by J. L. Beck
My sister Patricia is 33 and thankfully single. Well, at least my parents think so. She's actually been in a relationship with Amanda for almost four years. My parents aren't aware of this because they'd disown her. It's sad, but true. I actually do like my sister, even though she's never stood up for me. She's too afraid our parents will look too closely at her life if she takes up for me. God forbid the money train stops or she gets cut out of the will.
Then, there are my parents. My father's father was the mayor of Whitten before my father was elected mayor himself. Our family has lived in this area for as far back as I can recall, but I zone out when they talk about it. My father is extremely proud of the long-standing political background and preaches about it often. My mother is "old money" from Chicago, she met my father when he was in college. She didn't go to college and has never worked a day in her life' she waits on my father like he's the king and she's a poor slave. It's actually kind of pathetic, and it's one reason why I never want to let a man get close to me. I don't want to turn into the vapid mess that is my mother.
When I can no longer procrastinate, I grab my things and head inside. As soon as I open the door, my mother appears, immediately pursing her lips in disappointment. Straightening my spine, I prepare for the hatefulness that I know she's going to spew at me. "Hello mom."
"Peyton," she sighs, "I hope you're not planning on wearing that to dinner. It's dreadful." Scrunching her nose, my mother looks my outfit up and down. I'm wearing a gray cashmere sweater, skinny jeans and soft gray knee-high boots. Hearing her though, you'd think I was dressed in rags.
"It's a three hour drive mom, I wanted to be comfortable."
Curling her lip, she continues like I never opened my mouth. "Go upstairs and change right now. We're eating in an hour and you have a lot of work to do."
Arguing my point with her is pointless, so I don't even try. My shoulders slump as I slide around her to go up to my old bedroom. Before I even start up the steps, she snaps out, "Straighten up Peyton, slouching is so unattractive."
"Yes mother," I mutter, not even turning around.
"Don't take that tone with me young lady. Remember, dinner is in exactly one hour." I don't bother responding. "Oh, and Peyton?"
"What?" Throwing my hands up in the air I spin back around to face her.
She smiles, but it isn't friendly at all. "Bradford and his parents will be joining us for dinner." With that final blow, she turns on her heel and walks back down the hall. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Shutting my bedroom door, I can't stop the relieved sigh that escapes my lips. Leaning back against the door, I shut my eyes, trying to calm my trembling body. Conversations with my mother are rarely pleasant, and that interaction was definitely one of the worst. I can't believe she invited Brad and his family. Actually, yes, I can. It's exactly something she would do. I haven't spoken to him since right before I left for college, and there are plenty of reasons for that. I don't even want to think about my high school boyfriend or what his invitation to family dinner means.
Setting my bags down on the bed, I head over to my walk-in closet to pick out something to wear. Dressy designer clothes have no place in my dorm room, so I left the majority of them here. Thanks to my parents ideas of what dinner should be, they get plenty of use when I come home one weekend a month.
Walking into my closet, I take in the racks on either side. One side has lightweight dresses, slacks, and dressy tops. The other has actual gowns. My parents throw big, lavish parties, and designer dresses are a pre-requisite. Combing through the dresses and pants, I find a pretty navy blue shift dress along with a pair of matching heels. This should at least satisfy my mother's criteria for "dressing for dinner". Happy with my choice, I head into the bathroom to take a shower and start getting ready.
After my shower, I style my long pale blonde hair into a knot at the base of my neck. It's a hairstyle that will at least keep my mother from remarking on how it needs to be cut. She thinks it should be shoulder-length or shorter instead of to the middle of my back like it is now. Putting on just a small amount of makeup and getting dressed, I'm ready 15 minutes before dinner is supposed to begin. Taking a deep breath, I head downstairs, feeling like I'm about to meet a firing squad.
Dinner quickly becomes a drama-ridden affair. Patrick informs us that Alyssa is pregnant, my parents rag on my sister for not finding herself a man, and the only thing said to me is "have you come to your senses and chosen a new major yet?" Ah, family. Can't live with them, can't kill them all. Although, I'm sure if the judge or jury ever had family dinner with my parents, I'd receive an acquittal.
