CHAPTER 6
CARSON
The light streaming in through my curtains feels like blunt pencils poking my eyeballs.
That’s the first thing I notice.
The next is that I’m still wearing all my clothes from last night. And one of my shoes.
The third thing I notice is the full glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen on my bedside table. And considering the fact that I was apparently too drunk to remove both of my shoes, that can only meant that the hangover toolkit was provided by?—
I just wanna get fucked.
I groan, my stomach heaving, the night coming back to me in too-bright flashes. Gabe and his stupid truck. The veggie burger from hell. Violet and skating and shoving Gabe to the floor.
And Dan.
In his fancy-pants sports car.
Where I ran my mouth like a faulty water fountain. Where I told him I wanted to getfucked.
I groan again, this time praying for death.
When Grace proposed the idea of Dan staying here, my brain created all kinds of nightmare scenarios: having to sit across from him at the breakfast table or passing him in the hallway wrappedin a towel. But not even my anxious, catastrophizing brain could have come up with this.
I roll over, staring at the fifteen-year-old glow-in-the-dark stars that still cling to the popcorn ceiling with ancient sticky tack. Can I possibly stay in this room until Dan’s pipes are fixed or he goes back to New York, whichever comes first?
I last approximately thirteen minutes before my bladder informs me that I cannot hide out in my bedroom for the rest of time, or even the rest of the day. I peek out of my bedroom and see Dan’s blessedly closed door, so I creep across the hall to the bathroom.
An hour later, I’ve removed my remaining shoe and last night’s clothes and showered off the roller rink smell, but not the throbbing shame of what I said in the car. It keeps playing over and over in my head, a torturous merry-go-round of embarrassment.
I just wanna get fucked I just wanna get fucked I just wanna get fucked.
I shuffle into the kitchen and grab a bowl and the family-size box of Lucky Charms I keep on top of the fridge. The only thing that interrupts my inner monologue is my mother’s voice, lecturing me about sugary cereals.The body needs protein and fiber to start the day, don’t you know? And too much sugar leads to a crash.The fact that there are Lucky Charms on top of this fridge and full-sugar Coke inside it are minor miracles that would’ve blown ten-year-old Carson’s mind, having grown up with overprotective parents who lectured her on the perils of sugar (and basically everything else). My parents may be in Florida, but their words of warning have stayed put, as embedded in the walls of this house as the smell of my mother’s favorite apple spice candles.
My parents were in their late forties when I was born, my father an insurance salesman and my mother the church secretary. They’d spent more than ten brutal years trying for a baby, and just when they gave up, I surprised them. They were great parents, and I love them dearly, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’tgrow up feeling pressured. They monitored everything I ate, everything I watched, everything I listened to, everything I read, and every person I hung out with. My parents knew how precious their one shot at parenthood was, and they were not going to blow it.
And I grew up knowing that I was all they’d get, so I couldn’t disappoint them. I followed their rules. I worked hard. I went to church every Sunday, never skipped school, and never snuck out of the house.
It was exhausting.
When I finally left for college and was on my own for the first time, it was really hard to break the habits I’d had drilled into me since birth. I dated, had some sex, and drank some, but never got into too much trouble. And then I graduated, got a job teaching kindergarten in my hometown, and moved back home to save money as I paid off my student loans.
As my parents saw it, when I returned home, I suddenly became a little kid again. Despite the fact that I was twenty-two and gainfully employed with a grown-up job, they were still concerned with what I ate, who I hung out with, my church attendance, and—at least for my mother—my body.
When their ticket hit, we all won the lottery. My parents took their millions down to Boca Raton, where they bought a town house next to my Aunt Frida’s and a boat and joined the country club.
And I got this house to live in alone for the first time in my life. And while most things haven’t changed much in the eight months I’ve had it, there have been some small but significant improvements.
Like the Lucky Charms. And the Pop-Tarts. The Snickers ice cream bars and the Double-Stuf Oreos. This kitchen is one that doesn’t know the difference between “good” and “bad” foods. This kitchen doesn’t count calories or worry about carbs. This kitchen celebrates dessert.
My mother would die, but she has fourteen million dollars tofund whatever fad diet has her in its clutches these days, and for the first time in my life, I don’t have to live with it.
It’s a nice thought, but the moment I warm to it, the previous night comes roaring back.
I. Just. Wanna. Get. Fucked.
I drop into a chair at the breakfast table in the kitchen and pour myself an extra-large bowl of cereal.
