She nods sagely. “Yes, I do know that.” She puts her elbows on the table and steeples her fingertips over her plate. “Sweetie, have you thought about attending school outside Missouri?”
I blink at her. “What are you talking about? I thought you wanted me to go to MBU.”
She sighs. “This isn’t about what I want. This is about what you want.”
I just stare at her, ping-ponging between disbelief and rage. This is about what I want? Even though if I, right now, open my mouth and tell her that I don’t want to go to college at all, she would flip out?
She sighs. “I’m just concerned that you feel you have to stay here because of him, because of how much help he needs, and I don’t want you to feel tied down by him.”
I grind my jaw together. I shouldn’t feel tied down by Dad. I can’t believe that she’s not even processing how hypocritical she sounds right now. Maybe Dad is holding me down, but not any more than Mom is.
“You don’t need to worry about Dad,” I say as calmly as I can. “I can handle myself.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “You’re eighteen, Oliver. You can’t handle yourself, and you certainly can’t handle your father. He just uses you—”
“I don’t care,” I say between gritted teeth. It’s the truth. I don’t care. He’s my dad. It doesn’t matter if the only time we spend together, he spends in the back seat of my truck, passed out. It doesn’t matter that when I try to talk to him about something serious, he shows up drunk as piss. None of that matters. He’s my fucking dad.
She puts up a hand. She pinches her lips together, and I can tell she’s trying not to get upset. “I’m not trying to start an argument with you.”
I want to growl at her that it’s too late, but I’ve never been good at this, at arguing with Mom, with letting her know how I feel, letting her know that I feel suffocated here with her, but also feel like I can’t leave because then she’ll have no one. That I feel obligated to help Dad because she’s the one who left him, and now he has nobody, too. That I want to leave Kansas City, but I’m scared to leave them and maybe I’m just scared to leave in general because I’m only eighteen, and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
But I’ll never say any of that to her.
I push back from the table and put my dirty plate in the sink. “Gotta go,” I say, heading for the front door and snatching up my jacket as I go.
“Where?” Mom asks, still sitting at the kitchen table.
“Valentine’s party. Don’t wait up.”
I leave her sitting there, her dinner still in front of her.
AMY
I’VE NEVER REALLY been one for nerves. I’ve entered academic competitions that I won without blinking, given speeches about historical figures without so much as a stutter, and was even Dorothy freshman year in our school’s production of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (don’t even get me started on how many people threatened to egg my house the day that casting went up), but tonight, when I’m standing in front of my full-length mirror, I can actually feel my fingers trembling as I try to do my hair.
Maybe it’s because of that stupid gram from Jackson or maybe it’s because I’m about to go to a party at my boss’s apartment. Either way, I’m nervous. Extremely nervous.
“You look nice,” Mama says from the doorway.
“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the mirror. I still have my hands in my hair, trying to tie it up in just the right way. The dress I’m wearing—a black, knee-length dress with roses on it—is one I stole from my mother’s closet, and I can only hope she doesn’t recognize it. She hasn’t worn it since she had the first set of twins.
“Don’t you think you’re a little overdressed for family dinner, though?”
My hands freeze, and I drop the strands of hair I’ve been attempting to braid together. “What? Family dinner is next week.”
Mama’s eyes go wide. I can see her in the mirror, her hands clutching the doorframe. “No. We moved it to this week. For Valentine’s Day.”
My mouth falls open. “But I asked you last week if I could go to a Valentine’s Day party, and you said yes. You never once mentioned that you guys moved family dinner to this week.”
“I didn’t think you’d have plans today. I thought the party would be another day.” She makes a weird shape with her mouth. “When you didn’t go out last night, I thought you decided not to go.”
“But today is Valentine’s Day.”
Mama’s lips clamp together, and she crosses her arms.
“Can’t I skip this one time?” I plead. “Please. I already told everyone I was going tonight. We have family dinner every month. Please. I’m already dressed!” I gesture toward my dress like she might not have already noticed it.
“Yes, in my clothes. I can see that.”
Shit.
“Amy, you know the rules. Family dinner is not optional. I’m sorry, but you’re not going to a party on a Sunday night, and on family dinner night, even if it is Valentine’s Day.”
She walks away like the conversation is over, and I’m left standing in front of my mirror, entirely overdressed for family dinner. I pick up my phone and pull up my text thread to Oliver.
Can’t come to the party. Long story. Sorry.
I text Brooke next, since it’s her party. And then I throw my phone down on my mattress hard, as if that will somehow get back at Mama.
OLIVER
“DO YOU THINK we have enough cupcakes?”
I look at Brooke’s counters, her kitchen table, and the coffee table in the living room. Every surface is covered in finger foods and bowls of chips and dip, and there are pink and red heart-covered cupcakes everywhere. There’s enough to feed everyone in Kansas City, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Honey, it’s, like, twenty people. There’s enough food.” Lauren comes into the kitchen, where Brooke is skittering around, putting more trays of food into the oven. Lauren takes a tray from Brooke, puts it on the stove, and kisses her. “Everything is going to be perfect. It’s just a silly party.”
My phone beeps, and I pull it out of my pocket, my stomach clenching when I see it’s a text from Amy.
Can’t come to the party. Long story. Sorry.
I don’t realize until my body sags under the weight of my disappointment just how much I was looking forward to hanging out with Amy tonight. A party without her … well, it just doesn’t seem as interesting.
“You look like someone drowned your puppy.”
I look up and find Brooke’s eyes on me. I feel like I can’t escape those eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asks, pressing her hip to the counter between us. I’m glad I’m sitting in a chair on the other side of her bar, where she can’t see the screen of my phone.
“Nothing,” I say, tucking my phone back into my pocket, and I expect Brooke to let it go.
But she just crosses her arms and says, “Is it your dad?”
I’m about to lie, just straight up tell her that yes, it’s my dad. But then her phone beeps, too, and she puts up a finger to tell me to wait and reads the text she just got. But of course, I know what she just got. A text from Amy, same as me.