Page 81 of Kiss Collector
It’s hard to take him seriously with blue Slurpee lips. Or to be mad at him.
“Sorry,” I say, letting out a giant, frustrated sigh. I’m never going to get this. What will I do if I don’t cheer next year? The thought seizes me with panic, and the feeling of being left behind is stronger than ever.
“Kids, time to come up,” Mom calls.
I trudge up the steps behind Zeb’s bouncy strides, my legs heavy.
In the living room, Mom looks nervous. “I just talked to Daddy, and he’d like you to both come over to see his place today.
“Yes!” Zeb jumps and punches the air. “Finally!”
My stomach has flattened and flipped like a rotten pancake. “I don’t feel good.”
Zeb glares at me. “Seriously, Zae? I want to go!”
“Then go. I’m not stopping you.”
Mom’s lips purse tightly. She points to my room. Great. I go and she follows, closing us in. I sit heavily on the bed with my arms crossed.
“You’ve avoided him long enough. You will take a shower and get dressed. Your dad will be here in an hour, and—”
“No way!” I leap from the bed. “I don’t want to see them!”
Mom closes her eyes as if gathering patience. “She won’t be there. Lower your voice.”
“I don’t want to see him either! I hate him!” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud and I nearly choke on the filthy words. I have to cover my mouth.
“Please don’t hate him, Zae.” It comes out a desperate whisper.
Her face... why does she look so hurt on his behalf?
“Please,” I beg. “Send Zeb, but don’t make me go. And stop sticking up for him!”
Mom faces me straight on. “He is not a bad man. He loves you.”
“He abandoned us for a waitress!” I remind her.
Mom sits on the edge of the bed and puts her face in her hands. She sits there long enough for me to catch my breathand lose steam. I almost don’t hear her when she speaks.
“Sit down.”
“Mom—”
“Sitdown.”
My jaw rocks and I sit, crossing my arms, my knee bouncing.
“I have something I need to tell you. Something I’d rather Zeb not know at this point in time.”
“What?” I ask, though by the sound of her voice I really don’t want to hear.
“As you know, your father was pretty young when we met. I was a twenty-six-year-old bartender, and he was a twenty-year-old fry cook.” I know the story, and I love it.
“Yeah. He was persistent and won you over after a year.”
She nods, staring off in nostalgia. “I was twenty-seven when we married. At that point I’d been living on my own almost eight years. I was independent, not used to answering to anyone but me. Our first year of marriage was... hard.” That pained look tightens her face again. “I wasn’t used to having to explain what money I was spending and if I wanted to go out with my friends. Your father was always more financially conscious than me, and I felt like he was trying to control me. I know now that wasn’t the case, but back then...”
Foreboding fills me. I rub my arms as she goes on.
