If I'm Being Honest(84)

But the hallway’s not empty anymore. Brendan stands in my way, pinning me between him and Bethany, who’s now escaping into the unlocked men’s room.

His expression is horrified, revolted, disappointed. His eyes find mine, and a crashing wave pummels my chest. He heard everything.

I have the insane urge to laugh, because he looks exactly like Andrew all those weeks ago in the nightclub.

Good, I think.

“Don’t look so surprised,” I tell Brendan. “This is who I am. The girl who called you Barfy Brendan. Nothing’s changed.”

Brendan shakes his head, and the muscles in his neck strain. “That’s not true. I’ve seen the real you.”

Now I do laugh. Because I know what he needs to hear. “You’ve seen an act,” I say patronizingly, recalling his words in his bedroom weeks ago. Forcing the derision physically hurts, but I know what I need to do for him to forget me the way we both deserve. “You said it yourself, Brendan, remember? I used you.” He flinches the way I expected, his eyes wounded. “I’ve been pretending to be someone I’m not to try to feel better about who I am. Only it wasn’t for Andrew. It was for myself. This”—I gesture to the splintering thing between us—“it wasn’t real.”

The words hit him one after the other, and he shatters. I soak up the pain, letting it under my skin until I feel nothing else.

For years I’ve been terrified of ending up like my mother. I never knew what it’d feel like to become my father instead. Now I do.

I walk past Brendan. He doesn’t follow.





Forty



MY STREET IS SILENT WHEN THE LYFT driver drops me off two hours later. I spent the rest of the dance locked in a belowdecks bathroom until the boat docked back in the harbor. I snuck off before anyone could find me, walked to the nearest bus stop, spent an hour on Los Angeles’ terrible mass transit system, then called a Lyft when I was close enough to home that the fare wouldn’t clean out my bank account.

I’m freezing and my feet are numb by the time I walk through my front door.

“Cameron?”

Every light in the living room is on. My mom’s behind the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in her hands like she waited up for me. That would be a first.

“How was the dance?” she asks.

I kick off my shoes, wincing when my stiff feet flatten on the carpet. “Great,” I mutter, walking through the living room toward the hallway. The last thing I want right now is to be sucked into a conversation about whatever’s keeping my mom up this late.

“I heard about the internship,” she says when I’m past the kitchen. I still. “I think we should talk about it. Are you okay?”

I gape at her. She’s never asked me that question before. Not when Dad didn’t call to say he’d be in town before the PTA meeting, or when he ignored the birthday party invitation I sent him in third grade. I didn’t think she even knew about the internship. My mind spins, searching for her motivation, something to explain her sudden interest in my feelings. Undoubtedly, it’s connected to her relationship with him. She’s got some new plan, some messy hope. I want nothing to do with it. I have zero interest in hearing how their love is “true” and “worth the hard work.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t need to talk about this with you.”

She sets her mug down with a sharp clack. “I’d like to discuss it anyway.”

Her voice is oddly authoritative, but I’m not in the mood. “Yeah, no thank you,” I say, walking to my room.

“I’m the parent here, and I—”

I whirl. “You’re the parent? Since when?”

“Cameron,” she says, low. A warning.

Not tonight. I’m not holding my tongue. Not now. This night has been a perfect storm of disappointments, and I’m tired of sheltering her from the truth. “Were you the parent when I was keeping track of our bills? When I had to find money for school supplies?” I step closer to her. “What about when you sat on the couch for days on end and I cleaned the house, did your laundry, made our meals? When were you the parent, Mom?”

Her eyes narrow. I’m not interested in whatever sorry excuse I know she’s preparing. I’m done pretending my life is something I can fix with a list and hard work. There’s no reason to hide how broken this home is—how she’s run it utterly into the ground.

“The only time you are a parent,” I continue, “is when it brings you closer to your ex. I know you’ve only kept me around in hopes of finally achieving your great dream of marrying my father. Admit it. You never wanted me for anything else.” The accusations spill from me, fresh and furious, fears I’ve never voiced aloud. The heart of every doubt and insecurity that’s ever weighed me down—that between the only two parents I have, nobody’s ever wanted me.

I wait for her weak denial, her excuses, the explanations I’ve heard a hundred times before. She closes her eyes the way I’ve watched her do in dressing rooms, and I figure she’s getting into whatever character she hopes will win my sympathy.

Instead, opening her eyes, she only leaves for the hallway.

I exhale a sigh. Unbelievable. She’s an actress, and she won’t even bother to play the part of the devoted mother. She won’t even pretend I’m more to her than leverage with my father.