Page 41 of We Were Something
“Don’t you think your time could be better used doing something else?”
I let out a long sigh, resigning myself to a repeat of the conversation she had with me last week.
All about how I’m wasting my life away. How I’m aimless. Have no future. How I’m single and wouldn’t it be better if I put in some real effort to find a man and start a family.
The not-so-subtle subtext? I’m a burden on her. My existence in her home hasalwaysbeen burdensome, even in my most distant memories.
“Don’t sigh as if I’m causingyousome sort of inconvenience.You’rethe one who moved home after dropping out of college instead of finishing like you should have, Paige.”
She lets out her own exasperated breath of irritation and I shift my eyes away, focusing on a large painting that hangs in the distance behind her rather than on the displeasure that’s so constantly present on her face when I’m around.
Or on the memories her statement attempts to bring to the surface.
“Honestly, I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to find some kind of purpose or interest. Your sister didn’t have these kinds of problems.”
I grit my teeth at the mention of my older sister.
Penny and I are Irish twins, and she’s my favorite human on this earth. She’s a curator and lives an admittedly fabulous life traveling the world, organizing special shows and exhibits at galleries and museums in New York and Paris and Milan.
Of course, my mother only focuses on my sister’s currently fabulous life. Not the several years offloundering—her favorite word—Penny did in New York as she and her boyfriend lived the life of young inheritors. Sleeping most of the day, partying all night, caring about nobody but themselves and how to find the next good time.
It wasn’t until last summer—several years after her graduation—that my sister finally figured out her desire to work in the arts. Aren’t I allowed a little time as well? A little while to sort through all the broken and uncertain pieces of my life? The same kind of grace period to figure out who I am and what I want to do?
Who I want to be?
Especially in the wake of everything I’ve been through?
Apparently not.
Granted, I haven’t shared the details of what happened to me with my mother. Those have been strictly reserved for Penny and Lennon. But regardless, I’ve never been given the same kind of leniencies my sister has been granted. As horrible as it sounds, I am almost entirely certain it’s because she’s a tall, lanky goddess, and I’m a short, round reminder to my mother of all the external, physical features she hates about her own self.
Instead of responding to her cutting remarks comparing me to my sister, I stand silent, hoping she finishes up soon so I can head to Logan’s, so I can erase the burdensome existence I endure within the walls of this house and cover over the smudges of failure with a fun evening flirting with the man who has been occupying many of my recent thoughts.
She steps forward, her hands reaching out to tug slightly on the button-up shirt I’ve selected.
“This would fit so much better if you just lost a few pounds,” she tells me.
But I hardly even hear the words as they fall into the well of criticism I’ve been listening to since my breasts started to develop back in the sixth grade.
Her head tilts to the side as she assesses me for a long moment.
When I was younger, I used to wonder what she saw when she looked at me like this, as her eyes flitted over my features with that pinched expression, her lips pursed. But somewhere along the way, I figured it out on my own.
She sees in me all the things she wishes she could have changed about herself.
Embodying all of her despised traits is a heavy weight to carry. No wonder I’ve always felt like such a burden.
Thirty minutes later, after I’ve finally extricated myself from that one-sided conversation with my mother, I pull my periwinkle blue Camaro up along the street outside the cute little backhouse Logan is renting. I can only see part of it from the road, but it looks like a cottage, tucked away behind a massive home a few blocks north of Hermosa Avenue.
This part of town is primarily filled with renters since it’s close to the water but not waterfront. It also has easy access to the more social, hipster parts of town since it’s not too far from the pier and all the restaurants and nightlife Hermosa has to offer. It’s one of my favorite pockets of homes, and I’ve often considered renting a place over here just to get a bit of distance from my parents.
Obviously, owning is the smarter, more financially responsible decision to make. But I’m not ready to make such a big commitment—when it comes toanythingin life. Not with men, not with employment, and not with real estate.
I park and take the short stone pathway then shake out my hands a bit, nerves getting the best of me, before knocking on the dark blue front door.
“Coming,” I hear a muffled voice call from inside.
For a split second before the door opens, I experience a sudden bout of panic, wondering if I’m making some sort of mistake by spending the day with him, a man sixteen years my senior with real life experience, a real job, real responsibilities.
