Page 43 of The Hookup Situation

He chuckles. “Afraid not, doll.” Then he lowers his voice and steps a bit closer still. “But I’m sure I can find something similar if you like it so much.”

I grin. “You really were amazing. This whole thing was quite an experience.”

“An enjoyable one I hope.”

“Very.”

“I like your outfit, too, by the way,” he says. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest and I wonder if he’s having trouble not touching me, too.

“Chris lent me his clothes,” I admit. “Mine were not acceptable for this show.”

He laughs a little, but it turns into a cough rather quickly.

“Shit, you are getting sick,” I murmur. “Will you make it through the rest of the performances?”

He nods. “It’s not bad, so far. I just need to get home and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll um, I’ll probably be pretty busy the next few nights so it might be a while before…”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about that. Like I said, you don’t owe me anything. Just take care of yourself and be the best bad ass Dr. Frank-N-Furter you can be.”

He gives me a soft smile and his eyes are a bit brighter now, too, though he’s clearly ready for bed.

“I’ll see you when I see you, then.”

He nods, and I walk away to find my friend.

ELEVEN

JACKSON

My stomach still has butterflies fluttering around in it when I leave the theater that night. Preston actually came. I wasn’t sure if he would or not, but seeing him made my whole night. And it made performing when I’m not exactly feeling my best absolutely worth it.

It’s late, and I’m so fucking exhausted. I’m gonna go home, take some more zinc and vitamin C, and not wake up until I absolutely have to in order to get to class on time.

I’m unlocking the door to the apartment when my phone dings. I step inside and close the door behind me, toss my keys on the kitchen counter and slide off my shoes before I take my phone out to see who the message is from. I’m kinda expecting it to be Preston but it’s not. It’s my mom. I swipe to open it, my heart stuttering. Maybe my parents actually remembered the play and are asking how it went, or maybe they want to congratulate me?

My stomach drops though, and I’m slammed back into reality when I see the message.

Mom: Hey, not sure when you’re getting in for Thanksgiving, but be sure and get a ride from the airport. Dad and I will be busy all week.

My chest constricts, and I must be at the end of myself because I feel hot tears stinging at the corners of my eyes. Jesus Christ, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not. I was expecting it. But it still hurts every damn time. She’s not even asking how I am and we haven’t talked in months other than the last time I texted her. And they don’t even know when I’m coming home because I never did book a flight, but they are sure they’ll be too damn busy to pick me up? Just like every other year, of course. I’m so sick of expecting them to change and start giving a shit about me.

Christ, the plan to stay here by myself is sounding more and more appealing. I’ll just stay in my pajamas, eat tons of unhealthy snacks and binge-watch shitty TV.

I trudge into my room as my eyes blur, and fall onto the mattress, my phone beside me as I wipe at the tears sliding down my cheeks. I want to fucking scream, because I’m so done not mattering to the people who are supposed to care more for me than anyone else.

This should be one of the best nights of my life, but instead of being out celebrating with my fellow cast members, or even my friends, I’m stuck at home, feeling shittier and shittier, just hoping I can make it through the next few performances before this cold knocks me out. My body is shaking with rage and grief. Both at my parents for not being who I need them to be, and at myself for holding out hope that someday things would change, and they would see me.

It’s taken a long time, but I’m finally accepting that they don’t care and they never will. They’ll never prioritize me, they’ll never check in, they’ll never give a damn if I am home for the holidays or not. They’ll never call or text on my birthday. They’ll neversend me care packages like my friends get. And letting that sink in, letting myself feel that, hurts like hell.

I’m gasping for air, my lungs seizing, as my heart rate picks up and I start to sweat. Then I’m coughing even as I continue to struggle for breath.

I sit, trying to catch my breath, but it doesn’t work and I’m shaking even harder now.

I hear a knock on my door and my roommate calling my name, but I can’t answer. That’s when the door bursts open and Jeremy and Colby are running in.

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