Page 91 of Tell Me When It's Over

He blinks.

“It’ll be fun,” I tell him, smiling wider at the thought. “We can do it here at the house and I can cut it down to do a “sneak peek” for an Instagram post and something for the app’s story feature that way people can swipe up for the buy link.”

Kyler blinks again, clueless, but there’s also something close to surprise in his eyes. “I don’t see why not. You should reach out to Gordy about it since he handles all my PR shit.” I’m nodding enthusiastically when he cocks his head. “Is this what you’re interested in doing with your degree? Working with musicians?”

My lips part to answer, but close almost as quickly. I haven’t really thought about what kind of PR I’ll go into. Based on the first reading assignment, there’s way more branches than I was originally aware of. I wouldn’t want to go into corporate, and community relations relies too heavily on local support in whichever community you’re in. Whenever Ms. Wynona told me stories about her life in the industry, I loved the passion working one-on-one with people could bring to the job, highlighting the clients accomplishments, bettering their image, just…having fun showing the world what one person can do.

So, the short answer is, “Maybe.” Shrugging, I consider it a little more while he watches me contemplate. “It’s too early to tell, but I know the areas of focus I’m not interested in, which helps.”

He nods in agreement. “Gordy is still willing to help you with an internship. Hell, work with him.”

Interest flares in my chest. “You mean that?” Regretting my words as soon as they’re out, I try backtracking before he can call me out on the doubt. “I mean, I appreciate it, but I know Gordy has a few other clients too. Taking me on to show me the ropes would make him busier.”

The look I’m being given makes me internally prepare for his inquiry. “Go back a second. What do you mean ‘you mean that’? I’ve never not wanted to help you, and Gordy’s no different.”

Bracing myself, I flatten my palms against my bent knees and inhale softly. Sometimes it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off no matter how much it’ll hurt. “C’mon, Ky. The elephant in the room is more like a herd of them waiting for their shot to trample us.”

His eyes widen at my blunt outburst.

“I don’t want things to change because of what happened, but I know they did,” I continue, trying hard not to squirm and show my discomfort. It’s bad enough it’s melded all over Ky’s face. “I really appreciate you giving me an out, but it’s going to eat at me—” He winces. “—if I don’t get this out. You’re not even sitting next to me like you used to.”

His eyes go to the open space between us, an entire couch cushion length. “You shouldn’t read into things, Len. I’m only sitting here because we’re eating and it’s easier to talk to you that way.”

“But we’re not talking.”

There’s a brief pause, another flinch, before, “You don’t have to tell me—”

“I do, though. We’ve always been open and honest with each other, and we need to be now even though it sucks.” Swallowing down my nerves, I grab ahold of the metaphorical Band-Aid and rip that mother right off. “Chase and I haven’t done anything besides kiss until…until that night. I’ve never wanted to, and he’s never pushed me. He’s a good person. I thought you’d be out longer and that we’d have time. The only reason we were in that room instead of mine is because I was worried that if you came home, you wouldn’t find us in there.”

He palms his face. “Leighton—” he chokes out.

“No. This needs to be said as mortifying as it is for me. Once it’s out there, we can wash our hands of it and never, ever talk about it again. Okay?” When he says nothing, I give him a piercing stare before pressing, “Promise me?”

His throat bobs. “Fine.”

 

; I nod once, gathering my bearings. “I never want to be like my mom,” I start, watching his eyes bolt to mine before one of them twitches. “I had to watch her go through men like it was a sport and she never cared if they actually liked and respected her. It was hard for me. I’d keep telling myself that I had to prove I wasn’t another Katherine. Being with Chase meant something to me. It meant a lot.”

“As it should,” he cuts in firmly.

“Being intimate is always going to be hard for me because it’ll remind me of what I lacked in a role model when it comes to…that stuff. Mom would tell me that all I had to do was show a little cleavage and wear tight clothes to get a guy’s attention, which only made me want to do the opposite. For a long time, I swore I wouldn’t even date to spite her.” Glancing down at my lap, I fidget with my fingers and feel the familiar burn of memories rise to my mind, all circling my mother and her not-so-sage advice.

“Choosing to do things feels like I’m letting myself live.” My words get choppy, so I force myself to take a deep breath. “Doing that with Chase was a step in a direction I’ve never gone down before.” Cringing at my choice of words, I avoid his eyes and shake my head. “I’m really, really sorry that you saw…that it happened. I’m sorry that I ran instead of talking to you, and that I didn’t call or text you back when you tried talking to me after. It wasn’t mature of me.”

He says my name again, but this time softer, less raspy. “Leighton, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Don’t I? “I messed up.”

He chokes again, this time shifting toward me until his knee brushes mine. “You didn’t. You’re nineteen. You can make your own choices, as you should, without me approving them. What you do with—” He looks like he wants to vomit. “—your boyfriend is between you two. Okay? I’m not going to judge you because I sure as shit don’t have room to.”

I can’t meet his eyes, so I stare at my chipped nails, the fuchsia color that Mia painted last week already mostly picked off.

“Look at me,” he says, reaching over and lifting my chin up to meet his gaze. “Telling me what you just did took some guts. What your mother did…what she’s told you, it’s not right. You have every right for wanting to do things at your own pace. And I’m going to tell you this once and for all. You. Are. Not. Your. Mother.” He states each word slowly and surely, keeping his fingers on my chin so I can’t look away even if I wanted to.

And I did, especially when I break and whisper, “She was sick. At least, that’s what the doctors said. There wasn’t a diagnosis until after we went back to Phoenix.” A long inhale. “The specialist said it was depression. Manic, most likely. You know, bipolar disorder? The mood swings, the way she treated me like crap one minute and loved me to pieces the next, it all made sense when the doctor finally told us. I had to beg her to see somebody about things when she—”

His features sharpen when I stop abruptly from admitting what I never have before. “When she what?”

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