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“I can’t be the cause of a rift between you and your mom.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. “It’s not your decision to make.”
“Nonetheless.” I’m making it.
“You’re breaking up with me?” Her breath hitches and I fist my hands before I reach for her. It’s not my place to comfort Indy now. I lost that privilege.
“It’s for the best.”
“The best for whom?” She points at herself. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“This is your excuse. You got what you want. A roll in the hay with the old high school girlfriend but now your album is nearly done and you need an excuse to extricate yourself from the situation. And along comes Mom with an excuse wrapped up in a neat little bow for you.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
She snorts. “What do you want to call it then? Cowardness? I can live with that.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“Bwak! Bwak! Sounds as if you are one to me.”
“Indy, can you be serious for one minute, please?”
“Me?” She pounds a fist on her chest. “I’m the one who needs to be serious?”
Is this a trick question? “Yes?”
“How’s this for serious?” She motions to the front entrance. “If you walk out the door, don’t you ever come back here again.”
A lump forms in my throat making speaking impossible. I nod instead.
“You can go off and be the famous rockstar. You don’t have to worry about cheating on the poor, boring girlfriend back home. You can sleep with all the groupies you want.”
I clench my jaw. “I am not breaking up with you because I want to fuck groupies.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Sure, you aren’t.”
“Indy, listen to me.” I reach for her but she bats me away. “Please try to understand.”
“Understand what? How you’re a coward? Or how you wield excuses to get your way?”
“You’re not listening. I don’t want to come between your mom and you. I want you to have your mom.”
“There you go again – wielding excuses. You know darn well I barely speak to my mom.”
I didn’t.
“Tell me the real reason,” she urges. “Tell me why you’re being a complete jerk and breaking up with me.”
Didn’t she pay attention to anything her mom had to say? I’m not good enough for her. I’m a bastard child of an alcoholic. I grew up in a dirty dilapidated trailer with holes in the floor while she grew up in a cookie-cutter house with a white picket fence.
She had two parents who loved her. Who would do anything for her. I had one who used her money to buy alcohol instead of feeding her son. And one who refused to acknowledge my existence.