My mother, being the ever-hopeful person she is, seats Brad next to me so that we can "catch up". After giving me glares that would make a lesser person crumble throughout dinner, the gleam in her eye during dessert tells me she's not through with her machinations yet. Sure enough, while the table is being cleared, she sets her plans into motion.
"Peyton, dear," she begins, in a completely fake motherly voice, "why don't you and Bradford go sit in the den. I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on."
Oh no. I'm not entertaining Brad and his grabby hands for the rest of the night. I've already had to take his hand off my thigh three times during dinner. "Actually mom, these first two weeks back at school have been tough. I'm really tired, so I think I'm just going to go straight to bed."
The fake as hell smile on her face freezes, becoming more of a grimace but there isn't much she can say without coming off as a bitch to our guests. Giving me a look that guarantees future retribution, she grits her teeth, saying, "Well, that's too bad! I'm sure there will be plenty of time tomorrow for catching up."
Turning to Brad, she says much more genuinely, "Why don't you come over in the morning. You and Peyton can spend the whole day together!"
Once he agrees, her smile turns victorious. Shit. Fuck. Damn it all. Now I have to figure out a way to get out of that. You would think my mother would've realized by now that pushing me towards someone or something is basically a guarantee that I'm going to do the exact opposite. Even if I didn't know exactly how Brad is and how he would treat me I still wouldn't want him. Brad has that sleaze factor that is common among shady politicians; he's had it since high school.
Thinking quickly, I come back with, "Actually mom, this semester is really busy. I only drove down for dinner tonight. I'm going to have to go back first thing in the morning. Maybe next time I'm in town we can visit." Take that Wicked Witch of East Tennessee.
I'm sure it makes me an awful person and an even worse daughter just for thinking of her like that, but she is so freaking manipulative. I hope it would be different if she actually knew the things that went on while I was dating Brad, unfortunately, I don't think it would even faze her.
Leaving her to "make it up" to him, I place my napkin on my empty plate and excuse myself. When I make it to my room without her catching up to me, I turn the lock so she can't burst in to berate me some more before going into the bathroom to remove my makeup and get ready for bed.
Once I'm in my pajamas, I set the alarm on my phone for extra early so I can leave for school before she's awake and I have to deal with any more of her hateful words. I'm sure she'll have plenty.
Once I'm back on campus, the last thing I want to do is go to my dorm. Scarlett and Annabelle both have to work this weekend, and after dealing with my mom, I'm not sure I'm ready to spend time with Kat. My original plan was to spend most of my time at my parents trying to get ahead, so at least I have my books with me.
Parking my car at the library, I grab my bag and walk towards the entrance. Because I'm playing on my phone, looking for my latest Spotify playlist, I don't notice Wyatt walking towards me until he grips my shoulders to steady me before I can bump into him. Startled, I jerk away from his hands, not sure who is touching me before I actually notice him.
"Hey," he says with an uncertain smile. "I thought you were spending the weekend at home."
I roll my eyes, "Y
eah, well so did I. I just didn't count on my mom being as big a raging bitch as she is, so I came back early."
"Ahh, so that's where you get it from." He says it teasingly, but my nerves are still a little raw.
My entire body tightens, and I start to walk around him. "Yeah, I guess it is." As I walk past him, I speed up, hoping to get away from him and his hurtful words as quickly as possible.
"Shit," he mutters before I hear his footsteps behind me. Grabbing my arm right above the elbow, he forces me around to face him. Sucking in a harsh breath, he places his hands on either side of my face using his thumbs to wipe away the tears I didn't even notice were falling. "Shit, Pey, I didn't mean to make you cry."
His eyes are full of remorse, and it takes everything in me to pull away from his warm hands. "I know," I say softly. Then, after clearing my throat I say in a stronger voice, "I know you were teasing. It's just been a shit-tastic weekend."
