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I hear my mom sigh. “We’ve been up since the crack of dawn packing. Your dad deserves a beer.”
I immediately feel the familiar knot in my stomach. It’s ridiculous to think I still get anxious over my parents’ drinking habits. Still, every time I’m confronted with their unorthodox drinking schedule, memories I work hard to forget come flying to the surface. Like the time they got too drunk to pick me up from the Oliver Twist rehearsal. Or when they decided to go on a last-minute booze run and forgot to turn off the stove, leaving me to deal with a small fire. Or all the times they got wasted on the free cocktails at my school awards ceremonies, and Dad stumbled all over the place while Mom flirted shamelessly with the teachers. It really sucked to be known as the kid with the alcoholic parents.
I ignore my mom and look at my dad. “So why are you selling?”
“Jessica, that’s hardly any of your business,” Mom snaps. “It’s our house, and we’ll do whatever we want with it.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. This shouldn’t get to me. It’s not like any of this is new. They’ve always lived their lives as if I was an inconvenience. Not so much Dad, but definitely Mom.
I walk over to my dad and give him a quick hug. “Text me your new address. I’ve got to go.”
“So you’re not going to stay to help us then.”
“I can’t today. I just stopped by to say hi since I hadn’t heard from you in a while.”
Pivoting on my toes, I head down the hallway.
“We can never please that girl,” Mom huffs. “We give and give, and all she does is take.”
Right. I guess I learned that lesson from them when they took the college fund my grandparents left me and used it to go on a cruise.
My eyes sting, and the lump in my throat gets bigger with every step I take to the car.
Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let them get to you.
Mom may be the most closed off, but Dad is just as culpable. He could have told me they were moving, despite Mom’s protests.
Ugh, I need to shake this off. I’ll head home, slip into some sweats and mellow on the couch.
My phone beeps, and I think it might be Dad apologizing.
When I see it’s the Bad Bitches chat—my friends’ group—I open the text. It’s from Wendy with an image of her, Karen, and Holly all at a strip club with the caption: “So this happened. Sorry we ditched you again last night, but we know it isn’t your thing. Call us later when we’re not so hungover. Kisses.”
They ditched me to go to a strip club? They didn’t even ask me. And I don’t have a problem with strip clubs. It’s just the last one we went to had a lot of dodgy shit going on with what looked like barely legal guys.
My eyes fall on the “sorry we ditched you again” line. She’s right, this isn’t the first time they’ve done this to me, but they usually do it because they’ve hooked up with guys and are leaving with them. Somehow this feels worse.
I dial the group and take a deep breath. This conversation isn’t going to be easy, but it’s long overdue. Although it hurts like hell, I know I have to do it. Last night I was teasing when I told Chris we should use the term “friends” loosely, but the fact is they aren’t good friends. None of them.
For the next ten minutes, I endure my friends telling me how I’m overreacting and need to get the stick out of my ass. Finally, I tell them I’ve made up my mind and they need to deal with it, then hang up. I look at the clock on my dash.
Ten fifteen.
I think it’s time for a good cry and a nap.
