stops. “How’s your head?”
“Stubborn and thick.”
“Dylan.”
“It’ll be fine.” I wince. “Sorry about your mom’s floor.”
“That’s what she gets for putting potato peels down the garbage disposal.”
“That’s not what most people get for putting potato peels down the garbage disposal. Did she get the blood out?”
“Not all of it, but she needs to redo the kitchen anyway. You know, someday we’ll laugh about this.” She smiles, but it doesn’t make my head feel any better.
Actually, seeing her isn’t making me feel any better.
At all.
She moved on while I wasn’t looking. I’m not what she wanted.
It’s time for me to move on too.
It’spasttime for me to move on. I’ve been a damn fool, thinking she’d wake up and realize Andrew isn’t what she wants.
Look at her parents.
She thinks griping at each other is normal.
I don’t want griping. I don’t want anger. I don’t want guilt andit’s complicatedand to spend my whole life chasing love in places I can’t find it.
I want respect and affection and for my kids to know—
Dammit.
I want my kids to know that I love them unconditionally, without question, and that my fuckups aren’t their fault, and that they can count on me and hopefully their mother for anything, even when—no,especiallywhen they fuck up too.
No emotional roller coasters. No questions ofWhat do I need to do to be enough for my mom so she quits finding me new stepfathers?orWhat do I need to do to prove this stepfather isn’t worthy?No dysfunction.
