And where the hell is my father? Where has he been in this? No calls. No texts. No conversation when I was home. Is he so happy with his darling Rachel, or whatever the hell her name is, that he can’t bother to be here? To reach out? To reassure me that no matter what happens with him and Mom, that he’ll always be there for me?
But why would he do that when he never has been?
How long has it been since he hugged me and told me he loves me?
“Okay.” I swallow hard. I will not cry in front of my mother, a woman who doesn’t have any remorse in her eyes. A woman who looks . . . deliriously happy. Maybe a little like I’ve felt with Lincoln. Before now. “Is that why you’re here? Because you’re telling me about your fling?”
“It isn’t just a fling, sweetie. Joe and I are getting serious, another reason why I’m here.” She sets her hands on her lap and says, “Joe’s moving in.”
“What?” I ask, blinking a few times. “Moving into our house?”
She nods.
“With Dad?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Oh no, honey, he already moved out. Found a very nice apartment that he and Rochelle are sharing. I helped him pick it out.” What?
I press my hand to my forehead, all this information starting to swirl around in confusion. And then I think back on my house when I was there. In a word, it was sparse.
“When, Mom? When did he move out?”
And for a moment, she looks sheepish. “It doesn’t matter when.” She laughs. Laughs. Fuck. “But your father and I are happy and—”
“No, Mom. It does matter. Were you and Dad just playing happy families, who scuttled off to their booty calls on Thanksgiving when their daughter came to see them? For what purpose? Why not tell me the truth then?” It feels like my blood is boiling. I don’t think I’ve ever been this . . . enraged.
“Indie, you’re blowing this out of proportion. It doesn’t—”
“When? When did you help Dad—your husband—pick out a new apartment to share with his girlfriend? When did you decide your boyfriend should move into our home?”
“Not just my boyfriend, but my boyfriend and his daughter.”
My heart stops.
Literally stops.
“Daughter?”
“Yes, she’s the sweetest little thing. Priscilla is her name, and she’s ten. Loves Barbies, something you never enjoyed, and she loves playing beauty salon with me.”
“Where . . . where is she going to stay?” I ask, my heart sinking with every confession.
“Well, that’s the thing. Since the house is only a two-bedroom, it makes things quite difficult. Since you’re here in college and wanting to stay over breaks, I was hoping that Priscilla could have your room.”
My jaw hits the floor.
She has got to be kidding me.
“You want Priscilla to sleep in my room?”
“Well, not just sleep there, honey, but live there. I was going to pack up all your trophies and medals and paint the walls pink, because Priscilla just loves pink. We picked out a comforter at Target the other day; it’s so adorable. But before we move forward, I wanted to make sure it’s going to be okay with you.” Okay with me. That I’ll never see my own room again. I won’t have a home anymore.
“It seems like you’ve already moved me out, Mom,” I say, a bitter bite to my voice.
She goes to take my hand but I move away. “Indie, I’m not moving you out, I’m just utilizing a room that’s not being used. The only way I can afford the mortgage is if Joe moves in, as he’s going to pay half. But Joe can’t move in unless Priscilla comes with him.”
“I see.” I look away, my eyes burning. There is no place for tears, and I won’t let her see any either.
It’s bad enough that my parents are seeing other people and apparently have already spoken about divorce, but to take away my childhood room from me and replace me with a girl by the name of Priscilla, a girl who loves Barbies and is everything I was not growing up . . . it’s too much.
“Honey, you didn’t want to come home this past summer. I had to force you. You’re growing up, do you expect me to keep your room as a shrine forever?”
“No,” I say, steadying my voice, even though it’s wavering. “It’s fine, Mom.” I take a deep breath, put on a good face and then stand from the couch. “Do what you want with the room. It’s not like I’m returning anyway.”
“Well, we still want you to come home for Christmas, sweetie. You can split time between the house and your dad’s new place. It has an indoor pool. Fancy, right?”
It takes everything in me not to rear back and kick my mom in the shin.
An indoor pool?
That’s what she thinks will make everything better? A goddamn indoor pool?
Unbelievable.
“Yeah, fancy.” I move away and say, “I’m sorry to just bolt but I do have finals to study for.”
“Of course, of course.” She stands as well. “I’m sorry I crashed in on you, but I thought it would be better to tell you this in person.” She comes up to me and clasps my hands. “Thank you for being so terrific. Priscilla is going to just love your room.”
Great.
She places a kiss on my cheek and then cups it. “You’re a good daughter. Oh, and sorry about your loss. But hey, now you can focus on supporting Lincoln and his journey to the big leagues.”
And there it is, the final kick to the crotch. The underlying tension between me and my mom. She’s never supported my pursuit of soccer, wishing I was more like her, happy to settle with a man—even though it doesn’t last a lifetime apparently. Oh, and, it’s good to know that at least I’m replaceable. This time around, Mom has the girly-girl daughter she’s always wanted.
“Yes, well, we’ll see what happens this spring.”
“So glad I introduced you two.” She presses another kiss to my cheek as steam flies out my ears. “Love you, sweetie. I’ll send you pictures when we’re done making the transformation of your room. Can’t wait.” She claps her hands, gives me a hug, and then takes off, leaving me alone in my living room with a broken heart. With tears falling down my face.
Today, I found out I was replaceable.
And forgettable.
Lincoln: Hey babe, are you headed over? Wasn’t sure if I should get dinner for us.
Lincoln: Just checking in. Everything okay?
Lincoln: Indie, growing concerned. Scarlett’s here, and we’re ordering pizza. Are you coming over?
Lincoln: Indie, babe. Can I have a heads-up that you’re okay, please . . .
Scarlett: Girl, your dude is freaking out. Can you text him back?
Scarlett: Okay, so you’re ignoring both of us. I’ll be over in a few.
Indie: Don’t. I just want to be alone. Have fun with Hutton. Tell Linc I’ll talk to him later.
My feet pound against the tread of the treadmill, sweat drips down my chest and off my face, and my mind is focused on the speed number in front of me. Nothing else.
Double digits. I have to get to double digits.
I move the dial up another notch.
Nine point five.