Page 13 of Bad at Love

Sure, I still have some buffer time, but according to my parents, if you’re on time, you’re late. They’re only satisfied if you’re at least fifteen minutes early, but of course no more than thirty because that’s rude. However, dinner is served at five, so that means you need to be there at 4:30, which then means you need to be there at 4:15. It’s a whole thing and trying to explain it to people has them looking at me like I’m sprouting leaves from my ears.

My parents and I don’t see eye to eye on most things, and they take every opportunity to tell me how displeased they are with how I’m living my life. This is just my life and how our relationship goes. If my brothers did something wrong, they’d do the same to them. Just so happens I’m the only one who does wrong out of the four of us. The odds were not in my favor when my parents’ DNA was pairing.

I send Storm another email, hoping he’ll answer this one. The last four have gone unanswered, but maybe they went to spam. Or maybe he has bad service and they haven’t gone through. Or maybe he’s still sleeping because he said he isn’t a morning person—even if it’s late afternoon. I should have told him what time to be here. What was I thinking?

I wasn’t. Well, I was, but about other things. I was preoccupied and so it slipped my mind to make sure he was here at a certain time so I could leave on time. Now, I can’t decide which is worse: stay here to wait for him and arrive late to dinner, or leave for dinner and hope Storm doesn’t touch my things while I’m gone.

What if he snoops through my room? What if he touches my bed? Or my underwear? What if he smells them?

I should have moved. Getting rid of the house for something smaller, something I can afford, would have been so much easier than dealing with a roommate. An apartment would be affordable. But there are other people who live in those buildings. People who make noise and smell weird and may not clean or take out their trash regularly. They could have dogs who sneak out of their apartments and somehow make it to mine. No, there are too many variables when living in an apartment building.

This is insane. Why did I think I could handle any of this? Living with Tara was hard enough, and it was only suggested we do so because my mother knows how I am. They wanted us to be traditional, and in some ways we were, but we shared thishouse to get used to living together before we were legally bound together. Of course, Tara had her own room and didn’t come into mine. I only went into hers to clean and put her clothes away. That’s the room that Storm will have.

I glance at the clock. I’m officially late. Panic surges through me, and my brain goes blank. I can’t decide what to do, which will be worse. My heart rate skyrockets, sending my breathing into an erratic mess. It feels like my heart is going to break through my rib cage, it’s pounding so hard.

Think, Gabriel. Think.

I can handle Storm looking through my things. If he wants my underwear, he can have them. If I think he touched them, I’ll wash them. Worst case, I’ll buy new ones. But being late for dinner? No. That can’t happen. Not again. Not after the warning phone call the other day.

I scribble out a note for Storm that I intend to hang on my front door for him. It has my number, if he wants to call, but also an apology for not being here and a request that he does not go through my underwear. Grabbing my things, I hurry out the door, just to slam into something hard, causing my jaw to snap shut—right onto my tongue. I groan, stumbling back into the house, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue.

“Ah, fuck,” someone says.

I shake out of it, opening my eyes and see Storm standing there—barely. All I see in my head is the ticking clock, that’s somehow manifested right in front of my eyes. Time’s moving and I’m more late. The anxiety nearly has me choking. The taste of blood in my mouth doubles, but I ignore it and shove the note against his chest and hurry down the steps.

“Where are you going?” he shouts.

I get into my car and speed out of the driveway, then race down the street.

“It’s a good thing this is only a family dinner, Gabriel. Had there been company, I’d be so embarrassed.”

“Sorry, Mother,” I say as I hurry to keep up with her. Getting to the dining room from the front door is like going through a maze. The long, tall hallways with unnecessary portraits on the walls and statues on fancy end tables all look the same.

“Everyone else is already here. We were waiting for you.”

It’s not even five o’clock yet. Dinner isn’t served until five. I didn’t hold anyone up from eating. And even if I was late, it wouldn’t kill them to eat before me. I don’t understand why this is such an issue. Why does she still invite me?

“Sorry,” I mutter again.

“I just don’t understand why it’s so difficult for you to be on time. I mean, seriously, Gabriel? How do you live your life? How have you not gotten fired from your job? No wonder Tara left you at the altar.”

I falter, tripping up, but pause when my mother stops to look at me, raising a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow.

“Did you forget how to walk?” she snipes.

“No, Mother.” I shake my head.

She makes a displeased sound in her throat, turns, then keeps walking with her head held high. Her golden brown hair is pulled tightly back into a low bun, not a single hair out of place. Sighing, I move after her and we continue toward the dining room.

My father is at the head of the table, while my brothers and their wives take up the sides. Opposite my father is open for my mother. Then there’s the spot that’s crammed in at the corner ofthe table, left open for me. Anyone with eyes could see how out of place it is.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Gabriel,” Sterling, my youngest brother, says with a cocky smirk.

“Glad to be here,” I answer, taking my seat.

“What held you up this time?” William asks. He’s the second youngest, and the most blunt.

“Just lost track of time.”

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