Page 52 of Play Me
Me: I don’t know. Now that I have the pressure of answering it to the person instead of just spewing my thoughts, it’s not as easy as I imagined.
Gianna: You have a few weeks until it’s due, honey bun. Let me know if you have any questions.
Audrey: Let me know if you need to brainstorm. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.
Gianna: Mine is giving head.
Audrey: GIANNA BARDOT.
I laugh, imagining Audrey’s face as she reads Gianna’s message.
Gianna: I gotta go. Love you guys.
Audrey: Love you. Be good.
Gianna: Don’t take away all of my fun.
Me: xo
I open my email and find Gianna’s message. The question is there, in full, along with the due date and a legal blurb about terms and payment. It’s straightforward enough.
A bubble of excitement swells in my stomach, growing larger with each passing second. My mind races with possibilities about how to approach this topic. There are so many angles to take, so many ways to look at it, that it gets my creative juices flowing. I remember feeling this way when I sat down with a pen and paper when I was a kid—for a while, anyway.
“What the hell do you have?” Dad sneers, ripping the small notebook out of my hands. His breath is hot and smells faintly like rubbing alcohol as he leans over me. “A journal? Where’d you get this?”
My stomach drops as I relive the moment. That notebook was my refuge, the only safe space in my life where I could …be. There was no right or wrong, no judgment or attempt at rewriting history. In a house that was supposed to be a home, those spiral-bound pieces of paper I bought at the discount store with money Gianna’s mom gave me for folding some laundry were my soft spot. I was in control and could live without fear.
That was over the day Dad found my diary.
My father flips through the pages as spit gathers in the corners of his cracked lips. “Look at you wastin’ your time with this bullshit.” He glares at me with bloodshot eyes. “You’re just like your goddamn mother. There’s a sink full of dishes and laundry on the fuckin’ floor, and you’re in here cryin’ around.”
He becomes a haze behind the tears fogging my vision. My heart and soul—my biggest vulnerabilities and darkest fears—are on those pages, and he’s wielding them in front of my twelve-year-old face like a knife. I feel my heart splinter with every page he turns and every word he reads.
I’m going to be sick. “Can I have that back?” But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I messed up.
His lip curls as he looks at me over his shoulder. “Nah. I think I’ll keep this. And I think you’ll clean this house top tobottom tonight, or I might have to tape these pages on the windows so everyone who comes by can read them.”
I shiver, hopping to my feet and heading back to my computer. “No,” I say to myself. “You’re not allowing the bitter actions of a drunk to derail you. You’re leaving all of that back there where it belongs.”
Gray’s schedule is still pulled up, so I go over it again.
His to-do items are blue, his rugby schedule is in yellow, and his personal items are in green. It’s robust and mostly complete. Looking at it reminds me of who I am—a woman who is competent, confident, and who has fought for every crumb she has ever been given. I’m a survivor of everything the world has thrown my way.
I attach the calendar link to an email with steadier hands and forward it to Gray. Then I open my text app.
Me: I emailed you a link to your calendar. I’ll be adding to it regularly, so please check it at least every night for updates to the following day.
His response comes back immediately.
Gray: Will do.
“Will do?” I flinch in surprise. “That was easy. Is he fucking with me or what?”
I tap out another message to test the waters.
Me: We need to find a time to sit down and go over things that would take too long to text.
Gray: Sunday is my only free day.
