Page 123 of Puppy Love

My dad knows very well that Mallory and I got a divorce. Or, he was told at least. If he could remember it after getting high all those times? I can’t attest to that.

My problem with my parents isn’t that they’re addicts. Addiction is a disease, I know that well. My problem is this. The purposeful jabs, the things they say just to see if they can get a reaction out of me. The fact that they were never there, essentially abandoned us, yet act like Ruthie and I should be grateful that they put us on this planet.

“Come on,” Jeremiah whispers, scooping Willow out of the highchair and motioning for Tyler to follow.

“But I’m not done eating my—”

He shoots her a look, and she looks at my parents, Ruthie and I before grabbing a syrup-soaked pancake and running after him.

“Dad, I told you. Violet and Mallory got a divorce,” Ruthie says gently. My mom’s gaze flicks up to me, and she scoffs.

“I didn’t raise you to be a quitter,” she mumbles.

My hand tightens in my pocket, and that’s when I feel something. Something cold and hard. Something smooth and heart shaped.

The rose quartz.

I stop thinking about it. About Sunny and how my parents might feel and what’s respectful. I think about Cam, how she wouldn’t take this for a minute. How she’d tell them all how she really feels, and I think about how badly I wish I could be like her.

And then I stop wishing.

“Actually, you didn’t raise me at all.”

My mom’s expression drops for a moment, then quickly shifts. Her nostrils flare, her eye twitches, and her shaky hands curl into a fist.

“Violet Wolfe!” my father yells. His face is just as angry, if not angrier than my mother’s. But I don’t care.

“No. You guys always have something to say, something to critique about my life when you’re barely a part of it!” I shake my head, but don’t pause for a second, because I know they’ll take the opportunity to interrupt me. “And don’t you dare say that’s my fault, because it isn’t. You chose drugs and alcohol over me. You chose partying over me. The only reason Ruthie is so head over heels for you guys is because I protected her from seeing everything I had to see. You didn’t raise me to be a quitter because you didn’t raise me at all. And you didn’t raise Ruthie either. You’re lucky we turned out the way we did. You don’t like my life choices? Fine. I’m not a big fan of yours either.”

I expect to feel guilty, a giant wave crashing over me, suffocating me until I apologize. Instead, I feel the opposite. I just want to keep going. I want to say every tiny thing that has ever popped into my brain, everything I’ve held back. Ruthie’s jaw drops, and she looks at me stunned.

My mom laughs rudely.

“Ruthie might have turned out great, but you sure didn’t! You wonder why your father and I never came around? It’s because we couldn’t stand you!” She huffs. I swallow hard. But just as I open my mouth to respond, Ruthie’s chair scoots back, her face beet red as she points at the door.

“Get out,” she demands, not a hint of hesitation in her voice. My parents look up at her, stunned.

“Ruthie, dear. You know what I—”

She shakes her head.

“You do not talk about my sister that way. Not when I’m alive because of her. This,” she gestures to the house around her, “is all because of her. Those precious grandchildren you pretend you love so much?” She points to the other room where Jeremiah is no doubt, cupping his hands over Tyler’s ears. “Exist because of her. So I don’t care if you’re sober. I don’t care that it’s Christmas. If you are going to speak to her that way, get the hell out of my house.”

My parents stare at her in disbelief, but Ruthie’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Ruthie we—”

She shakes her head.

“Frankly,” she says, her eyes locking onto them. “I don’t give a fuck.”*

thirty-nine

Waterlanche

Cam

“So it’s… over?” Dr. Burton asks. I nod, beaming at him proudly like the word “over” doesn’t transform my stomach into a black hole. Dr. Burton keeps a poker face, so I don’t know how to explain that without shifting his expression, he frowns. A loud clicking sound echoes through the laptop, the tip of his pen repeatedly tapping the edge of his desk. 33

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