Page 23 of The Consequence of Loving Me

“You won’t stay the night in here,” I tell Tristan as he peels my leggings off.

“I won’t stay the night in here,” he repeats, his eyes hooked on the lower half of my body.

“This won’t happen ever again.” It comes out quickly, my body anticipating where his mouth will hit next. I tell this same thing to every guy I hook up with.

Because I can’t give them any more than my body for a night.

And I don’t want anything more than their body for a night.

I wake up the next morning, happy to find that Tristan kept up his end of the bargain. The other side of my bed is empty and cold—just like I prefer it.

Footsteps echo above my head, multiple sets of them. I am not in the mood to see anyone right now, so I turn over in my bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. When I look at it, I see that I have two missed calls from my mother. Why she feels the need to call me twice before ten a.m., I have no idea, but instead of dodging her calls all day, I swipe to call her back.

As the phone rings, I sit up in bed and pull my feet in. There’s a loose thread coming out of my comforter, so I pull on it.

She finally picks up after four rings. “Veronica?” she asks hesitantly.

“Hi, Mother,” I respond, still playing with the loose strand.

I can hear one of the barstools being pulled across the hardwood floors above me.

“Glad to see you could make time for your own mother. You must have one busy schedule,” she says, and I don’t miss the aggression in her voice.

My mother and I haven’t always had a strained relationship. There was a time when we had constant spa dates together. We’d hit up our favorite boutiques afterward, with our fresh faces and nails, but that time has come to pass.

My mom hasn’t changed at all—but I have.

I went from a sheltered, spoiled, selfish, but still decent daughter, to a fuck-up. A life ruiner. At this point, I’m not sure I know how to be anyone other than someone who lashes out at others—especially the people who know of every single one of my mistakes, and the lowest points of my life.

“I don’t have classes on Fridays,” I respond lazily, trying to keep the conversation from getting too deep.

Unfortunately, my mother knows me better than anybody. I know she can see through all my bitchy bullshit. But for some reason, she puts up with it. After a few years, she probably realized this is just who I am now.

“Will you be coming home for Thanksgiving?” she asks.

“I can’t, Mom. I’m sorry.” And I am sorry. Part of me wishes I was stronger than I am, that I could go back to that town and face my past, but I can’t—even if that means I can’t face my own parents.

“Your father would really like to see you,” she presses on, not willing to go down without a fight.

My mind races through excuses on why I can’t make it. In reality, I have nothing happening here to prevent me from going home except my own cowardice. We have fall break coming up, which gives us the whole week of Thanksgiving off. Clementine had offered to give me that time off as well so I could go home and visit family, but I didn’t take her up on it.

“I know.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “I have to work that week. I can’t take off.” It’s a lie I should feel guilty about, but I don’t.

Nothing could weigh heavier on my conscience than what I’ve done in my past. Nothing could be more violent than the waves that ocean town brings back.

“You know you don’t need that silly job, Veronica. We can more than afford to pay for your well-being while in college. Tell that eccentric boss of yours that you’re coming home, or you’ll quit,” my mom says.

“I can’t just quit, Mom. I need this job. It’s my chance to get my paintings in a real gallery, maybe even get a buyer or two to buy some of them. I’ll make it up to you and Dad, I promise.”

“Sweetie, you know we could tell our friends at the club about your paintings. I’m sure you’d get some buyers that way,” she offers.

I scoff. There’s no way I want my name attached to any of my paintings, especially in front of the people back home. They’re the last people I would allow to see inside the dark crevices of my soul should my paintings ever be put on display.

Nope.

I’d rather remain anonymous and make shit money at a gallery in exchange for the chance to have them hanging on the walls there.

The scratching of the barstools against the hardwood floor screeches again above me. Aspen is ranting about something before the sounds stop, and then there is nothing.

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