Chapter 15
One beer in, and my head was definitely swimming, my elbow propped avaksinadly on the table with my pades trying to stabilize
By this pott, everyone had demolished their food and the room had transformed into a chaotic symphony of overlapping carrions. The sol blurred together in my beer furry brain voices melted into each other like some weird andis smoothie
But that didn’t stop me from doing what Fil apparently made my life’s missions.
Staring at Jax Xavier like my eyes were programmed in track hits.
His black shirt made his skin look almost impossibly pale, And the clean line of his neck was unfairly perfect. People say love is blind, but in my came, It had laser–focused my vision–even the way his hair cled at the nape of his neck seemed worthy of a Renalmance painting
Lost in these increasingly non PG thoughts, Ididact notice when Jax suddenly turned around, like he had s
My alcobel slowed brain couldn’t catch up fast enough to throw up my usual defenses.
se he had some sixth sense for being watched
The beer had dissolved whatever filter I normally kept between what I felt and what I showed, and everything–three years of pining, the homiliation, the longing was probably plastered across my face lite a billboard.
Jax’s eyes, dark and usually unreadable, landed on mine. When our gazes locked, something shifted in his expression.
The casual hall smile playing at the corners of his mouth stiffened.
Then disappeared completely.
In that moment, as clarity cut through my beer hate, I knew he’d seen it all–overy pathetic, unrequited feeling I’d been harboring since I was
fourteen
But it didn’t matter. UCLA was huge. We’d probably never cross paths again anyway.
And reality played out exactly as I predicted–I didn’t run into Jax again after that night.
Occasionally I’d see his name pop up on the campus confession page, usually with some girl writing paragraphs about his jawline or how he’d held a door open for her once and now she was planning their wedding
After about a week of classes, Thanksgiving break approached.
I’d picked up a part–time job at a bobs shop near campus to keep myself busy over the holiday.
The night before break started. Mom called
Her void had that familiar saccharine tone she always used when she wanted something: “Sweetie, what time does your fight get in? Mam will pick you up at the airport. Rosalia’s coming home for Thanksgiving too–I’m making that sweet potato casserole you love.”
“I’m not coming home,” I said flatly, slicing through her holiday Entary.
There was a solid thirty seconds of silence on the other end, like she was buffering.
Moon finally asked, her voice tightening, “Are you still angry about what happened?
“Not at all,” I lied.
Mom: “Then why aren’t you coming home for Thanksgiving? It’s tradition.”
“I got this job I just started. They need coverage for the holiday weekend”
Mom: “Are you that desperate for money? We can send you some.
“Tin fine.” I brushed her off, already exhausted by the conversation “Look, I’ve got målterm prep to flash Gotta go
After 1 finished reviewing my lecture notes for tomorrow’s class. I checked my phone.
Chapter 15
Ten missed calls. Twenty unread texts.
The calls were split between Mom and Dad, with Dad’s increasing in frequency as the night went on.
The texts included two from my roommate (“Hey beads up, storm tonight, floor your window or your notes will be ruined“) and a tarmants of vur
from Mom
Mom Why aren’t you really coming home? Don’t use that job as an excuse.
Mom: Your father is absolutely livid. He thinks that perfect SAT score has gone to your head and now you think you’re too good for your family.
Mem: Every other college freshman is going home for Thanksgiving. What will we tell the neighbors when they ask why you’re not here? –
Mom: Liana, you can’t seriously still be holding a grudge, can you? Are you still mad at your sister over a stupid skirt?
Mom: I already explained this–Roulia was just upset about her scores when she ruined your skirt. It was months ago How can you still be angry about something so trivial).
At this point. I didn’t even want to see what other guilt trips she’d crafted.
I closed the messaging app i and tossed my phone onto my bed.
There were so many problems with her entire approach that I didn’t know where to begin unpacking it. The selective memory. The gas–lighting. The way Rosalia was always the victim, even when she was the one destroying my things:–
Some things just don’t change which was exactly why I was spending Thanksgiving serving boba to other students who couldn’t for woolda‘) home.
