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He used to date a lot. He didn't have a type, not as far as I could tell. Tall, short, curvy, thin, red hair, blond, brunette, tomboyish, girly, punk rock, corporate, white, Hispanic, black, Asian—there was only one thing all those women had in common.
They were all beautiful.
I've been through this a million times.
It never hurt this badly.
But that was when I was sure he saw me as a kid.
I don't know when things changed. But they have.
It was tolerable knowing Brendon was sleeping around when I was sure I'd never have him.
Now that I know he wants me too—
This is supposed to be what distracts me from everything with Grandma.
But it's even worse.
At least, with Grandma there's hope that it's not really that bad. That my parents are over-reacting.
I turn the page on my e-book even though I haven't absorbed a single word. This is the book Brendon recommended.
It should be fascinating.
It should be filling my head with thoughts of him tying me to his four-poster bed.
But it's not.
Every single word is a knife in my chest. Every single one is making me think of her. Whoever she is. This girl smiling at Brendon, looking at him with those I want you on top of me eyes.
I hate her.
I hate everything.
I pull out my cell phone and try to find a distraction.
Another message from Mom. My voicemail inbox is littered with my parents, and Grandma, reaching out. I pick up sometimes. But their check ins always come with excuses about why they're trying to run my life for me.
And I don't want to hear it.
I don't want to hear that tone.
The one that reminds me that Grandma is sick. I still don't know how sick she is, how little time we have, what exactly it is, but I know it's bad.
Even Grandma gets that tone.
It's not like her. Nothing scares her. When I was little, Mom would threaten to hire a babysitter if Grandma kept teaching me dirty words. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. Mom didn't like the ridiculous stories we made for my dolls. Or Grandma curling my hair. Or letting me use her lipstick.
Mom wanted to protect me from growing up too fast.
But Grandma never backed down. She insisted that this was what I needed. Even when Mom really did hire a babysitter—the world's most boring babysitter, who made me watch wholesome kids shows and refused to let me make my own almond butter and jelly sandwiches.
Grandma held her ground until Mom caved.
I play her voicemail. Soak up every bit of strain and worry in Grandma's voice as she insists I need to call my mom, give her a proper update.
I will.
