Page 13 of Unforgettable

“They’ll come around,” he says. “Just give them time to understand you.”

Huffing loudly, I shrug, not wanting to talk about it. Scratch that. If I felt like there was a solution to this reoccurring fight with my parents, I would talk about it. But there isn’t, and not being able to find that solution meant every time we spoke or saw one another, like clockwork, we fought.

My family is close, and while my siblings and I had all moved out of our childhood home, we all still lived in Vermont and gathered at my parents’ house religiously once every week.

There was no distance when I needed it.

I was the youngest brother of four children, I was the only boy with three older sisters, and I was the only child without a college degree, without a “stable” job, and the only one who wasn’t in a committed relationship.

Apparently, those things mattered to my parents. Not having those things somehow translated into me being flighty, unfocused, unsettled, and pretty much someone they weren’t very proud of.

Deep inside, I know it’s all out of love. They’re both doctors, both have completed higher education, and both have worked relentlessly hard so their children can have the same.

The idea that one of their kids doesn’t want those things is completely foreign to them. And instead of trying to understand me, they’re somehow both overbearing and dismissive.

It seems so juvenile to be so affected by them, but at twenty-five, it’s become a sore spot. A tug of war to see how long they’re going to obsess over it and how long I’m going to “play” at this thing called life.

“I’ll get started on this,” I say to Tanner, noticing he wasn’t leaving until he thought I was okay. “I’ll be fine. Honestly.”

“Worst case scenario, you can repeat whatever it is you did last night that meant you weren’t already at home when I called you this morning.” He smirks knowingly.

Smiling, I flip him the bird and watch him retreat from the stockroom.

Sliding my cell from my back pocket, I tap on the app I used last night. First Spark is more like a dating app, but there’s a subsection called Blush that is more for the hookup variety and LGBTQIA friendly. I like it because it vets your profile, potentially weeding out people who are using the app for the wrong reasons.

I go into the chat section and read over my exchange with Reeve. Now that I can connect his personality with the messages, I don’t know how I didn’t pick up how nervous he was.

When my mind wanders to the possibility of asking him for a repeat, I think of how put together Reeve is and how much of a mess I am.

Even casually, he doesn’t need that in his life.

Hovering over my Blush profile, I eventually click on the settings icon and hit delete.

Not seeking him out might be the most responsible thing I’ve ever done. Humorlessly, I laugh to myself. Maybe I should call my dad and tell him about it so he can be proud of me?

4

Reeve

“You’re up late,” my roommate states as he walks through the front door.

Dragging my gaze away from my laptop screen, I take off my glasses and meet Murph’s tired eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, but you sure look like you could.”

He yawns and then drops to the couch beside me. “Meh, just another late night to add to the week. I thought you’d be able to get some sleep while the house was quiet.”

My eyes narrow at him quizzically. “You think you’re noisy?”

He shrugs “You haven’t been sleeping much.”

It’s not a question, nor is he wrong. “And you thought that was because of you?”

“Considering you’re living with a stranger, yeah, I did.”

Laughing, I close my computer and place it on the coffee table in front of us. “You’re not a stranger, Showgirl,” I correct, using the nickname only I have for him. “Stop being so dramatic. We’ve been friends for months.”

When I had told my sister I was making a detour to Vermont over the summer before going home to Connecticut, she insisted a friend of hers could help me out.

Skeptical, I was surprised when she sent me a cell number, along with a text message that read:

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