“While she was in college in another city,” I huff. “We live down the street.”
They glance at each other again.
“A minute ago, you were squealing with excitement,” Dad says, looking almost hurt. “What changed?”
I press my lips together. What exactly did happen?
I told Beck about the townhouse and started to worry he’d think it was too much. That having this place would mean we weren’t compatible.
And then he wouldn’t like me anymore.
I’m not about to share that thought spiral with the parentals, though.
I scratch my cheek. “Um… I might have started overthinking.”
Mom’s face softens.
“So you still like it?” I swear, Dad looks like he’s holding his breath.
I snort. “I love it.”
“Great—”
“I just… feel bad that you have to do this for me.”
“Hattie—” Mom steps toward me, but I hold out my hands to stop her. She stops.
Dad closes in too, but he wraps an arm around Mom’s waist and tugs her into him.
“First of all, we don’t have to do this for you. We want to,” Dad says. Then he arches an eyebrow. “For a number of reasons.”
To get me out of the house, I think with a pang.
Don’t get me wrong. I want to be out of the house. But knowing that living with me is a strain or a burden feels shitty.
Dad must see it on my face because he starts to move closer then stops.
“Reasons for all of us.” Then he shakes his head. “Make no mistake, I think this will be a good thing for all of us, but you know me. You know I’m not gonna buy something we can’t afford. I won’t make a bad investment, no matter how much I want something. Trust me, buying this property would be a good investment.”
Okay. That makes me feel a little better.
I look at Mom and try to read her face. My gut tells me she doesn’t want me to be upset, but she’s still not one hundred percent convinced this is the right thing for me.
And, I have to admit, she might not be wrong.
It annoys the hell out of me that Mom is always telling me what to do—when to get ready to leave, when to take my meds, how much or how little I should eat, when to wake up, what to wear to our stupid Wednesday lunches with Grandma Eloise—but I honestly don’t know how I would fare if I were left to my own impulses.
It might be okay. It might be totally great.
And it might be a fucking disaster.
I bite both of my lips because I can’t risk saying this out loud.
Because, no matter what, I want to try.
I want to try living on my own and figuring things out by myself.
Even though it’s scarier than I’d thought it would be, now that I’m looking the prospect in the face.
