Page 7 of Wanted You More

I still take anxiety medication like I was told to and get refills when needed. But sitting in an office and being questioned about all my feelings gets tiring after a while when nothing can be changed.

The fifty-five-year-old turns to me, arms crossed on his chest, with a resigned expression carved into his facial features. “I love you. Nothing about this is easy for you, me, or your brother. I didn’t want you to panic if I admitted people were asking about you again. There’s been enough of you circulating as is.”

I cringe.

To this day, I don’t understand why people are so interested in talking tomeabout the events at Shakespeare Park. It was full of people that night who survived the two psychos who decided to ruin a lot of people’s lives. I’m not the only one, or the youngest, who’s still alive and able to tell the tale. I just choose not to. A few youth groups who protest against guns have been interested in talking to Wolfe and me, but they’ve gravitated toward me longer. Mostly because there were a few articles about troubled youth that I had the misfortune of being talked about in because of some questionable pictures people took of me at parties. It was basically tabloid fodder based on half-truths posted around social media by people who didn’t like me.

Whoever wrote the articles had indicated I’d been acting out since the shooting because I wasn’t coping well, and an “inside source” claimed I’d been arrested multiple times. I’d bet my left kidney that it was Cheyanne or one of her minions who spoke to the reporters that used to camp out like a bunch of creeps on the edge of the school’s property line waiting for a chance to talk to me. Maybe even watch me have a meltdown like they’d expected at any second. The truth is, I haven’t been able to cry since that night.

That was one of the few things I’d told my therapist because I genuinely thought there was something wrong with me. As if the bullet that had pierced me wasn’t the only thing that had done damage. Who doesn’t cry over their dead mother at her funeral? Or have breakdowns in the middle of the night from bad dreams made up of old memories?

Me. That’s who.

According to my therapist, it’s my brain’s way of coping. A mechanism that keeps me in survival mode. I guess it’s good I’m not some psychopath who doesn’t feel.

Problem is, sometimes I feel too much.

Dad gives me a once-over and shakes his head at my outfit, his eyes lasting a little longer on the cowboy boots before he turns to the glass cupboard. “Go to bed, Austen. You shouldn’t have been out tonight anyway.”

“I wasn’t aware I was grounded.”

My snippy comeback has his back tightening for a moment before he sighs. “You’re not, but youareseventeen. You can’t be out all the time like you have been.”

I want to point out that he didn’t care whenever I stayed out late over the past few years, but that would be a low blow. He’d been struggling with his own issues, mostly depression, and got help for it when he realized how absent he’d been.

He’s trying.

How could I fault him for that?

I’m walking toward the stairs when I stop by the archway. “Hey, Dad?”I love you.The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason, I can’t say them. They’re as hard to get out as the tears are these days. “I want to go to the retirement party for Ben,” I say instead.

The cop-out has him pausing from where he pours himself a glass of water. It takes him a few seconds before he says, “We’ll talk about it another day.”

No, we won’t.

***

Wolfe is tooquiet as we walk down the street side by side. He hasn’t commented on the weird sculptures people have on their lawns for the Art Committee’s annual competition. The winner gets a big cash prize to go along with their bragging rights.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, picking at the brownie I bought at Queenie’s. He’s barely touched the maple glazed donut he usually devours before we leave the store.

He stops in front of the jewelry shop that’s run by two sassy older women who always know the local gossip. They’ve been best friends for decades, and their husbands work in the back together doing most of the packaging for all their online orders. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if you go to the party this weekend.”

This again.“It’s not like I’m forcing anybody else to go, although I think it’d be a good idea if you came with me. Dad doesn’t have to show up or anything.”

Wolfe makes a face as he stuffs his hands in the big pocket of his hoodie. “The last time you drove us anywhere, you almost went in the ditch. I don’t want to get back in the car with you.Plus, you’re supposed to have someone twenty-one or older with you at all times when you’re driving.”

I’m not surprised he knows that. I think the little nerd read the driver’s manual more than I did when I was preparing for the written portion of the test. “It’s not even a twenty-minute drive to their house. And I wasn’t going to run over the cute chipmunk that was in the road when we swerved, so stop being dramatic.”

He blows out a raspberry. “A lot can happen in twenty minutes.”

My nostrils flare with irritation at the blanketed statement. Twenty minutes was all it took for our lives to change forever. By the time the chaos started to the time the police swarmed the park, it felt like a lifetime. I’d passed out for half of it, and I become more and more grateful every single day for that.

“Look, if you’re that worried about Dad, then stay home with him. He likes playing video games with you, so it could be a good way to spend time together.” I readjust my backpack that’s hanging from my shoulder. “And are you going to eat this stupid donut, or are you going to make me hold on to it for you the entire time?”

His lips twitch upward for a millisecond before reaching out and grabbing the dessert. “I think Dad wants to spend time with thebothof us. I heard him talking to Auntie Mae on the phone and she suggested starting with required family breakfasts.”

Family breakfast? That’s a new one, even for Mae. Mom’s little sister has been trying to take over ever since Mom passed, inserting her opinions where they’re not wanted. Dad takes them every time, which is how I got groundedtwicelast year. She’s not getting a present from me this Christmas if she’s going to make me sit through another awkward meal with my family that’s full of nothing other than silence, save the clanking silverware against ceramic dishes.

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