I knew what I was coming back to endure. I knew this would be hard. Change only happens through unbearable pressure, but my alternative was staying in Spain with my absentee mother and finding out that what I thought was rock bottom was only the tip of the iceberg. Sometimes you have to go back to the beginning to figure out how you’re supposed to end.
So now I’m back where I started, trying for a happier ending to my adolescence.
Walking to my en suite bathroom, I turn on the shower in the expansive half-open glass enclosure and turn back to the mirror to brush my teeth. God. I look as wrung-out as I feel. It’s funny how your reflection can change in the blink of an eye, making you a stranger to yourself.
The tart toothpaste fills my mouth as I brush, becoming spicy, until I spit into the pristine white bowl and lift my eyes to stare at myself again. How did I get here? That’s a dumb question. I know exactly how.
Cupping my hand with water to rinse my mouth, I close my eyes until I drag the back of my hand across my full lips to wipe away the droplets of water left dangling. It wasn’t one moment that brought me down, more like a messed-up calamity of terrible decisions that sent me in every single wrong direction.
“Get your shit together, Donovan. This is your last chance. Don’t fuck up.”
Steeling my resolve, I turn to disrobe and pull the tie from my hair before stepping into the shower. I dip my head under the water, letting it bathe me in warmth, and wash away the last of my thoughts.
Everything will be better.
I will be better.
Because it can’t get any worse than sleeping with a married man, getting caught doing every possible drug, destroying lives (especially my own), and having to leave the country. All by the very mature age of seventeen. Here’s hoping eighteen continues as uneventful as it began—alone, sober, and heading home to New York.
Finishing up quickly, I step out to towel off. Wrapping it firmly around myself, I grab my hair dryer, blowing the wet locks away from myself. My head tilts to the side, the hot wind brushing my skin while I run my fingers through the long strands, weaving them in between the streaks of lighter and darker blonde that naturally exist—a gift from Mommy dearest.
People say I resemble her, my mother. They say we could be sisters. She loves that, usually because whatever asshole who’s giving the line is someone she wants to fuck. I don’t mind being her twin. She’s gorgeous. A classic beauty. Men lose themselves in her eyes and go mad with the need to possess her. It’s acting like her that bothers me.
I don’t want to become some sad, unlovable forty-something, whose smell of desperation becomes so hard to ignore that it always repulses everyone who gets too close.
My cell ringing from the other room brings The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” blasting into my bathroom, just as I turn off the dryer. Glancing in the mirror, I zhuzh my shaggy bangs before walking out. I pick up the pace, taking quicker steps on the balls of my feet to grab the phone in time.
“I was just thinking of you,” I answer sarcastically, seeing the name on my screen.
“I’m sure all good things. I need you to ask your father something.”
Hello to you, too, Mommy.
“No.”
“Donovan.”
“No,” I repeat with more force.
“You chose to live there. And you left me with quite a large mess to clean up. So, I think the least you can do is pass a message or two. Don’t you?”
God, I hate my mother. Her only child spirals out of control, and still, all she can think is how to use me to her advantage. Frustration roils inside of me, all the despicable words volleying to be said first on the tip of my tongue. But the very first insult I think clamps my mouth shut, because, as much as I want to say no, my guilt trumps my hatred. I did fuck up, and I did bail.
“Fine.”
I hear her sigh in relief, and it makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. Pivoting to my walk-in closet, I hold the phone to my ear as she speaks. “Tell him I want the Boulders for the holidays.”
I bark out a laugh, grabbing the tie from where it’s hanging next to my school blazer, and hook my finger around the coat to carry both back to the bed, tossing them down.
“Do you think if I ask for you that he’ll finally say yes? Jesus, Mother.”
“Don’t act so affronted,” she huffs.
“I’m not. I meant it as a direction. Jesus—that’s who you should ask because you’re hoping for a miracle, and I think he’s the only guy who’s ever been known to dish those out.”
“Less sarcasm and more help, Donovan. God, you’re just like your father.”
I wish that were true. Love isn’t a word he cares to explore. It’s empty, but at least then I wouldn’t be in my current mess. Tossing my towel to the ground, I put the phone on speaker as I get dressed.
“You’ve been trying for that house as long as the two of you have been divorced. He always says no. What makes this year different? It’s not as if he’s thrilled that I’m here, Mother.”
“He still has you to entertain. And God knows I’ve made plenty of sacrifices in my life for you, since your father and I parted ways.”
Yeah, right.
That house has always been a point of contention between them. My father bought it for her as a wedding gift. She loved it. When she broke his heart, he took the only other thing she loved away from her—a house. Not me. A house. But legalities are tricky; she still has an interest until he sells it, and he won’t ever do that because it’s much more fun to dangle it over her head.
My hand’s still on the waistband of my skirt, dumbfounded by what she’s said. “You’re serious. Sacrificed? Last year for New Year’s, you disappeared for a week to party on a yacht. I sat alone. I’ve been taking care of myself, and occasionally a hungover or heartbroken you, for quite some time.”
“Just ask him.”
This woman would have eaten her young if she was allowed.
“Yep.”
The light dims on my cell as the call ends, my head slightly shaking while I stare at it. I hate that it still hurts. One day I hope I can feel for her as much as I do for a complete stranger. People should have to take a test to procreate. Maybe like something that differentiates between narcissistic egomaniacs with a dash of insecurity and all those who would make good parents. That way kids wouldn’t be tricked into loving the wrong people.
I shake my head again, wiping some moisture from under my eye. I don’t have time for this. My eyes dart to the clock on my nightstand, and I realize I’m going to have to haul ass if I’m going to be on time, and I need to be on time to make a good impression.
Rolling the dark navy plaid skirt, so it’s a tad shorter and trendier, I leave my white button-down untucked. They can’t hold my fashion sense against me. The sleeves on the blazer fold easily, so I push them up my slender forearms, adding some bangles to my wrist full of bracelets. I throw my tie over my head, letting it hang loosely, tugging my hair free to drop down my back.
I grab my favorite necklace, letting the tarnished pendant fall over my chest from the long chain it’s attached to. My fingers linger on it, remembering the precious moment. So long ago and yet so vivid in my mind. It’s one of those moments I’ve hung on to a lot lately.