He moved so fast. I was along for the ride before I knew if he was equipped to navigate the journey.
It’s not fair to judge the future based on his worst moments. I know it isn’t. But when was the last time we had any good ones?
Ugh, stop it with the negativity.
I hurry and tap his name to call since I need to leave soon. I don’t want to drive while I talk to him since I never know how it’ll go. He answers on the fourth ring, just as I was about to hang up.
“I hope you’re not calling me about your stupid car again,” he says. “I’m not a mechanic.”
I try not to return the same hostility, but it’s there.
“Nope, my car’s fixed. I’m headed to work.” I attempt a neutral topic to steer the conversation. “I think I’m going to look for a new job. I have my associate’s degree now, so I should be able to find something better while I work toward my bachelor’s.”
“Must be nice to quit and do what you want,” he lobs back.
I tell myself he probably doesn’t realize how he sounds, but these conversations suck the life out of me. “I didn’t go to school to stay at the diner, you know? I’m just looking. I’m not quitting yet.”
“I’m not going to bail you out when you can’t pay your bills. How bad did you get ripped off on your car? I know you didn’t call Dad or Jackson to help like I told you.”
Crap.What do I say? It’s a catch-22. If I say it was free because a friend helped me, he’ll demand to know who and find some roundabout way to accuse me of doing something wrong.
I’d still have to answer why I’d go to another friend’s uncle and not his dad, which he’ll see as disrespecting his family. If I say I went to a local shop, he’ll want to know where and what it cost, then I’ll hear that I wasted money by not listening to him, and that’ll launch a whole lecture about my lack of money management skills … which is hurtful and untrue.
It’s like he knows what specific accusations bother me most. I’ve supported myself since I was eighteen, and he lives rent-free with his brother. Plus, I shouldn’t have to lie to get through a conversation. I hate this so much. These circular “gotcha” conversations are happening more and more, and there aren’t enough pillows in the world to scream into.
“I handled it,” I decide to say. Because, dang it, I’m a freaking adult.
“What doesthatmean?” he challenges.
“It’s done. You’ll have an opinion no matter what, so all I’m saying is it’s done. I’m going to work now.” My chest tightens and my heart pounds as I wait for his response.
“Oh, whatever. Always trying to start something. I’m sure you do have to work. You probably went into some serious debt.” His patronizing laugh says he’s sure I screwed up. “Whatever. Listen, I know we haven’t seen each other much lately. I’ve been under so much stress. We’re getting a big cabin for a family reunion next weekend. Can you afford to be off work and come with us? It’ll be good for me to get away from the pressure.”
I consider keeping a tally of every time he saysstressorpressure. I could make it a game and reward myself with Twizzlers every time I get to ten.
Three months ago, I would’ve been nervous, but I would’ve gone. Now, I don’t want to go anywhere I can’t leave when things get uncomfortable. Because every minute is uncomfortable.
And the car ride …I can’t. Not after last time. An hour of speeding, swerving to jerk me, and running up on other cars, swearing as he got increasingly angry over a text he saw from Alex—afemalewho lives nearly three hundred miles away.
My neck and shoulders clench with tension. I don’t want any of this.
“I—I don’t know. Who will be there?” I ask.
The last family event was a nightmare—a different side of the family than I’d met at first. His creepy cousin kept putting an arm around me, trying to hug me withwaytoo much bodily contact like we were long-lost friends.Extremelyclose friends.
The dude was bald on top with a horseshoe of frizzy hair that came down to the pit stains on his Dale Jr. T-shirt, and he smelled like stale beer, cigarettes, and restraining orders. I have no doubt he sings “Free Bird” on karaoke night at Bang Bang BBQ and drives a truck with a rebel flag.
Nathan continually wandered off, dismissing me with annoyance when I asked him to stay close. “Steve owns a very successful landscaping business. He’s country, and country people hug. Stop being so stuck-up.”
He eyed me all day, his scent gagging me every time he got close. I had no trouble believing he was skilled with …plants.
I stayed glued to Nathan’s sister, Sarah, until she left, then held my pee all afternoon, not wanting to admit I was afraid to go to the public bathroom alone. Nathan’s suspicious of every guy I mention in passing, even professors or old friends that live eight hundred miles away, but when I said his cousin made me uncomfortable, he wouldn’t listen.
I’ve invited him to come see the guys play at the coffeehouse or come to dinner and get to know everyone, but it always turns into a fight.
His jealousy isn’t the cute protective kind, either. He has the accusatory type where Garden Party Steve is apparently more trustworthy than I am.
I’ve never experienced anything like this, so it must be some kind of stress response. I keep hoping he’ll snap out of it.
