While I go through my analytics, I take some time to reflect on this month as a whole, especially the last two weeks being back here in Timberline.
I thought that I’d be able to stay the confident person that I was back in Athens, but it’s like being here has reversed some of the things I’ve tried so hard to stop making a habit.
I stay inside almost all day, avoiding the people of this fucking town like the plague. I don’t want to make small talk or listen to people compliment me when those very same people were the reason I once wanted to cut my skin off. I can’t handle it right now. So I sit inside, I make my cute little meals, eat my cute little snacks, and post all day long so that I don’t go fucking crazy.
The good thing is that when Beckett and I happen to be in the same room, we don’t talk about my family. I appreciate it because I don’t want to talk about them, or to them.
I like that I don’t have to force the conversation with Beckett. If it doesn’t come, then it’s not awkward. We just fall into silence and continue on with whatever we were doing.
I do think that my tiny, little crush on him is growing just slightly every time I see him, though. I can’t control it; I like the way he makes me feel. He makes me feel heard, like my opinions are actually worth listening to.
I sit on the floor of my room, my ring light set up in front of me as I talk to my camera.Another media day.I have a huge stash of drafts and a long list of video ideas.
It’s nice; I don’t really have to stress about what to post since I have most of my content scheduled in the app for a week out, with next week’s planned out, as well. All I need to do is hit post.
I start to get hungry around eight, so I go downstairs to make dinner. I’m surprised to see Beckett sitting on the couch watching TV.
“I didn’t know you were home. I was just gonna start dinner. Do you want anything in particular?” I ask. He takes a moment to respond, and I can’t tell if he didn’t hear me or if he’s just thinking.
“No, whatever is fine with me,” he responds, and I nod, taking the last few steps into the kitchen.
I riffle through the items in the pantry, trying to figure out what sounds best for dinner.
I grab a box of protein pasta, setting it on the counter before going to the fridge and grabbing some peppers, onions, a lemon, garlic, chicken, some spices, parmesan cheese, and olive oil.
While the pasta is boiling, I cook the chicken and sauté the veggies with the seasonings.
Once the veggies are done, I toss them in the blender with some pasta water and a little more seasoning to make a sauce.
I strain the noodles, cut up the chicken, and plate everything before taking a quick picture and telling Beckett that it’s ready.
He sits with me at the counter. The first few minutes of the meal are silent, minus the scraping of the forks against plates and the noise from the news on the TV in the background.
“Do you think I’m being immature for not talking to my parents?” I ask, looking down at my plate.
I’m not sure where the question comes from, and I think that it surprises me as much as it surprises him.
His hand momentarily pauses before he continues twirling some pasta onto his fork.
He chews slowly like he’s processing, looking for the right words before speaking.
“No, I don’t think so. If they aren’t reaching out to you, then there is no reason for you to initiate the contact. Phones work both ways.”
“You really think so?”
“Why? Do you feel like you’re being immature?”
I pull my bottom lip into my teeth as I think over my answer. “I don’t know,” I mumble, pushing my food around my plate. “I’ve always been the one to keep in contact. Now that I’m not and they don’t seem to notice… I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Like I should keep pushing for something, and maybe at some point it’ll stick.”
He stays quiet for a few moments, letting me get lost in my thoughts, which is a dangerous place to be.
“You shouldn’t. You’re a good kid, Sloane. They are missing out on what you have to offer. Your dad is my best friend, but even I can admit that he’s sometimes a major douche. You haven’t always been treated the way that you deserve.”
I nod my head. It feels nice to be noticed, for Beckett to have realized that I often received the short end of the stick when it came to my dad. But it still hurts. I’m not sure if it hurts because it’s so bad that someone else noticed, or if it hurts more because I feel like a failure.
I could have tried harder to be normal growing up, to do what they wanted, to lose weight, to try some kind of extracurricular in school, to pick a career path that would make them proud.
What if.
