I didn’t want to give up, but I had to regroup, so I moved back to my parents’ house in Cookeville to save money. I got a decent job in a call center and only worked for my dad on rare occasions, but living under his roof meant I still felt obligated to help.
I didn’t know anyone in the local music scene, so I spent the better part of a year working, taking online classes, and reading on the bunk bed below my youngest sister, Liza, who was eleven. My parents were barely speaking, and my brother, Jamie, was still wetting the bed at the age of ten.
Dad berated him and threatened to make him sleep in the bathtub constantly. We took turns changing his bed, hoping Dad wouldn’t know. The only one who seemed to be doing better was Layla. She found her niche in the drama department at her high school, while I felt more out of place than ever.
Since I’ve been the new kid my whole life, that’s saying a lot.
For over an hour, I drive with the music low, letting my mind wander and my stomach settle. I usually blast the radio and thoroughly enjoy my road trips, but it’s taking longer to decompress. I haven’t forced myself to think about the breakup yet, but I feel lighter. Maybe I purged more than the contents of my stomach.
Which is good, because now I need to shift gears and deal with my family.
Right after I moved to Crappie Branch, my dad decided he wanted a fresh start too. After twenty-five years of being explosive, critical, unreliable, and selfish, he finally did the decent thing: He cheated on my mom and left.
Yep. I said what I said.
There was some speculation of cheating early in their marriage, but this time, all the evidence was on an itemized credit card bill, complete with login information, saved on a laptop the kids use for school.
Mom avoided telling me for as long as she could because she didn’t want me to quit school and move back. I finally got the details out of my Aunt Tamara since secret keeping is not on that woman’s resume.
Now, Mom supervises one division of a restaurant management company and Dad runs another while avoiding her like the plague. I wonder how it’s going since he’s had to show up and do his job every day without Mom to cover for him.
Sure, I’m bitter, but I’m also relieved. We walked on eggshells for years, and it’s finally over.
It’s still an issue for my siblings because they’re required to visit him, but at least their lives have a much lower stress level twenty-six days out of each month.
My dilemma now is whether to see him while I’m in town. I haven’t the last three times I’ve been to Cookeville.
We were trained not to inconvenience Dad for any reason, and it’s still hard for me to rely onanyone. He’s the reason I walk around with a force field of sarcasm and loud, happy music to keep the feels away.
Because I’m a bother.
I’m inconvenient.
Be useful or stay out of the way.
When I was old enough to be on the payroll, I paid for my own guitar lessons, clothes that fit, and a few concerts. My work ethic eventually paid off when I saved up for a car and planned my escape. So, maybe it took more than one attempt. I did it.Twice.
Reliving my childhood to avoid thinking about what just happened won’t help me decompress, so I press play and rock my head side to side to loosen my neck. My uncle made a compilation of my favorite Beatles songs for me when I was a kid. I had two copies—one of them is stuck in this fifteen-year-old CD player.
I’ll give you one guess who has the other.
I’m a little over halfway home, singing about my favorite man, when my phone echoes the same song and an unfamiliar picture appears on the screen. Is that …me?
Itisme,singing with a hazel-eyed, shaggy-haired, human bottle of Xanax. I’ve never seen this picture, but since I’m driving, I’ll have to take a closer look later.
I turn down the volume and tap the speaker on my phone in its holder but continue singing. I only stop when I can’t tell if he’s there.
“Heyyyyy, Jude… are you there?”
“Y-yeah, baby, I’m here. I didn’t want you to stop,” he says, a hint of his rasp coming through the speaker.
Did he just call me baby?
It happens, but that makes the third time this week—not that I’m counting.
Once is playful. Twice is teasing me. But three times is a habit. And it’ll be habit-forming for me if I’m not careful.
“Ummm … I’ll try to keep going next time.” Well, that was super eloquent.
