Page 9 of Bad For A Weekend

Our coach claps, signaling the start of practice, and I hobble over to the bleachers. My team gets into formation as they listen to Coach’s instructions.

Front and center is my arch-nemesis, Katina, who’s my stand-in until I’m healed. I roll my eyes at how quickly she jumped at the chance to fill in, and each time she comes over to ask me about specific transitions, I have to stop myself from wailing on her with my crutches.

After two hours of bullshit, practice is over, and I can go home to sulk alone. I stand, balancing on one foot while I lift my backpack up. Teetering, I sway too far left, and my backpack crashes to the bleacher, echoing through the gym and drawing all eyes my way.

Fuck me.

I blow out a breath and try again, propping my crutch under one arm and reaching for my bag with the other. It’s almost within my grasp when a large hand comes into view and picks it up. Owen.

“I had it,” I say.

“Sure you did. Let’s go.” He motions for me to walk ahead.

Maybe it’s the craptastic day I had—because Ziggy was wrong, no one had anything better to talk about than the girl who was abducted—or maybe it was watching Katina performing my routine, or maybe it’s that my new shadow is a cold asshole, but I explode.

“Your jobdoesn’t include carrying my shit or telling me what to do. Respectfully, back the fuck off.” I rip my bag from his hand while he takes two steps back, clasping his left wrist in his right hand and returning his gaze where it always is ... at the wall. “Thank you.”

I place my other crutch under my armpit and hobble out of the gym, the sound of Oxfords pounding against the gym floor behind me.

When we arrive home, Owen opens my door and hands me my crutches, but he doesn’t attempt to carry my backpack inside, and even though it’s what I asked for, it pisses me off. My armpits ache from these stupid torture devices, my ankle is throbbing from not being elevated, I’m cranky from all the negative attention I received, and my back hurts.

I get out of the car okay but nearly fall when I attempt to put my backpack on.

“Jesus Christ,” Owen mumbles. “Give it to me.”

He throws it over his shoulder and gestures for me to go. Seeing a grown man in a tailored suit with a baby pink backpack on nearly makes me forget how dreadful my day was. Nearly.

I move unsteadily up the brick stairs and through the front door. Despite how rude I’ve been, Owen stays two steps behind me, and I don’t think it’s out of courtesy. It feels more like he’s staying close in case something bad happens. Knowing that makes it really freaking hard to stay pissed.

Once inside, I inch my way to the living room so I can crash on the couch. Owen drops my bag next to me without a word and disappears out the backdoor, closing it silently behind him. If it were any other day, I’d feel guilty for treating him so poorly. But not today. There’s far too much self-loathing going on for that.

As pathetic as it sounds, the only thing I want right now is my daddy. I saw his car in the driveway, so I know he’s here somewhere, but I’m too tired to seek him out. Julien jumps onto my lap and nuzzles my cheek. I stroke his back, earning a purr.

“How was your day?” I ask him. He meows his response. “That’s good.”

My conversation with the cat is interrupted when Dad’s angry voice booms down the hall.

“I’m sorry it came to this. I honestly thought we had a future, but it should be obvious to you by now that we don’t, and I’m not going over this again. Stop calling, stop talking to the media, and move on with your life.”

Veronica must be on one of her biweekly meltdowns about their breakup. My chest clenches thinking about how much hurt this has caused him.

Seconds later, Dad storms into the living room and flops down next to me with his fingers fixed on his forehead, rubbing circles.

“Roni?” I ask.

“Yes.” His eyes close. “It’s always the same argument, and I’m exhausted.”

“You know you could do all the things she wanted you to. You don’t have to be grounded to the house for the next three months while I finish school.”

His eyes pop open, and his hand freezes in place. “Are you kidding? Of course I do. Your senior year is my payoff for getting you to adulthood.”

I screw my face up. “How so?”

“When your mom chose me to adopt you, and I walked out of that hospital with this tiny little bundle in my arms, I had no idea how hard parenting would be. Especially as a single dad. I thought it would be tea parties and T-ball practice. And there was that, don’t get me wrong, but there was also colic and potty training and hormones and so many sleepless nights worrying how I was going to raise an intelligent, independent woman.” He cups my cheeks. “And look at you. You’re all those things and more. Your senior year is all about celebrating my hard work.”

“And mine,” I say with a fake glower.

His hands fall, and he grins. “And yours. This is our commemoration year. You worked hard, got into college, and earned a million awards, so now we enjoy. Next year, it’ll be back to hard work, but I won’t have as big of a role. You’ll be out there living your own life. And there isn’t a woman alive who I’d let take these last few months away from me.”

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