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“Young man, I understand you’ve decided to live with your mother. Is this true?” the man in the black robe asks from behind a secluded box where he’s perched above the rest of the courtroom. He stares at me from over the top of his round glasses.
“Yes, sir,” I answer as my sweaty hands twist in my lap.
“Have you been influenced by anyone to make this decision?”
No one other than my lyin’, cheatin’ rat of a father. I answer, “No, sir.”
“You’re sure? No one at all?” he says again, stating each word clearly.
“No, sir.” I shake my head.
I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me if I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of a decision in my twelve short years of life. No one had to influence or convince me to hate my daddy. He did that all on his own.
“And you understand if you live with your mother, you’ll be moving away from your friends and family, and starting a new school?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Very well, then. It is the ruling of this court that Evelyn McCoy be granted full custody of the minor, Battle McCoy.”
He pounds the gavel and the courtroom falls silent.
My daddy stands, straightening his bolo tie. His not glancing in my direction before leaving the courtroom proves I made the right choice.
I’ll miss Gentry, my friends and my dog, but I won’t miss my father.
He’s dead to me.
To hell with the plan.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known the precise direction my life was headed. My father has a plethora of euphemisms for his excessive and relentless planning of my life.
“Faye, life’s like a game of chess, one wrong move and it’s game over.” “You know Faye, without a decent game plan, even the most talented of teams can lose.” My personal favorite is, “Life’s a puzzle, Faye. If one piece is missin’, you’ll never successfully finish it.”
“Faye, are you listenin’ to me?” My boyfriend, Wyatt asks, tapping his foot with his arms folded over his chest. My skin prickles as his blatant disapproval of my reverie irritates me.
I let out an annoyed breath, nodding in agreement. Truthfully, though, I don’t have to listen to hear what he’s saying. He’s given this speech countless times since college when I first felt his commitment fading. I cry myself to sleep too many nights, questioning what I did to make my boyfriend’s feelings change. It has left me unfairly harboring the blame in our relationship and I’m about fed-up!
I fully expect him to call me out on my silent lie. Like usual, he’s too self-involved to notice anything going on with me. He continues talking as though he’s the only one with anything important to say.
Up until this exact moment, I’ve agreed with my father about a good plan paving the way to a happy future.
Graduate high school with high honors—check.
Attend the University of Kansas, and graduate a proud KU Jayhawk—check.
As my father’s Alma Mater, I didn’t dare disappoint him by choosing another school—Rock Chalk Jayhawk pride goes way back in the Callahan lineage.
Secure a stellar job in finance—check, as one of my proudest accomplishments. I landed the job at Marshall Investments all on my own, declining my father’s offer to help me.
Next on the list, marry Wyatt—blank, but inevitable, if he should ever grow up enough to ask me, which recently I’ve come to believe will never happen.
Wyatt represents the piece of my puzzle labeled, husband. Our parents have been moving our chess pieces along the board to the altar since we were children.
As I listen to Wyatt ramble on about needing another break from our relationship, I question if he’s an actual piece to my puzzle, or if I’m forcing him to fit because I’m afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.
My thoughts are brought on by my insecurities. Wyatt loves me. We shared our first kiss when I was in seventh grade; he was in eighth. I knew from that moment on, we would grow old together. However, lately, I feel like nothing I do is good enough for him.
I keep telling myself if I do everything right, he’ll be happy. Only despite my best efforts, he’s never satisfied with our relationship. The burden to be the perfect girlfriend has been wearing on me. If I don’t do something soon to relieve the stress, it’s going to crush me.
My parents adore him. Wyatt has all the qualities expected of my future husband. He’s handsome and successful and sweet. A smile I never felt disappears, replaced quickly with a frown as I remember how angry I am. He’s incapable of an honest commitment. I continually justify his behavior, classifying him with most guys his age who aren’t ready to settle down.
Wyatt reaches the point in his speech where he explains how I need to understand it’s not me, it’s him. My ability to tune him out has grown stronger this past year. Feeling indifferent should raise an enormous red flag. However, I continue to ignore the warning. Denial makes reality sting less and keeps me from dwelling on my lack of control.
Wyatt sounds like the teacher from Charlie Brown. “Wah…Wah…Wahwawah.”
I want him to be a man, have a backbone, and for once, say what he means. “Look, Faye, I’m twenty-six-years-old, and I want to have sex with a lot of other women before I’m tied down to one.” I’d respect him more for being honest.
He continually asks for breaks, yet insists I can’t tell our parents, or more to the point, his mother. His mother controls every aspect of Wyatt’s life. Again, I ignore the red flag waving frantically. I love Mrs. Daughtrey, despite her obs
essive ways. I guess that means she controls an aspect of my life as well, which makes me feel uneasy. I have enough people dictating my course.
“Wyatt, stop,” I shout. He looks at me with surprise. I never interrupt him. I’m the quiet girlfriend who listens and nods politely. The girlfriend who agrees with everything he says, the dog wagging her tail, and begging for attention. Not anymore. I’m over protecting my feelings to keep the peace. My father will see my behavior as out of line, which stirs my irritation. I’m done worrying about him, too. “Maybe it’s time for us to move on.”
“What?” he blinks, stunned I spoke. “How can you say that? I love you. You’re gonna be my wife, but I need this break.”
Like he needed all the others.
“What’s her name?” I make no effort to hide my anger or appear ladylike.
I’m tired of being quiet. Of feeling like a doormat, of going out of my way to please a man who makes me feel like I have little to no value. Like I’m insignificant, and as though my feelings are invalid.
“Who?” he asks, his eyebrows raised high.
“Come on, Wyatt. Admit it. You need a break to have sex with someone else. What’s her name? Is it Kailyn, Jenny, or Tisha, maybe?”
