Maybe she’s right about everything else too.
Reluctantly, I mutter, “Yes.”
The tears keep falling as I stare at the picture of Leo, imagining what it would be like if I were to introduce him to my family and tell them that I’m done being controlled by them. That they can’t manipulate or guilt-trip me into agreeing to things I don’t want to do, just because they’re my parents.
I don’t see either of those two things happening anytime soon.
“Good. I’ll let you know when and expect you there. Please return your containers,” Mom says as farewell.
The line goes dead, and my emotions pour out.
God, she’s such abitch. I hate her. Ihateher. What the hell is her problem? Why does she dislike me so much? I launch to my feet. The chair skids back, hitting a side table. Crimson bleeds around my vision as I pace the small area between the kitchen and the living room.
Breathe, Mina. Breathe,I repeat in my head, rapping my fingers on my thigh. Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Thumb.Tap.Tap. Tap.
I just wish they’d be happy for me. Just once I want her to be proud of what I’ve accomplished. It’s hard to accept that she’ll never see me as anything but a failure.
Maybe... if she had supported me, I might be doing better. Maybe if she showed even an ounce of pride overanythingI’veever done for myself, it wouldn’t feel like every person in the world would prefer if I didn’t exist right now.
Because Jack was right; I’ll never deserve Leo.
The anger coursing through me threatens to swallow me whole. I need to throw up. Break something. Scream. Reach between my ribs and rip my heart out. Drink until I black out so everything will stop for ten fucking minutes.
I keep pacing.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
My trembling fingers lock at the base of my skull, and I open my lungs to drag in oxygen. Count down from ten, then back up again. Why can’t I justbreathe? Am I incapable of that too? It’s something so basic and mindless that everyone else has no trouble doing.Thisis why I deserve Mom’s ire.
The sound of my phone makes me flinch. Because I’m stupid and never know what’s good for me, I check it.
Another comment from one of Leo’s friends. At least I have the self-restraint to stop myself from reading it. Whatever it says will only make things worse. And if things get worse, then my lungs will stop working. And if my lungs stop working, my skin will feel too tight. Like it doesn’t belong to my body. Like it doesn’t fit. And I have to claw it off.
My phone buzzes again.
I snatch it off the table and send it flying across the room. The resounding thud does nothing for me. Why can’t those assholes leave me alone?
My pacing comes to a screeching halt.Whydid I just do that? What if I broke my phone? I can’t afford a new one.
Sprinting to the other side of the living room, I crash to my knees before it.It’s fine. It’s not broken.
Another buzz.
Then another.
My profile has blown up from all the engagement, and my sales have shot through the roof. My books are even charting. Because of them.Him.
If it continues like this, I might be able to afford to try publishing one more book if the upcoming one doesn’t pan out for me. It’s bittersweet, yet I can’t find it in me to be happy about any of it.
Tears soak into my hoodie as I wipe my face against my shoulder. At some point over the past three days, I stopped checking my messages and comments. I thought it would be over after one drunken night. It was wishful thinking that blocking them would be enough for them to call it quits and leave me alone, because it turns out they have burner accounts.
Staggering upright, I shuffle to my desk and drop into my seat, feeling too exposed in the empty room.
