What if.
What if.
That stupid phrase bounces around my head as it has every day since I was in my senior year.
Nothing changes. Not even now that I’m easier to look at. Not even now that I’m making really good money. Not even now that I’m back in town, just a few minutes away from them and their pristine lifestyle.
Why does it still fucking hurt?
Why does my chest ache at the thought that I haven’t been home to a family dinner in ages?
Why does the pressure build behind my eyes every time I think about the family pictures I see them post on social media?You know, the ones that I’m not in. The ones they took at events without even thinking to invite me.
I would have gone.
“The only thing I’ve ever wanted was to just not be so alone,” I whisper the words as I stand, no longer hungry or wanting to be around him since I’m afraid I’m about three words shy of bursting into tears, spilling every dark thought I’ve ever had.
“I’ll come clean up later.”
I place my plate in the sink and disappear up the stairs before he can stop me. Closing my bedroom door behind me, I let myself sink to the floor. I pull my knees up into my chest, crying tears for a family that doesn’t deserve my pain.
You’d think that I’d have moved on and forgotten about this pain, but around every corner I’m constantly reminded of what I don’t have. What I will probably never have.
It hurts.
I don’t want much; just a phone call, a text even, just asking how I’m doing. Some kind of request to see if I’m settling in ok.
But no, that’s too much to ask.
So instead, I’ll just sit here and cry. I’ll just hate myself a little more, wondering what it would be like to have parents who actually care to notice you.
I used to daydream a lot. No, not about boys, or first dates, or prom, or anything like that. I used to pretend that I was the center of their world. That the whole‘youngest child’stereotype was a reality that I got to live. I used to dream about being praised and loved simply because I was doing my best. That I was enough for them. I used to long for anyone to just want me forme. But I guess that’s a lot to ask for when you don’t have any kind of value to offer to anyone. When you’re just a boring rock mixed in with a family of shiny diamonds.
I look down at my hands and try to wonder if maybe I could have done anything different, if I really fucked up so bad that I’ll never be loved by anyone. At a certain point, you start believing that voice in your head.I mean, if it wasn’t true, someone somewhere would love me, right?Like anyone, even if it was just someone who truly wanted to be my friend. Maybe, just like I’ve always heard, I am the problem.
6
BECKETT
It’s been weird to come home and find the kitchen clean. To see everything spotless and have it smell like something other than cleaning chemicals; fruit, lemonade, vanilla, coffee, or other exotic scents that I couldn’t describe if you told me what they were supposed to be.
It’s nice to have food on the table, to have someone waiting up for me when I get home.
Most nights we don’t talk. We don’t need to because both of us are used to being on our own. We can just exist in each other’s presence.
When I get home, she’s curled up on the couch, asleep. The TV is still on, her laptop open on the coffee table, the screen now black. I take a moment to look at her, really look at her, without the fear of being caught.
She’s gorgeous, in a soft way. She’s funnier than I would have ever given her credit for. Her light brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few pieces pulled out to frame her face. Freckles dot her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her skin is a little tan from the Georgia sun she was able to see before moving here.
I hate that I even want to look at her, that I want to admire her, and how far she’s come. Not just her body, but her personality.
The Sloane I used to know would have never cracked a joke about being a pornstar. Would never tease me about how I take my coffee in the morning. Would never say more than five words to me at a time. I like this Sloane, the one who’s not scared to be herself, even if she’s not really sure who that is yet. I’m proud of her. I haven’t told her that yet, but I am.
My chest aches as I drape a blanket over her sleeping form, because she tried to wait up for me. She doesn’t have to. Hell, she doesn’t even have to make food for me.
Yet she does.
Every fucking night, she takes care of me without being asked, without expecting anything in return, all without a thank you.
