Page 60 of Between the Lines

Nathan is straight to the point, something he showed when he invited me over this upcoming Saturday. Saturdays are typically full of funtivities for the kids, but this evening is pretty empty. Nathanoffered to order in dinner, and the thought of Thai food in front of that massive fireplace while I dig into my Kindle? I almost salivated on the spot. Almost as much at the simple thought that hewants me there.

I awake at six-thirty out of habit. Taking care of my siblings has made me a light sleeper. I toss on a pair of Saturday sweats and a sports bra, throw my hair up into a claw clip, and head downstairs with a pep in my step. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited for plans. Excited for what the night holds with Nathan.

That time in his office is seared into my brain, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t touched myself to the memory of him since. I’d also be lying if I said I don’t want anything to happen between us tonight—in his home, on neutral ground, not in the backseat of a car in a secluded lot, or in his office where we might get caught. He showed me just a fraction of how he likes to take control, and I wonder what it will take to make the full picture come into view.

Of course, Saturday morning, a hammer is taken straight to my chest, shattering the progress that Nathan has made, and deepening those tender cracks altogether. As I enter the kitchen, I’m greeted by an unexpected sight.

My mother and father. Together. Sitting at the kitchen table with their own coffee already poured. Although this meeting was clearly meant for me, I can’t help but notice they didn’t bother to pour me a mug.

“Claire. Come, join us.”

Nogood morningornice to see you. I’ve been set up for an intervention, and despite my twenty-five years, I still feel like they have the capability to ground me.

I take my sweet time brewing myself a fresh pot of coffee before I join them at the kitchen table—them on one side, me on the other. The ocean of the table divides us. But hasn’t it always been this way? Me and my cares out to sea while my parents are planted firmly on land where they have the freedoms to do whatever theyplease?

“Good morning,” I say as I curl up with my feet flat on the seat of the chair so that I can curl in on myself. I bring my coffee to my lips, not caring that I’ll probably burn my tongue. “What’s up?”

Mom and Dad sigh in tandem, then look at one another. Dad’s hair is greying at the temples, and Mom’s has thinned since having us, but they don’tlookold. Hell, they’re both still in their forties. Dad adjusts his glasses and mom clasps her hands on the tabletop and eyes me like I’m in trouble.

“Claire.” The weight with which my dad says my name makes me think I’ve committed murder. “We asked you to join us today because we’re concerned.”

I laugh anxiously over the top of my coffee.

“Why do you have to make it sound like we’re in a board meeting, Dad?”

His expression turns stern. No age or amount of wisdom can ever take away the shame I feel beneath that stare.

“Your priorities have shifted lately, and we’re all taking a hit.”

It’s Mom’s turn, and quite frankly, her words don’t soften the blow.

“You mean, since I got a job, and have to do things for that job?”

“Yes. Exactly. We expected you to be independent as you got older, but the extracurriculars that come with the job, the late nights?—”

“You’re spending way too much time at school, and?—”

“Look at last night. You didn’t get home until after the kids were in bed?—”

“Is all of this basketball stuff even really necessary, Claire?”

The attack doesn’t end. They continue to speakovereach other,atme, until I’m ready to throw up.

I know what Iwantto say.

So my wants and needs,mypriorities, aren’t important, because they interfere withyourability to have as many kids as you want and still hold onto the social lives of your twenties?

But all that escapes is a sigh of defeat.

“So, we wanted to present you with a few options.”

I already know where this is going. It’s been coming for a while now. Like they “let me have my fun in college,” and now that I’m back, they’ve purchased the cage. I just didn’t think I’d see the day when they actually locked me into it.

I shouldn’t even be here.

But standing on Nathan’s front porch—the porch I can’t even salivate over because I’m so upset and angry—I knock four times and pray he doesn’t turn me away.

He wouldn’t. Right?

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