“Probably doesn’t mean certainly,” Mom says, weighing her head.
“Who wouldn’t want a pro-athlete career? Besides”—I shake my head—“Micah worked so hard for that.”
He’d never ruin his chances because of someone like me.
No.
This is a one-time thing while we're both expanding ourextra-extracurriculars. It’ll end by September. After that, he's free to get with cheerleader Mia and whoever they picked for their adventures. And afterthat,I'm sure an NFL tight end won't have to worry about an empty bed.
Mom sighs, but she isn’t admitting defeat just yet. “Oh, I know, I know, but you're stillfriends, aren't you?”
There it is, that dreaded emphasis.
“Mom,” I start, but she raises her brows, smiling that infuriating mother-knows-best smile.
“Lind, please, I've seen the way you two look at each other. You're so sweet together. And he’s very handsome!”
“Mom!”
“Now you're makingmeworry, honey,” Dad chimes in, though he's not lowering the little booklet from which he was dictating numbers to me, balancing a forkful of pie to his mouth.
“Oh, you're ridiculous.” Mom waves him off, then looks at me again, her brows still raised, even if she smiles at me, clearly intending to tease. “Now, why are you fibbing to your mother?”
I'm not in the mood to play this family game. Instead, I pick the rest of my cinnamon roll apart, layer by layer, until it becomes clear that she won’t let off without an answer. I take a deep breath, wishing I had just stayed silent.
“We're not even dating. It's nothing serious. Just like a…a summer fling.” I cringe at myself. This isn’t the kind of topic I thought I'd be discussing with my parents. Ever.
“Oh…well, that's also good! And who knows what will happen after summer.” Mom picks a few crumbs off the serving plate. “Summer can turn into fall, then winter…”
“Not this.”
“Obviously it won’t hold.” Dad surprises me by joining the conversation again. “That boy’s going to be jetting all over the country with his football club.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his fork, then spears it into his slice of pie. “How’d they make that work when Lind’s here? Besides…” He pauses to chew.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m gritting my teeth.
“We’ll be doing the hard work while the football stars are throwing those parties you hear about on the news, some pretty girl—or boy—trying to turn his hea—”
“Why do I have to be the one who's stuck here?” The question claws its way up my throat and forces its way through my teeth. But it's the silence that follows that cuts through me.
I can feel my parents’ eyes bore into my face, yet I’m unable to move or look at either of them. The cinnamon roll is burning in my stomach like I swallowed a cup of lava.
“Where’d you be? Can’t exactly mind a farm from across the country,” Dad rumbles, a hint of amusement swinging in his voice. It’s just that ridiculous,thatunfathomable to him, that I could want anything other than to stay and continue with life exactly as he has planned for me.
I’m a match, and my father just struck me against the side of the box, igniting me.
“Iwon’tbe minding the farm. I won’t be mindinganything!” I hiss, suddenly on my feet. “I’m going to become a vet. I don’t want—” My voice gives out under the weight of my anger. I can only gesture at the table that’s buried under papers and tables and plans that I want no part of. They’ve been growing over my head like weeds, smothering me. “I don’t wantanyof this!”
“What are you saying? This life’s not good enough all of a sudden?!” Dad’s voice rises, drowning out my mother’s quiet “Linden?”
“That’s not what I’m saying!” I stubbornly clench my fingers into fists. “It’s just not who I am! You told me how it’s gonna be and then expected me to go along with it!”
“This is our home! Your grandfather and I—”
“I don’t want it! I never did!” I don’t know when we both started shouting, but my voice hurts my ears. “I’ll be stuck here doing what you can’t anymore instead of getting to do whatIwant!”
“But this is the plan! You can’t just—”
“I don't even feel like yoursonanymore! You treat me like I'm your business partner, Dad. Everything we talk about isthis fucking farm. It's—I can't do it!” I erupt, almost stumbling backward over my chair in my hurry to get away from the table.
