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The Next Day
I’m exhausted and I can still feel him inside me.
For hours, I’ve relived every minute Austin and I were together. The way he held me. Kissed me. Went down on me. Thrust himself in between my tits so I could suck on the fat head of his cock.
How he fucked me.
I’ve never felt more in tune with someone in my life.
Not that I’m acting like it.
True to his word, Austin fetched my stuff and brought it to me so I could take my meds, change, and teach the yoga class. Word spread fast about our overnight adventure, which was expected and also embarrassing.
Mainly when the jabs and teasing started.
As a result, we were both awkward for the rest of the sessions and acted really weird around each other. Avoided eye contact. Didn’t speak. I don’t know how Austin felt, but—teasing aside—I was terrified everyone would figure out we actually fucked each other’s brains out.
I had bigger problems, though. My head started aching during the award presentation. To avoid an episode, I had no choice but to go to my room and take an emergency Xanax. While I waited for it to kick in, I sent a Slack to my team explaining I wasn’t feeling well, together with my checklist. Then I fell asleep.
By the time I woke up ten hours later, everyone was gone. I decided it was best if I stayed the night and rested in my cushy hotel room with a kick-ass room service menu. Pure bliss after living with my parents for the past few months. After two of the most stressful weeks of my life, I turned my phone off, ate a burger, and curled up in bed to watch a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon.
On my drive home, I spent two hours talking to my therapist—lots to unpack between the forgotten sex with Austin to the more recent developments over the past twenty-four hours.
“Shay. I’m talking to you.” Mom points at me with her fork. “You need to eat.”
God. She’s such a worry-wart. It’s been nonstop all day.
I sigh and take a bite of salad. “Okay. I’m still tired, though.”
Annika Stojanovic, my mother, has always been a formidable force who matches perfectly to my larger-than-life hockey player dad, Goran. They love me hard. Too hard. Overwhelmingly after my diagnosis. They’re relentless with their opinions of what’s best for their little girl and what my life should be like living with epilepsy. It’s why I moved to LA, but their overprotectiveness has picked back up again ever since I got home.
The contrast between how they view me and my brother is startling. Miles is treated like an adult, they leave him alone. I guess it’s because he’s a billionaire living in a ginormous house on Mercer Island.
Since I’m broke and live at home, I’m still their baby.
“Jesus. Shay. Your mother is speaking to you. Pay attention.” Dad tosses his napkin down then grows worried. “Unless…are you?”
My body feels weighed down. Exhaustion paints every fiber of my being. When I’m here with my parents every fucking thing is about my epilepsy. “No, Papa. I’m fine. I took a Zannie yesterday when I felt it coming on.”
I hate how they still assume I can’t be bothered to advocate for my own health. Like I’m too stupid to follow my doctor’s advice. I have a seizure action plan that I keep in my purse and in my medical alert app on my phone. As I told Austin yesterday, I take care of myself. Sleep. Eat clean. Take supplements. Pay attention to my body…
“Maybe that job is too much.” Mom shakes her head. “I don’t know what Miles was thinking giving you so much responsibility. And Austin, I’m going to give that boy a piece of my mind next time I see him.”
“Mommm.“ Stupid me. Since I moved back home I’ve fallen back into my old pattern with her—spilling every detail about my day. Well, not what happened at the retreat—getting stranded and fucking Miles’s best friend is most definitely not her business. The point being, I give them too much information and they use it like parental weapons.
My dad leans back in his chair. “If she’s not in a relationship with someone to look out for her, she needs to find her way, Annika. We won’t always be here.”
Back and forth. Back and forth. My head swivels to and fro as they spew out everything they think I should and shouldn’t do. Whom I should do it with—or not. When and how.
“I like working with Miles. The projects are fulfilling and fun…I’m spending so much time with my brother…” When I manage to get a word in, I’m tongue-tied as I try to navigate the minefield of their expectations. Their ideas of what’s right for me always seem to overshadow my own ambition. Aspirations.
“Darling, you know we merely want the best for you.” My mom reaches over and grips my hand. “Hungry Llama is Miles’s success. Don’t get too attached and ride on his coattails.”
Ouch. I’m hurt and frustrated by her assessment of me, but that’s nothing new. Why do people keep underestimating me?
I force a smile that feels as flimsy as the threads holding my composure together. “Yeah, well, I’m convinced I’m already making a difference there.”
“Oh come on now, Shay,” my father interjects, his robust voice fills the room with commanding authority. “Don’t exaggerate. You’ve been there two goddamn weeks.”
