“Okay, well if that’s the only reason, then why can’t I just stay home?” I attempt to reason, which only earns me one of her signature “Mom” looks. The one that readsquit while you’reahead.
“I wantbothof my sons for Christmas. Not just one of them.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a smart-ass comment—something along the lines of Quinton being the perfect replacement—but I resist the urge. Barely.
So instead, I pivot to a new method—or maybe the next stage of grieving: bargaining.
“If I go, can you promise it won’t be a repeat of last year?”
A sympathetic smile crosses her features. “I’ll try to rein your father in on the hockey talk, all right?”
She’ll try in vain is what the outcome will likely be, but I guess it’s better than nothing.
“And you’ll make sure we actually go do other things? It’s a huge city, and I feel like all I saw last year was Oakley’s apartment and the fucking hockey arena.”
“You may not live under my roof anymore, but you still need to watch your language, Logan,” she chides. “And I will do my best to make sure everyone involved enjoys the trip, okay?”
I gnaw on my lip, clearly out of rebuttals and frustrated at being backed into a corner. But with no arguments left, all I can do is concede…and suffer.
“Fine,” I mutter, feeling every bit a petulant child told they can’t go in the ball pit at McDonald’s. “But if we’re going to more than one game, I reserve the right to skip one and do something by myself instead.”
“I think those are agreeable terms.”
Easy for her to say when she’s not folding like a cheap goddamn lawn chair.
I wish I knew how to say no to them, but it seems they find a way to talk me into or out of nearly everything. Then again, being the Reed family disappointment sucks enough as it is—rebelling to the extent my body craves would only make it worse.
Which just means caving to a miserable existence instead.
“Is that all, then?” I ask. “I have some work to get back to before class.”
She purses her mauve-painted lips, obviously having more to say but apparently not wanting to push her luck—or my patience.
“Okay, sweetheart. Have a good day. I love you.”
“You too,” I mutter before hitting the end button and letting my phone clatter against the wooden desk top.
My headphones are filled with the sounds of Lø Spirit now, and I do my best to lose myself in the lines where pen meets paper. And it works for all of five seconds—until the conversation with my mother creeps back in, and every stroke of ink looks and feels wrong.
I’m so tired of living in the shadow of a legacy I want nothing to do with. Surviving the scrutiny for being different, not just from my family, but from everyone else it seems.
After all, how can I possibly be a Reed if I despise the very thing that defines our family name?
Mom has always been the one to “get me” more than Dad—at least as much as she’s able to—but there’s an obvious limitation to it, and it becomes even more apparent in moments like the one we just had. Ones where they’re so clearly placing Oakley on some sort of pedestal, bending and breaking themselves to accommodate his schedule without any regard for me. It’s those times when I really think I was dropped on their doorstep by a stork rather than sharing any sort of DNA with them, despite having the same light brown hair and eyes to match theirs.
I’ve never once questioned if they love me or anything like that. The issue comes from them clearly loving Oakleymore.
In a frustrated huff, I drop my pen on my sketchbook. There’s no way I can keep doing this now—not in this kind of headspace. I’ll fuck up the entire thing if I do.
Fitting, for the Reed family pariah.
Out of nowhere, my headphones are pulled off my ears, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. Whipping around, I’m almost expecting to find my mother has driven over here to continue the conversation.
Instead, I’m greeted with…Camden Steele.
“Hey, Little Reed.”
Glaring, I grind out a harsh, “Don’t you know how to knock?”
