Page 23 of Love is a Game

Damn. All this digging around into my emotions is exhausting.

Destructive

Exhausted

Stuck

Abandoned

But it’s not just my mother’s death that has caused my creativity to go AWOL. It’s all about my most pressing project: Mia Madson’s wedding dress.

Ugh. Why didn’t I listen to my gut? There are entire ateliers dedicated to wedding gowns for a reason. But I couldn’t say no to Mason. And now, here I am, at the lowest point of my life, with something essential ripped from the fabric of my existence, and my creative spark has abandoned me.

And it’s true. Tuck’s right that Mia’s dress isn’t all it could be. My inspiration took a backseat to form and practicality. It’s beautiful, yes. But something’s lacking. I really didn’t want to admit it…but Tuck made sure I knew.

Tuck. In his infinite ability to complicate my life, he didn’t just critique my design, he threw out an entirely new set of issues to untangle. Like how my mother fought to keep me away from child services. How she was desperate to hold on to me, even though she never hesitated to remind me of everything she lost out on because of me. Everything from not going to college to why she returned to Blue Mountain Lake.

And, oh, let’s not forget Tuck’s casual, throwaway question—about why we’ve never given “it a shot” at being a real couple?

What the hell? As if we can simply erase all our messy history and pretend ourselves into something as neatly packaged as a proper relationship?

We’re not couple material. I can’t even imagine being Tuck’s girlfriend—it’s ridiculous, borderline offensive even. Especially since his girlfriends never last more than three years before vanishing into an abyss. He doesn’t fight for those relationships. He doesn’t seem to value them enough to try harder. So why would he bring up such a ludicrous idea tome?

I always felt what we had was unique, untouchable. And just thinking about it in those simplistic terms stirs my hurt into a raging ball of fury. How dare he try to flippantly use me as a rebound fling! How dare he threaten to ruin the one reliable relationship of my life! Does he not appreciate what we have the way I do? What the fuck?!

Furious

Bitter

MAD AS HELL!

Screw this game of forcing my feelings into something they’re not. I don’t want to ignore these destructive thoughts—I want to let them take over, let them spread. Coat the raw ache inside me like a layer of hard shellac, sealing everything beneath it.

It’s like a superpower, this anger. The more I feed it, the stronger it gets.

I ruminate on Tuck’s outlandish suggestion, my failure as a designer—unable to make a dress worthy of Mia Madson. My failure as a daughter who never understood her mother, whose father never came looking for her once he had his new family to love…marrying a woman with kids that aren’t even his, but are apparently more worthy than me.

The anger and self-hatred build and solidify. It helps dissipate the threatening tears as I step into the shower and reach for the soap my mother used before she died, dry off with the towel she laundered, stand on the bath mat where she once stood, and gaze into the mirror that reflected her face.

It keeps me firmly distanced even as I note her features in mine: fair skin, full bottom lip, slightly upturned nose. And then the parts that aren’t—the dark brown eyes and defined brows from my asshole father who is long gone.

Then I see Mom’s hairbrush. I touch the strands of soft gray. When did she stop dying her hair?

My blood thickens. A heavy weight spreads through my limbs.

How am I supposed to accept these remnants of her are all that’s left? What am I even supposed to do with all these things—a house filled with possessions that are meaningless to anyone else?

Then, just as I’m contemplating the sparse contents of Mom’s pantry, Tuck arrives. All country casual in jeans and boots, tousled hair, and a soft T-shirt that clings in ways I can’t unsee. It’s disarming, almost boyish, and I feel the familiar tug of attraction.

No. He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to breeze in, all relaxed charm, like everything between us is fine—like we could slip into a new category as easily as switching a card game from Big Two to Poker.

And yet, here in Blue Mountain Lake, there’s no avoiding him.

He’s right next door…and seemingly hellbent on “helping me through this”, as he mentioned last night over dinner with his parents. After I thanked them for offering their guest bedroom, but insisted on staying at Mom’s place.

No regrets there. I knew I’d made the right choice when Susan pulled out a to-do list for planning a funeral, and I told them there wouldn’t be one.

The silence that followed made it clear—they were taken aback. Shocked, even.

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