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But I wasn’t a young lady, at least not in my mother’s estimation. Young ladies were poised and put-together and never questioned the dictates their parents set for them. I questioned everything, never went along easily, and was far too disheveled to gain any sort of approval from my parents.
“What is wrong with you?” I stayed silent. The list of what my mother found wrong with me would take us all night to get through.
If you’d lived here for longer than a year, you knew just about everyone. It was both a blessing and a curse.
“Some things aren’t fixable.” It was physically painful to say that, as if each word were made of a ball of barbed wire. But it was the truth.
“I didn’t sleep well last night. This coffee is keeping me from murdering people.”
It was so much more complicated than that, though. There were so many layers of guilt and grief and anger and longing.
But Ford wasn’t mine. All of these people were mistaking his overprotective big-brother routine for jealousy or interest. It only hurt more to know how wrong they were.
We’d spent the whole day together, and I only wanted more. More of her smiles, especially the ones where her nose crinkled. More of her laughs that turned husky at the edges. More of her insights into life. More of her.
“It’s like I slowly disappeared for them. The person they knew doesn’t exist anymore, and they have no interest in getting to know the new me. So, I’m just…gone.”
said nothing, just let the silence in the vehicle dial my anxiety up another degree.
