Page 60 of Fated Shot

By the time I drag myself out of bed, the sun is already shining into my apartment. I stumble into the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes immediately drawn to the dark bags under my eyes. The culprit? A combination of lack of sleep and hours of sobbing. Jack’s old Michigan U sweatshirt is draped over my body. I don’t deserve the comfort it provides, but I couldn’t help it.

I’m astounded at how capable I am of destroying my own life. Actions have consequences, and now I’m face to face with mine. I wash my puffy face, pulling off the sweatshirt as I step into the shower, allowing myself one last thirty-minute cry before I force myself to pick up the pieces and fix my life.

I come out of the bathroom a new woman. At least, that’s what I’m willing myself to think.

Bean is curled up in the corner of my room, an unusual spot for him. I bend down to pick him up and notice what he was snuggled up on—two long, gray dress socks, haphazardly lying on the floor. My heart sinks as I recognize them immediately. Bean’s fluffy face looks just about as upset as mine when I pull him off of them. Refusing to succumb to the sadness that’s threatening to creep back in, I recite the mantra that’s been my lifeline for the past eight hours.

I don’t deserve him, he’s better off without me.

I bring Bean over to his food bowl and fill it with his favorite roasted chicken wet food, then quickly shoot off a text.

Parentals Group Chat

Me:Can I come over for breakfast? I need to speak to both of you.

Mom:Sure, hun! Pancakes?

Dad:Would love to see you! Love, Dad.

Me:Pancakes sound great. Headed there now.

Dad:Can’t wait. Love, Dad.

The drive to their townhouse felt dreary, and I spent the entire time lost in my own thoughts. Usually, I look forward to arriving at the beautiful brownstone, but today feels different. I let myself in and head to the kitchen, which, like the rest of the house, was meticulously designed by my mom, drawn by the delicious aroma wafting from it.

At the stovetop, Mom is flipping over a ridiculously large chocolate chip pancake while Dad is looking happily over at her from the top of his newspaper. Jack Johnson’s calming strumming is playing quietly in the background out of the radio. A typical Sunday morning in the Cameron household. I will never forget how lucky I am to have grown up in such a peaceful and loving home.

“Hi, babes,” my mom calls out happily. “You’re just in time! Grab a plate!”

“Actually, can I talk to you both first?” I am honestly impressed that my courage has lasted this long. I ran through my speech so many times on the drive over. I wasn’t confident I could actually follow through with sharing the truth, let alone successfully recall everything without breaking into unintelligible gibberish.

My parents exchange a quick concerned look before Mom turns off the stove and moves the pancake pan over.

“Sure, hun. Are you okay?” she asks, looking right at me, seeing into my soul.

My lower lip wobbles. Shoot, I don’t think I’m ready for this, but I have to be.

“Actually, no.”

It’s my dad who rushes over first, grabbing both my hands in his. My mom follows closely after, her hand landing soothingly on my back.

“What’s wrong, Amelia?” There’s a sense of unease in my dad’s voice.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you both,” I manage, taking a deep breath before continuing. Two sets of understanding eyes meet mine, as my mom leads us over to the breakfast nook. Once we’re all seated, I continue.

“Seb and I broke up because he cheated on me.”

My mom gasps, and I glance over to see my dad's face harden, his jaw clenched tight.

“I was embarrassed to tell you and I really didn’t want to talk about it for the longest time.”

“Oh hunny,” my mom lets out, sympathetic eyes boring into me as she rests her hand over mine on the table.

“There’s more,” I add before she has a chance to continue. I try my best to convince myself to word vomit the rest out without losing my momentum.

My dad fixes his posture, adjusting in his seat, preparing for another ball to drop. Mom clutches her hands tightly together on the table.

“I know you both liked Seb a lot but he was always really different when we were alone. He would get really angry at me. It was never overtly violent but—well, it doesn’t matter now.” I try to find my words, striking the balance between sharing enough without having to rehash every horrid detail of the past three years.

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