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A familiar sullenness that lives in me too — a bottled fury.
But that’s exactly the problem…
You can’t put two bitter people together and expect them to get along.
Colton and I will burn the moment we touch.
“If you don’t go, I won’t have anyone to hang out with,” Lila complains, pouting.
“You’ll have Maddox.”
She scowls. “Just because he’s my friend now, doesn’t mean I need you less. I want my girl-friend with me or else it’ll be boring.”
“Your life would definitely be boring without me,” I agree with great confidence.
“What’s the point of going to the party then? Maddox wants me there, and I want you there. It won’t be the same without you.” After a handful of seconds, she tries another tactic. “I know you and Colton don’t get along much, but what if you bring Grayson? You won’t be bored then. You’ll have your man and I’ll have Maddox.”
I slowly tilt my head at her words. “Maddox is your man?” I’m only half-teasing.
“Huh?”
Laughter bubbles from my chest. “You don’t even realize how much deep shit you’re in.”
“Shut up, Riley,” she grumbles unhappily.
“I’ll shut up now. But mark my words — you and Maddox? It’s going to happen.”
“Why is it so hard to believe that we’re just friends?”
“Because Lila, my love…it’s inevitable. Boys like Maddox? They love playing with fire. And Lila? Maddox Coulter will blindly walk into flames and burn to ashes for you, if he has to.”
It’s literally written in the stars for them.
I don’t understand how they are still denying it.
“And, yeah…I’ll come to the party,” I finally tell her when she’s grown silent. Lila nods quietly, a far-away look in her eyes. Lost in her thoughts. Thinking about my words.
But there’s one thing I know about Lila…
She’s over-the-top stubborn.
And so is Maddox.
***
The clinking of our forks and knives against our plates are the only sound echoing through the walls of the dining room. My parents don’t speak during dinner; they rarely ever do. And if they do speak, it’s always to point out my flaws or something I’ve done to displease them.
It’s never, “How are you? How was your day?”
It’s never, “I am proud of you.”
It’s always, “You’ve disappointed me, Riley.”
It’s a ruthless cycle, one I’ve desperately been trying to break free from. But I can’t.
This vessel that carries me, my withering soul, and the heart that beats in my chest — they’ve molded me, like a piece of clay, into the way I am now. They used their bare hands to sculpt Riley Johnson into the woman they want her to be.
I cut my steak into smaller pieces. Their plates are almost clear, but I’ve only taken two tiny bites so far. And those bites have settled heavily in my stomach. The steak tastes bland and I feel gross. The potato gratin on my plate makes me nauseous.
