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“Noah, could you try and at least act like your mother and I raised you right for the duration of this lunch?” Curt sighs, his voice sounding like he’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders–Noah comprising most of that weight.
Noah’s face flickers in displeasure before he schools it into the carefully crafted air of nonchalance that I’m learning is his go to.
“Not sure what you mean, Pops.”
Curt shakes his head and turns his attention to us, throwing an arm around the back of my mother’s chair.
“Girls. Tell me about yourselves. What do you like to do? What’s your favorite subject in school? What do you want to do after you graduate?” he asks eagerly, leaning towards us now, a soft smile on his lips.
And of course, my mother is practically purring in adoration next to him. She’s staring at him like he…completes her.
Like she has always been the other half of his soul.
Daisy jumps in…as she always does. Good thing too, since her life is a hell of a lot more interesting than mine. If I’m lucky, she’ll talk long enough for the food to arrive and then I won’t need to talk at all.
As hoped, she chatters away. My sister is insanely talented…if a little flighty. Which means that she’s always doing tons of activities and skipping from one hobby to another…wherever the wind blows her.
There were occasional guitar lessons…which ended with her having a brief foray with a band that practiced in our garage after class—although, not to be biased, Daisy really had been the only highlight in that experience. There were photography classes and the brief idea that Daisy would be a nature photographer. That is until she discovered how badly she hated bugs after a hike to a nearby waterfall for pictures. She’s also a naturally talented athlete but thus far had decided “team sports” weren’t her thing. I think she’s been taking cooking classes lately, but judging by the eggs she burned for breakfast the last five days in a row, I’m pretty sure that, unlike the many other things she was good at and could possibly turn into a career, a chef was not one of them.
Daisy is still talking about the Arabic class she’s been taking when the waitress comes back with another waiter, their trays loaded with food.
The waiter gives a chin lift to Noah before moving the plates onto the table.
It all smelled…really good.
“Well, hello there,” he murmurs to me flirtily, as he sets my salad in front of me. He’s cute. Dark brown hair and vibrant green eyes. Cute, but not heart-stopping.
Before I can say anything in return–not that it was a sure thing I could get the words out if I tried anyway–Noah cuts in.
“How’s baseball training going?”
The guy moves his attention eagerly to Noah, seeming a bit in awe that he’s actually speaking to him. It doesn't take him more than two seconds to start a conversation with Noah, forgetting that I exist entirely.
I find myself frowning…although I’m used to being forgotten, it always stings when it happens. Daisy knocks me gently with her shoulder, and throws me a lopsided smile.
She knows I tend to go to the worst case scenarios in my head when it comes to my self esteem. She’s probably the one person who always makes an effort to ensure I feel like my presence is needed. Wanted, even.
The waiters walk away after delivering the food, helped along their way by an annoyed glare from Curt, and we begin to eat.
I pick at my meal, my stomach churning with anxiety as I sneak glances at my mom and her boyfriend…and sometimes Noah.
“I haven’t heard from you yet, Sky,” Curt says suddenly, and my gut churns even more as my fork clatters to my plate.
“Not much to say,” I finally retort with a false grin, while my mother frowns at my answer.
“Sky’s always too modest,” my mom begins, but Daisy cuts her off before our mom says anything overtly embarrassing.
“What Sky is trying to say is that she’s an amazing writer. Like the best I’ve ever read,” Daisy gushes. My cheeks flush hot under her praise, quiet pride building in my chest.
I wouldn't say I’m an amazing writer like my sister is currently boasting, but it is something I’m good at and enjoy. I’ve loved doing it for as long as I can remember. I lie in bed, coming up with a million different worlds and then race to get them down on paper or on my computer as soon as I wake up. Telling stories has somehow always been ingrained in me. Like my brain is wired to make fantastic tales and put them onto paper. Sure beats real life.
“Really? I’d love to read something you’ve written,” Curt comments politely, and I give him a weak smile.
I don’t let many people read my writing. And by many…I mean the only person I allow to read any of it is Daisy…and sometimes my mother if she begs…and my teachers when I’m forced to turn in my assignments. However, I make it a point to always turn my teachers down every time they ask if I can read one of my short stories in front of the class.
Yeah. That isn’t happening.
Of course, sometimes I let myself dream of a million people reading the words I write but that’s something I keep to myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to actually publish anything I write. The whole idea that someone can scrutinize my words is too daunting for me to wrap my head around. Right now, I write for my own pleasure. It’s my own lifeline to sanity. To add any pressure to it would only steal the joy it brings me. And in my pathetic excuse of a life, I can’t afford to lose the one thing that actually still makes me happy.
