One Small Thing(43)
I want to say no, but several seconds tick by and I can’t get that one syllable out.
So he takes my silence as a yes and keeps talking. “Stop focusing on all the stuff you can’t do and start focusing on what you can do. Start thinking about something other than partying and having fun or whatever it is you’re thinking about.” His tone is gruff. “Because that’s not what being an adult is about.”
“What if I don’t want to be an adult?” I whisper.
“Nobody does, doll.”
Doll. Did he really just use an endearment? My cheeks feel hot all of a sudden. I hate this so much. I hate that I feel these stupid things for the one person I shouldn’t be feeling them for.
“I have to go,” I say abruptly, shooting to my feet.
“You’re pissed.”
I force myself to look at him. “I’m not,” I say honestly. “I... You...you’ve just given me a lot to think about, okay? Plus, I actually do need to go. I snuck out of the house to come see you, remember?”
He walks me back upstairs. Mrs. Stanton isn’t lurking behind a chair or potted plant, thank God. It’s a good thing, too, because when we reach the front door, Chase touches me.
All right, he touches my hair, which is part of me. Therefore, he touches me. His hand thrusts forward and his fingers tuck some loose strands behind my ear.
I freeze.
“Your ponytail’s a mess,” he says roughly. “You should retie it or you’ll have a bitch of a time running home.”
Somehow I manage to find my voice. “Yeah. I’ll fix it. Thanks.”
He takes a step back. “See you at school.”
“Um, sure. See you.”
I dart out the door as if my butt is on fire. My cheeks feel like they are. But my stomach feels like there’s an ocean current of queasiness down there.
You can’t like this guy, I plead with myself. You can’t. Rachel is gone because of him—
But as always, I push all thoughts of my sister out of my mind. I can’t think about Rachel. It’s too hard. It’s been this way since her funeral. Everyone tried to get me to talk about her. Everyone wanted to share all these stories about her and talk about how amazing she was. Me, I shut down.
I just...can’t. Talk about her, think about her, look at pictures of her. That’s probably why I feel like throwing up every time I see the pristine condition of her bedroom, because it forces me to remember.
So does Chase, but it’s easier to be around him than in the shrine that used to be Rachel’s room. It’s easier to think about the virginity I gave him than about what he took from me.
I’m breathing hard the entire run back home, and this time, I don’t think it’s because I’m out of shape. My throat feels tight. My stomach, my shoulders, my heart, they all feel tight. Plus, there’s a tremor of dread inside me. I’m terrified that I’ll come home and one of my parents will be there, and they’ll tell me they got home two hours ago and where was I for two hours and how could I be so irresponsible. And then they’ll find a new way to punish me.
I’m relieved to find the driveway empty. I race into the house and hurry upstairs to shower and change. Afterward, I wander down to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat—and that’s when I get an idea.
Teach people how to treat you.
Chase’s words buzz around in my mind. I don’t know if everything he said was right, but I can’t deny that I haven’t given my parents many reasons to have faith in me lately. First, I threw a tantrum after I found those college applications Mom took. I mean, I think I had every right to be angry, but I can concede that maybe screaming about my dead sister wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
Then I lied about my plans with Scarlett and went to a party in a sketchy neighborhood. Granted, I don’t think it’s right of them to read my text messages, but I had been lying to them a lot lately.
What I told Chase was the truth, though. I’ve been a good girl for years. I’ve followed their rules, I’ve worked hard at school, at the clinic. But these past three years, the walls just kept closing in on me more and more, the noose around my neck kept getting tighter and tighter, until finally I snapped. I know every person is responsible for their own actions, but my parents’ behavior absolutely drove me to do some of the things I’ve done.
But...Chase is right. Losing my temper and acting out isn’t helping me. It’s not helping me get my car or phone back, not helping me go back to the shelter, not helping me regain their trust.
I’m going to cook them dinner.
This brilliant idea hits me as I stand in front of the fridge. Fine, so it’s not the grandest gesture in the world, but it’s something. It’s a start. It shows that I’m willing to sit down and eat with them and be part of the family that I’ve been running away from all summer. And maybe if it goes well, if they appreciate my efforts, I might be able to convince them to let me go back to the animal shelter. Even once a month would be amazing.
Happy with myself, I start yanking ingredients out of the fridge and setting them on the cedar island. I figure I’ll make pasta, grilled chicken and salad. That’s easy enough and won’t take long to prepare. It’s seven, and they’ll both be home around eight. I’ll have dinner ready and on the table when they walk through the door. They’ll have to appreciate that, right?