Page 43 of Sincerely, Your Enemy

He picked my dad’s mug.

I can’t help thinking that this is the universe’s way of punishing me for not allowing myself to grieve him since he died. I was always too busy.

TJ notices the look on my face. “What? What is it?”

“It’s nothing. I…” I debate on telling him the truth. “My dad made that.”

The mug is very simple. It’s black and covered with uneven white dots.

Confusion flashes in his eyes. “Your dad made mugs?”

“Sorry, he didn’t make it. Hepaintedit. Not too long before his accident.” A laugh rips from my throat, dripping with guilt and self-hatred. “He took me to one of those ceramic-painting places for my eighteenth birthday. I was such a bitch about it. I wanted to go to a graduation party with my friends, but I was supposed to be at his house for the weekend, and he wanted to do something just the two of us.”

I have no idea why I’m opening up to TJ, out of all people. But maybe it’s not about him. Maybe it’s about talking tosomeone.

Anyone.

“I was an unpleasant bitch the entire time we were there. He was trying to make conversation, and I was ignoring him, scrolling on my phone and texting my friends. They called to tell us our mugs were ready a week after he died.”

My eyes are burning again, but this time, I can’t keep the tears at bay.

“You didn’t know.” TJ breaks the silence.

“It doesn’t change what happened.”

“I’m so sorry, Lacey.”

This is too much. I need a minute.

I clear my throat. “On second thought, I’m not that hungry. Can you put it away?”

He doesn’t, just staring at me intently.

“You’re allowed to feel pain, you know that, right?” He sounds so understanding, which is incredibly ironic considering that hedoesn’t. He couldn’t possibly.

Feeling that pain would end me. Fighting my emotions is what’s kept me going this long. It’s the only reason I was able to be there for my siblings when they needed me. Taking time to grieve is a luxury I didn’t have then, and I certainly don’t have it now.

“Put it away, please.” It comes out as a command.

He doesn’t move. “Will you just admit that you’re hurting?”

His request sets me off. I lift to my feet in one leap and rush over to him, needing to get that mug the hell out of my sight. I rip the mug out of his hand almost violently.

Then I hear it.

The sound of the mug crashing against the kitchen tiles.

My dad’s mug breaks into a hundred pieces.

It slipped out of my hands.

One look at the ceramic on the ground and the floodgates are blown open.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been sick all week, super stressed about school and missing work and how I’m going to afford fixing my car. Or maybe it’s that I’ve held this back for far too long.

Tears begin coursing down my face, but I don’t make a sound, crying silently. Embarrassment overwhelms me as I drop to my knees to pick up the pieces.

“Leave it,” TJ says.

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