Page 9 of Losing a Piece of Me

I will myself to walk down the long hallway, not stopping until I reach my bedroom door. I place my hand on the doorknob and turn slowly. The door creaks inward and I peek inside before stepping in. You’re being stupid, just go inside, I chastise myself. It’s just like downstairs, everything is the same as it was when I left. Same Blink-182 posters on the walls. Same knick-knacks and trophies lining the shelves. Same photos of old friends, many of whom I haven’t seen or talked to in years. It’s been so long that I no longer feel any attachment to any of it. It’s as if it belongs to someone else entirely. My old window overlooks the backyard. When I look out, I halfway expect to see Striker standing there, waiting for me to climb down to meet him. I pull the curtains closed and begin unpacking my bag.

* * *

An hour later, everything is put away and I am washed up for dinner. I make my way down the stairs and back to the dining room where everyone is in their proper place at the table.

“Hi, Dad.” I place a kiss on his cheek before taking my seat across from my sister.

My mother’s eyes watch me. I can tell she isn’t happy that my sister and father aren’t giving me the cold shoulder the same way she is.

The maid places dinner on the table and we all begin to eat in silence. I think everyone is feeling the strain.

My sister, trying to be the happy-go-lucky person that she is, talks about her fiancée and how they met. I’m only half-paying attention while distractedly picking at my food.

At long last, my mother breaks her stoic silence by slamming her fist down on the table, interrupting Steph. The water in everyone’s glasses takes several moments to stop sloshing around from the impact.

“Are you going to tell me that you’re just going to sit there and act like everything is okay?”

My eyes flash to her, but she’s looking at my father.

He lifts his eyes from his plate, not startled at all.

Wiping his mouth and adjusting his glasses, he replies calmly, “What exactly isn’t okay, dear?”

I look back and forth between them until her eyes land on me.

“You don’t have anything to say to your daughter that ran away six years ago?”

His eyes look to me. “It’s nice to see you, Alexis.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

My father doesn’t look pleased but he turns to me. “We need to have a talk about what it is that you’re doing with your life.”

My shoulders unintentionally slump down at this. I knew this was going to happen. Everyone’s eyes are on me now, and I can feel anger burning in my chest. “There is nothing to talk about. I am completely happy with my life…far away from you.” I look directly at her.

“Is that what I get? After everything? After raising you and clothing you and buying you nice things?”

I laugh. I don’t mean to, but it slips out. “After raising me? You didn’t raise me! I was just something to march in front of your friends at the country club. As soon as I stepped out of line, I was cut off.” I toss my napkin onto the table and stand. The chair skids across the floor behind me and wobbles, nearly tipping over.

“I agreed to come here for Steph, not you. And I don’t need you planning out my life for me.” I walk angrily toward the stairs.

“That’s right, run away like you always do!” my mother screams at me.

I rush to my room, just like I did when I was a child.

I hate it. I hate feeling this way. I hate what she does to me. She never once showed me an ounce of love. When I did something she approved of, I never got an “I’m proud of you.” No, I got, “Oh, what will our friends at the club think of this?”

I grab my purse and keys and lift my window. Here I am, twenty-four-years-old and sneaking out of my fucking bedroom window like I’m in grade school again.

I wander the dimly lit roads around town for a while, until I find myself sitting at the local bar. It’s not busy, but there is music blaring loudly, drowning out any thoughts I may have.

I order a martini and light a cigarette, noticing (although not surprised to see) that the pack is already almost empty.

“Lexi?”

Brett, an old friend, is approaching me from the other side of the bar. He went to high school with me and is good friends with Striker.

I stand. “Hi, how are you?” I ask, moving in for a hug.

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