I run and hide—literally and figuratively—plastering my back against fences and hopping into a bush or two until I make it back to my house without anyone seeing me.
I pause at my front door and attempt to calm my breathing. After a minute, I put my key in the door and push it open, but only once I’m sure I’m not wearing an expression that screams SKANK. I walk inside and the outside world falls away as is only possible in my childhood home. The smell of coffee and my parents’ soft voices drift from the kitchen. I have a clear shot to my room, where I could shed my clothes and hide all evidence of my night with Nate. It’s an easy decision really.
But since when do I ever do the easy thing?
“Hola, parentals.” I walk through the kitchen and grab what has become my live, laugh, love mug out of the cabinet. “How’s your morning going?”
My dad shakes his head for an answer. I’m not sure he’ll ever adjust to having a daughter who walks into the kitchen wearing yesterday’s wet clothes like it’s no big deal. My mom, however, loves it.
“Hey, honey.” Her relieved smile is a solemn reminder of the deep worry lines she had yesterday. “Glad to see you’re back to your old self. Looks like a night with the girls was exactly what you needed.”
“It was a night to remember, that’s for sure.” I turn to the coffee pot and avoid making eye contact with my mom. Nobody can read me like Kimberly Carter and I need to change the subject before she catches on to where I really was last night. “I still can’t believe you got Ruby to come back home.”
“Oh, trust me, I didn’t have to do anything,” Mom says. “After the second day of you ignoring her calls she was already looking at flights.”
“What?” My coffee splashes over the rim of my mug as I spin to face her. No way I heard that right. Ruby pledged never to return to Ohio, and she’s not one to break a promise.
“I actually had to convince her to take a breath, get organized at work, and then come out. She was prepared to get on a plane four days before she got here.”
“Two hotheads,” Dad grumbles from behind the paper he insists on having delivered. “It’s a miracle you two didn’t land in more trouble growing up. Neither one of you knows how to take a breath when you’re worked up. Too much alike.”
“Anderson Carter. Don’t you dare sit at this table and pretend you weren’t checking the time on the phone and tracking Ruby’s flight until the moment she landed.” My mom tsks. “And besides, where do you think these two learned their hothead ways? Could it be from the boxing classes you signed them up for or all those screwball comedies you were constantly driving them to?”
Yes, it’s true. My mild-mannered, retired pharmacist, current garden enthusiast of a father is one thousand percent behind my wicked ways. Whenever I told him a story about talking back to a kid at school who tried to mess me with me, he’d give me a high five behind my mom’s back. Even when he worked long days, he never turned down watching movies with me. Much to my mom’s displeasure, we wore dents into the couch as we bounced from Pryor to Carlin to Steve Martin to Sinbad and back again. We never watched a sitcom without each other, and when I really sit and think about it, my love of storytelling is intrinsically linked to those moments with him.
“Oh, speaking of comedies, Dad.” I slide into the seat beside him. “The new script I’m writing is a sitcom. I’ve never tried this format before, but I think it might be pretty good. Could you look at it for me if you have a chance one day?”
Whatever my mom and dad were doing before I asked is long forgotten. They both snap their attention toward me. Their mouths are hanging open and they’re staring like I admitted to robbing a freaking bank.
“Did you just ask your father to read your script?” my mom asks, sounding very suspicious. “Why? What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“Kimmy, quiet,” my dad whispers, even though I’m literally sitting right next to him. “You’ll scare her off before she lets me see.”
“All right, all right. Very funny.” I roll my eyes and push away from the table. “I know I can be a little bit secretive, but you’re doing too much.”
“A little secretive?” my mom repeats after me. “You asked your grandparents for a safe for Christmas so you could lock away all of your writing.”
“Whatever,” I singsong on my way to the kitchen to put my mug in the sink. “Laugh all you want, but you know that was a good freaking present!”
One of the best presents ever, actually, and it’s still in my room.
Except now instead of protecting terrible essays and scripts that I have since burned, it houses three bags of peanut M&M’S, one pack of Sour Punch Straws, and about seven shooters from the liquor store nearby.
Their laughter fades as I take the stairs two at a time. The soreness in my legs and arms has dulled, but there’s one more prominent ache between my thighs that I don’t think is going anywhere anytime soon.
I skip—yes, skip!—into my room and only just close the door when the doorbell begins to ring.
Panic stops me in my tracks as I envision countless neighborhood lookie-loos standing outside my house, prepped and ready to show my parents video footage of me escaping from Nate’s house. A million worst-case scenarios run through my mind, one more awful than the next . . . like Nate coming to return the underwear I left somewhere in his room.
I press my ear against the door to try to gauge what’s happening, but instead, all I hear is the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. I hightail it to my bed and grab a book off my nightstand, trying to look as natural and unbothered as possible.
“Oh please.” Ruby barges into my room with a breathless Ashleigh on her tail. “You’re not tricking anybody with this casual reader bullshit.”
“How dare you?” I toss the book beside me and attempt to sound affronted. “I’ll have you know that I’m a very serious reader. It’s a big part of my craft, thank you very much.”
It’s true.
A huge part of my time spent as a screenwriter has involved reading scripts and novels. It’s not my fault she chose to be a lawyer where she’s forced to read boring legal documents all day . . . and also get paid a bazillion dollars more than me.
I have fun. She can afford a mortgage.
Who’s to say what’s more important?
“You mean the craft you told me you were giving up on forever because your douchebag ex has you blacklisted from the industry you spent your entire adult life trying to break into?” She folds her arms and lifts a single eyebrow. It’s her most intimidating stance and I wither beneath her bright blue stare.
“Attack much?” I give up on the good posture and my spine curls into a familiar slouch. “I thought my mom was coming in with gossip and I was trying to play it cool.”
“What gossip are you so nervous about?” She’s like a goddamn shark.
No wonder she makes so much money. She’s told me that on top of keeping a record of her clients’ outcomes, she also has a ledger where she records how many of her clients’ exes she’s made cry.