“It sure fucking is,” she says. I hear her draw in a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, bracing myself. “You can’t even bring yourself to say ‘I’m good’ anymore. I ask you how you’re doing every time I call you, and every time you either say ‘okay’ or ‘alright.’ You are very clearly neither of those things.”
“I’m good, Abby, really.”
“I’m good, Abby, really.”
“Will you stop doing that?”
“I certainly will not,” she huffs. “Can you just acknowledge that you hate it there? Can we have an honest conversation for once? Please?”
“I don’t hate it.”
“Okay, but you don’t love it.”
She’s right. I’m ambivalent at best, and at worst, maybe I do actually hate it. But I will never admit that to her–or to anyone else, for that matter.
“It’s just growing pains. I’m still adjusting to being on my own, and balancing work with school. I’m not like you Abs, things don’t just come easily for me.”
“Oh stop it, you don’t even believe that.”
“I could feel that eyeroll from halfway across the country.”
Another long pause.
“It’s not a failure, you know.” Her tone has softened, and the lump that’s always half-formed in my throat comes in full-throttle. “If you decide you want to come home. It’s okay if your plans change. No one is going to give you grief about it.”
Yes please, I want to come home. Now.
“I don’t want to come home, Abs.”
I’m lying. Please come get me.
“It’s good for me out here, I’m learning so much.”
I’m miserable.
“It really is just growing pains, I promise. I’m happy here, you just caught me after a long day.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
I recognize the sigh she makes–it’s the one that says she knows I’m lying, but she’s not going to push me on it.
Please push me.
“Okay, my love,” she says wearily. “I just worry about you. You know you can come home whenever you want right? Just say the word and I’ll come get you, and you can move in with me and Aaron. I won’t even tell anyone, if you don’t want. You can live in the closet under the stairs, Harry Potter style.”
I force a chuckle through the tears threatening to spill over. “You don’t even have stairs. But I promise I will, my darling, precious angel. But I’m seriously okay right now.” I hear her inhale to say something, but I beat her to it. “I’mgood. Even though that’s not grammatically correct. I’m good.”
This time when she pauses, I can almost hear the wheels turning in her mind while she tries to decide if she wants to ask me about it.
“Ask the question, Abigail.”
“Donotuse my government name.”
“Abby…”
“You promise it has nothing to do with Gr–the boys?” It comes out so fast it almost sounds like one word. Like if she rips the bandaid off, it won’t hurt as much.
It does.
