I fight my eye roll. “Because I told them I have an assignment to finish.”
She huffs. “They were upset.”
“They’ll live,” I mutter, fighting to keep my cool.
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve had enough of your attitude.”
“I’m studying, Mum,” I snap. “What do you want from me? I picked them up from dance, and I brought them home like you asked. So they didn’t get their sugar high for one week. What’s the big deal?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You live here rent-free, and we’re paying your school fees. Of course we expect you to help with your sisters.”
Placing my hand on my forehead to stave off the headache building, I huff a sigh. “Mum, I don’t mind helping out with them, but I’m not their slave. They need to learn they won’t get their own way because they demand it. You’re raising them to be spoiled brats.”
Mum makes a derisive sound, but it doesn’t cut me as much as her words. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re not happy unless you’re the centre of attention, are you? We all know how much you crave everyone’s eyes on you.”
The air is sucked out of the room, and I struggle to breathe.
“Get out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let her see how much her words hurt. “Get out.”
Thankfully, Nora calls out for her, and she shoots me a final icy glare before leaving, not bothering to close the door behind her.
I storm over and slam it shut.
My body vibrates with unchecked anger, frustration and hurt as I pace my bedroom. How can the one person who’s meant to love me unconditionally be so cruel? Ever since Dad walked out on us, she’s taken it out on me, like I’m the problem. I don’t know if it’s because I look more like him than her—whereas the twins are a carbon copy of her—or whether she somehow blames me for him leaving.
I never gave up on her.
When her first husband tried to sneakinto my bedroom, and when everything happened with Dylan, I went to Mum. It was a slap in the face when she turned it all around on me. My stepfather tried to molest me when I was fourteen because I wore provocative clothing around him. In the middle of summer. My ex-boyfriend spread nudes of me around school because I’d been stupid enough to put myself in the position where he could take them of me—never mind I’d been asleep in his bed at the time. She didn’t care that her daughter’s privacy had been violated.
I don’t know why I keep expecting her to change. She’s never taken my side in the last nine years.
A single tear slides down my cheek, and I brush it away angrily.
Three months. I just have to make it through the next three months in this godforsaken house, then I’ll have my degree, and she won’t be able to control me anymore.
With a fierce surge of determination rippling through me, I return to my desk and start writing. Professor Johnson wants me to write something real about a moment that changed me, well he better strap in, because I’m not holding back.
My fingers fly over the keys as I pour my heart into my assignment. It’s cathartic to get it all out. I’ve repressed it for so long. I don’t think about what I’m writing, I let it flow, knowing I can go through and edit it later. The assignment isn’t due until Thursday, so I have time to refine it.
By the time I stop for the night, my stomach is growling, and I realise it’s almost midnight. No one even bothered to ask if I wanted dinner. I guess I really pissed Mumoff.
I lean back in my chair to stretch my stiff muscles. This isn’t like me. I don’t usually leave assignments this late, but I’ve been putting this one off for obvious reasons. When I rub my hands over my face, I’m surprised to find my cheeks are damp.
I think about just going to bed, but my stomach rumbles again. My head hurts, and I release my hair from the top knot, running my fingers through my scalp to relieve it. I groan, close my laptop, and push away from my desk.
The house is eerily quiet as I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I make myself some yoghurt and muesli and settle at the bench to eat it. As I do, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my notifications.
There’s a text from Willow about meeting for coffee in the morning. I reply with a yes. I’m still wired from working on my assignment, and with all the memories I’ve dredged up tonight, I doubt I’ll get a good night’s sleep.
Flutters begin low in my belly when I see the notification symbol on the Euphoria app. Biting back a smile, I click into it, but my mood plummets when I see it’s not from @watch_me_watch_you, but a generic message to all members reminding us of the masked night this weekend.
My finger hovers over the message thread with my masked stranger, and for a moment, I consider asking him if he’ll meet me. As fun as our phone interactions have been, it’s more fun to play in person. The only thing that stops me is that he hasn’t contacted me in over a week. As I scroll through our last messages, a sinking feeling washes over me. The way he talks about how complicated his life is, and howhe gave me the opportunity to run before I distracted him by getting naked… I get the feeling he might have been trying to let me down gently, and when that didn’t work, he’s ghosted me altogether.
I’m not surprised. Men never stick around. Why would they? My father couldn’t be bothered.
