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I angle my attention sharply his way. “You think I chose to live like this?”
“Shit, nobody does, Clara. Or should I say Sunny? Maybe Gretchen?” The faintest smile catches his lips.
“Don’t.” I pluck up a pink sock and fold it inside a yellow one.
“Gotta admit, it makes me curious.”
“Clara doesn’t fit in around here.”
He falls quiet for a beat, then presses his palm to the cheap laminate. “I am sorry I jumped to conclusions, but I guess this wouldn’t be your first rebellion.”
I pause in the action of folding a T-shirt to send him an uncomplimentary look.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “I didn’t even realize emo was your thing until you went to some fancy ball in combat boots. And what was it again? A tutu?”
“I was sixteen,” I say, jerkily adding my T-shirt to the pile. I swipe up two more random-colored socks, refusing to look at him. I get he’s trying to make light of things, but there’s a side to my adolescence no one else saw. “That’s just a piece of shit family lore. You weren’t even around then.” I remember seeing him from time to time, watching him while my heart went pitter-pat. He was older and kind of aloof. And so far out of my league.
“I still heard about it. Along with the underage drinking at the country club.”
“I was impulsive. Seeking attention—validation.” I was lost. “And I was unmedicated.” I cringe at the slip, not that it stops him in his stride.
“What about the time you lost your car? Story is you were angling for a new one.”
“Fine, I was that spoiled little rich girl, but as you can see, those days are long gone.” I give an angry flourish before I realize what I have in my hand is a pair of pink panties.
What’s the point of arguing? I think, shoving them back into the unruly pile. It was just what my father wanted people to believe. It was better than the truth, which was that I just wanted him to notice me.
“Then there was the time you took an unsuitable boy to a parent’s anniversary party.” Troy can’t keep the bite from his words this time.
“That was a mistake,” I say, the fight and my heart seeping out of me.
“Something we can agree on.”
“I’m not living in some shitty share house as a crusade against my father.” It’s more like the other way around. “He cut me off.” I hold my hand like a stop sign, warding off Troy’s response. “And maybe you think I deserve it, but I am not that girl anymore.” Maybe I never really was. All I seemed to do was pretend back then.
“I guess that’s what makes it hard because you sure look like the same girl.” Those burnt-sugar eyes wander down my body. I shiver because the attention feels like hot, caressing fingertips. I also prickle outwardly, angry with myself that he still has this effect.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, folding my arms across my chest. I unfold them again just as quick as I remember that the action just serves to make my boobs look bigger. According to a so-called friend’s mean-girl comment an age ago. I’m not only angry with myself—I’m also angry with him for not seeing through the bullshit. But, hey, what’s one more injustice in a life that already feels far from fair? “Just because we kissed last night doesn’t give you the right—”
“You mean, when you kissed me.” His tone, it’s so even. So reasonable. So annoying.
Humiliation flares inside, though I fight it with a fake laugh. “Boy! Tell me you have a low opinion of me without actually saying so.” He always did have a way to strip me, to expose the girl I’ve long tried to hide. The girl who yearned to be seen but was afraid she’d be found lacking. “But when did you get such a high one of yourself?”
“Didn’t you hear? I’m the man these days.”
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but I find you wholly resistible.” I look him up, then down as though weighing him for worth and finding myself shortchanged.
“That’s good. I’d hate for you to think I’m here for a trip down memory lane.”
“Oh my God!” I swing left, then right, my fingers clenching and opening as I try to keep a lid on my emotions. I have strategies and meds—when I can afford to refill my script—these days to keep me from feeling so explosive as I swipe up a fork from the drainer. “I would rather set fire to my face and try to put it out with this than be anywhere near you again.”
He doesn’t flinch as I hold it between us like a weapon, trembling from anger and adrenaline. In fact, he leans back against the counter. Sort of have at it. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to jab him—just enough to make him squeal. But he’d just prod me right back, I know it.
Maybe I could up the ante and grab a knife.
I drop the fork at the shocking thought.
“Got that out of your system?” To my mortification, he’s staring at me like I’m a toddler who just got over kicking and screaming on the floor of aisle five.
