Dad flips a couple slices of warm French toast onto a plate. “Eat up, sweetie.” But he doesn’t smile.
Their disappointment is a weight, bowing my shoulders. It’s always like this with them—proud of me one second, pissed the next. I’m always getting close to their ideal, but never quite reaching it. I know they wish I’d had a higher GPA in college and graduated cum laude. That designation always looked and sounded kind of dirty to me, and I never really cared about it. All I cared about was getting through college so I could marry Tom, maybe travel the world with him—backpack through Europe and crap like that.
Tom was my whole plan. I should have known better. I mean, who makes her plans around a guy? Who calls herself a feminist and still does that shit? But I did, almost without realizing it.
I know my parents want me to have a plan for my life, now that college is checked off the list. But is it so wrong to just enjoy my summer without thinking about the next step? The whole cycle of “school, college, career, death” doesn’t really do it for me. I’d rather meet interesting people, and travel, and try new things. But having the freedom and money to do all that is a privilege in itself, one I’ll lose in a few months when my parents push me out of the nest. Might as well enjoy myself now.
I chew my French toast slowly, savoring the slide of melted butter and syrup over my tongue.
“Sarah says they haven’t seen Nick.” Mom sets her phone down.
So much for savoring my breakfast. “Okay. I’ll head back to the party house to look for him.”
“Your dad will drive you.” Mom gives Dad a pointed stare.
“I’m not going to crash on the way over there,” I protest. “It’s not that far.”
I stuff another bite of French toast into my mouth, set my dishes in the sink, and walk into the foyer to grab my bag. It’s a soft, slouchy thing with a distressed texture, so scrapes and snags don’t matter as much. I have, like, three dozen purses, but this one’s my favorite because it’s tough and it can hold everything, like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag.
Mom comes into the foyer as I’m opening the front door. “I’m not comfortable with you going to a strange house alone.”
I stare at her. “Mom. I’ve been on my own for a few years now. I think I can handle this.”
“But you haven’t really been on your own, have you?” She puckers her lips, glancing away. “You had Tom looking out for you.”
“Right.” My tone is dry as bones. “He did such a great job of that.”
I know it’s not fair, treating her like this. She only knows about the cheating, not all the other controlling, messed-up stuff Tom did. How could she know, when I avoid the topic every time she brings it up? But I can’t talk to her, I can’t, because I guess I’m still angry at her for letting me date him, for not seeing the signs and warning me. Wasn’t she supposed to protect me from guys like him? And now I’m damaged inside, and I can’t manage to heal, and I’m fucking pissed about it.
Obviously Mom and Dad aren’t mind readers. Tom fooled them into believing he loved me as much as I loved him. They never realized how toxic he was. The closest my dad came to that awareness was my senior year of high school. Dad stopped me in our front doorway one afternoon right before I left with Tom, and he said, “That kid reminds me of someone I knew back in school.”
“Okay,” I replied, shrugging.
“I didn’t like the guy,” my dad said. “He couldn’t see past his own reflection, if you know what I mean.”
“I really don’t,” I said, and then I left with Tom.
Maybe I should have listened more closely to what Dad was trying to tell me. Might have saved me some heartbreak. Either way, it’s not fair to put the blame on my mother. I was the one so deeply immersed in the relationship that I couldn’t see how Tom had changed, and what he was doing to me.
Inhaling slowly to steady myself, I meet my mother’s eyes. “It’s fine, Mom. The guy who hosted the party is nice, okay? If it makes you feel better, I’ll take Jordan with me.” I have no intention of bothering Jordan at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday, but my mom doesn’t need to know that.
“Okay.” She narrows her eyes. “Be careful. And stay in touch.”
“I will.”
My car is a Toyota Prius, a handful of years old. Dad refused to buy me anything too flashy or expensive because I’m a terrible driver. The Prius is my fifth car, and it already has a number of bumps and dings and scrapes. I’ve named most of them—Mailbox Crush, Post Problem, Fence-That-Shouldn’t-Have-Been-There, Rainy-Day-Run-In, Acci-Dent.
I know roughly where the party house is, since it’s so close to Nick’s home. In a weird way, Nick and Gatsby are kind of neighbors despite the vast differences in their wealth, separately only by forested acreage and a rocky spur of the mountain.
I’m halfway to Gatsby’s when my phone chimes. I’m so tempted to check it while driving, but for someone like me who can barely navigate mountain roads with my full attention intact, looking at a text would be disastrous. There’s a gas station ahead—the one Nick stopped at the other day—so I turn in there and park.
The message is from Nick. Sorry I didn’t text you. Weird stuff happened last night. Come over.
So he’s okay—or at least, he’s alive. I text back, On my way.
Some of the tension drains from me as I lean back in my seat. I don’t have to panic-drive over there—I can take a moment to breathe.
Movement by the door of the gas station catches my eye. It’s Myrtle, with her cloud of squiggly blond hair and her bubble-gum pink lips. She’s leaning against the brick wall, and beside her stands a slender dark-haired man with cheekbones like knives. The sight of him stalls my pulse.
Tom’s biceps bulge as he reaches up to light his cigarette. He flicks the lighter shut and slides it into the pocket of his deliciously snug jeans. My heart aches again at the beauty of him, at the memory of my hips pressed to his—the scent of pineapple and bergamot swirling in my nostrils. His lips on mine—mint and the faint aftertaste of cigarette smoke. His fingers, laden with rings, dancing on the steering wheel to the music pounding from the speakers of his truck. Wind slapping my clothes as I rode behind him on his motorcycle.
And I remember him easing into me from behind, one hand planted on my spine, the way he liked it. “Say you belong to me,” he’d pant, hips rocking against my rear, sending swirls of pleasure through my belly. Close, so close—
“I belong to you,” I’d gasp. “Only to you.”
“Mine,” he’d groan. Sometimes he would smack my ass until it was red and sore, even though he knew I didn’t like spanking. It made me feel weak and childish, made my own climax recede. I usually ended up frustrated and unsatisfied. But Tom said spanking me made him come harder, so I didn’t protest much, because I loved him.
I loved him, and he broke me.
My car is half-tucked behind a big tractor-trailer, so Tom and Myrtle haven’t noticed me. There’s no one else parked on this side of the gas station, no one to witness the argument they’re having. Either they’re already back together, or Tom’s trying to persuade her to come back—or he never actually broke up with her to begin with.
Myrtle steps forward, planting her hands on her hips. Her glossy white teeth are bared and snapping; her enormous candy-colored hoop earrings swing wildly with every sentence. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I recognize the hard lines of Tom’s shoulders, the tension in his stance. He’s approaching his limit, the place where he loses control. I used to be able to talk him down from those violent moments; I’d shift into my low, persuasive tones, as musical as I could make them, and I’d lure him away from that peak. It gave me a kind of thrill, knowing I could tame the beast, knowing he needed me. I had some romantic notion that my love empowered him to be a better person.
Absently I massage my own fingers, still sore from when he ground my knuckles together the other night.
Even when we were a couple, my powers of persuasion didn’t always work. He hurt me several times, in small ways—twisting a pinch of my skin, squeezing my hand too hard, hustling me along a little too roughly. Maybe it was only a matter of time before it escalated.
Even as I think the words, Tom’s free hand flashes. I hear the pop of his palm against Myrtle’s cheek all the way inside my car, despite the windows being closed.
