Before I leave, I hear Aaron say, “She’s a slut, you know that, right?”
“And you think I don’t know what my son did to you? I helped him ruin you, you piece of shit,” he says.
Lo told his father about Aaron? About how he’d tormented him? I don’t question this. Because Lo’s relationship with his father was a taboo topic between us. It fluttered in and out of our conversations, and I was only allowed a glimmer. And I know, without a doubt, that Jonathan Hale would move mountains for Lo. He just needs to be in the right mood first.
“Like father, like son,” Aaron says.
I have to leave, but I’m glued next to the door. I glance back one last time, and Jonathan’s eyes briefly flicker to me. “That girl is practically my daughter-in-law.” He sets a firm hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “If I hear you did anything to her, you’ll wish all you had to deal with was my son. Now get out of my fucking face.”
I am so confused.
I don’t know who to root for anymore.
I don’t know what sides to take or who to praise or condemn.
All I know is that my family is royally fucked up. And no amount of money or luxury can fix these problems. Maybe they even helped cause them.
I enter the grand ballroom where people wander, standing up and chatting as though it’s cocktail hour. Streamers and gold and black balloons lie on the carpet. I missed some sort of celebration. I kick them away and spot my mother by the stage.
What possesses me to approach her? I’m not quite sure. But as she talks to my father, I feel like I should just say something. Maybe help explain Rose’s feelings but in a softer, gentler manner. Maybe she’ll listen to me, I think. She never really has, but it’s a nice thought anyway.
I approach, and my father excuses himself to go mingle with some older corporate men. She looks a little stricken, her lips pinched and her hand a bit shaky. “What is it?” she asks, on edge.
“Are you okay?” Why do I start with this? Of course she’s not okay, and does she really deserve my sympathy after slapping Rose? No, not one bit. But I can’t take it back, and her domineering posture sucks my confidence dry.
“Fine,” she says, turning her back on me almost immediately. She waves to her friend and acts like I’m a piece of furniture that chose to bump into her leg.
I try again. “I think she’s just trying to express herself, but she doesn’t know how to do it without yelling…”
My mother continues to wave at her friend in the distance. She puts her hand on my shoulder, patting me once. “Sure, I have to go talk to Barbara. Find Aaron. He’ll keep you company.” With this, she drifts into the pack and wears the fakest smile. I watch her hug a bejeweled woman in a red bandage dress.
I feel like she just punched me in the gut.
Ryke suddenly sidles next to me. “There you are.” He hands me a glass of water, and I thankfully accept it with a smile. “You okay? Nothing happened did it…？” His brows furrow, and he glances behind me, probably looking around for Aaron who I’m sure has ceased and desisted. Jonathan Hale’s warning was strong enough to listen to. And Aaron isn’t that stupid.
“No,” I say, “nothing like that.” We both stare at the party that seems to relax—calm after the split tension. “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers begins playing. Couples grab their significant other, swaying to the lovely tune.
“Who was that guy anyway?”
“And old enemy,” I tell him, watching an elderly woman put her cheek on her husband’s shoulder.
Ryke stuffs a hand into his suit jacket and nods, as though fully understanding what it’s like to have enemies. I have no doubt that he has his fair share.
“My mother slapped my sister,” I say, completely detached from the words.
Ryke doesn’t even flinch. He just stares off at the dancers. “Funny, my mother did the same thing to me when I told her I was coming here.” He sips his own water.
“I think your father saved me tonight.”
Ryke stays quiet, letting this sink in.
We’re so fucked up. That’s all I can think and process.
And another batch of balloons begins to fall at the end of the song. The ceiling flickers with soft-lit multicolored lights.
I made it.
No guy touched me. I didn’t touch them. Sex was the last thing on my mind tonight.
Each day feels like an obstacle.
And a victory.
FEBRUARY
{5}
Three different pints of ice cream squeeze in between my thighs, the chill seeping into my Ms. Marvel pajama pants. Valentine’s Day sucks. Connor and Rose planned their date for the past week at some fancy restaurant, leaving me to gorge on Chunky Monkey, Half-Baked, and Cherry Garcia alone. I watch late-night cartoons on the high-def television, being transported back to my childhood years with Looney Tunes. With each “that’s all folks,” my heart thuds and I turn my head, about to mention how much I liked or hated the episode to Lo.