Wyatt places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me over to one of the few benches outside the library where he sits beside me. Knotting my fingers in my lap, I avoid looking at his concerned face. I don't want him to be concerned about me. I don't want him to care, or to ask questions I don't really want to answer. I just want to forget about the crappy turn this weekend has taken. But, of course, my luck fucking sucks, because the first thing he asks is, "Do you want to talk about it?"
No, I don't want to talk about it. Talking about my shitty family and my fucked up life is about as much fun as having my wisdom teeth pulled last year. I'm probably as shocked as he is when the words start tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "My parents hate my major. When I go home, all they do is demand that I change to something acceptable. This weekend, my mom took it a step further by inviting the guy I "should" be with, at least in their eyes." Wyatt's hands ball into fists on his thighs, and for reasons I don't want to think about, I'm quick to reassure him. "I hate the guy, and his grabby hands. You would think that after I dated him in high school and it didn't work, that she'd give it up, but my mother is nothing if not determined. My siblings are pretty much left alone, while my parents try to completely run my life. Maybe it's because I'm the mistake, the one they didn't want." My voice breaks when I admit that. You'd think by now I could accept that I will never have a normal relationship with my parents, especially my mother. That's a lie. I don't think anyone can ever accept something like that.
I'm so busy having my mini pity party that Wyatt's arm around my shoulders, gently pulling me to his side, to give me an awkward hug startles me. The hug is made even more awkward by me jerking away from him like he is trying to steal the virtue that I no longer have. Jumping up, I hold out a hand to keep him away, "Please don't. If you're nice to me I'm going to lose it, and I don't want to spend the day crying."
Wyatt nods, "Alright, I won't be nice to you." He gives me a lopsided grin, and I can't help but smile back. I don't know why, but he has this irritating way of getting past my walls and I don't know how to stop him. Then, he surprises me by holding out his hand. "Come with me?"
"Come with you where?" I ask warily, not sure where he's going with this.
He just shakes his head. When I don't immediately take his hand, he lets out an exasperated breath. "C'mon Peyton, let me help you forget. Just for a little while." The option to forget the shitty way this weekend has gone is too tempting to pass up so I take his hand, the knot in my stomach loosens slightly.
Wyatt leads me over to a rusty pickup truck full of dents. I know it makes me a snob, but I can't stop myself from saying, "You want me to ride in that?" The truck looks like it may have been gray in another life, but now it's mostly brown due to the amount of rust taking it over. The spots that aren't rusty are dented, the truck is damn near falling apart and I'm fairly certain it won't make it out of the library parking lot before it dies completely. This is the type of truck that should've been junked years ago instead of being the main transportation for someone.
Expecting him to be offended, I brace myself for his anger, but it doesn't come. Instead, he chuckles before opening the passenger door and bowing deeply, gesturing for me to get inside. "Your chariot awaits my lady," Wyatt says with a grin.
"Can't we just take my car?" I really, really don't want to ride in his rust bucket. I have a nice, practically brand new car. "I'll still let you drive, promise." I can't believe I'm going along with his crazy plan. I probably should get my head examined.
Wyatt doesn't say anything; he just looks at me with one eyebrow raised before gesturing once again towards the open passenger door on his truck. We're now in a stalemate. He evidently doesn't want to ride in my car, and I don't want to ride in his truck. Finally, he rolls his eyes, grabs my waist, and plops me down in the seat, buckling the seatbelt before I can get back out. Then, he slams the door shut, causing flakes of rust to land all over my pants before running around to the driver's side and climbing in beside me.
"Do you trust me?" he asks with a grin.
I snort, "Not even close." I don't trust anyone. It's easier that way. If I don't trust you, I can't be disappointed by you. At least, that's my hope.
Wyatt doesn't let my answer faze him. If anything, his smile widens before he says, "Don't worry, you will."
Crossing my arms over my chest, I turn away from him and look out the window. I have no idea where he's taking me, and now that I'm actually here, in his truck, I'm a little nervous. Other than the fact that he knows my roommate, I know next to nothing about this guy. I know he makes me uncomfortable, but he doesn't bother me like most people do.
After a few unsuccessful attempts to engage me in conversation, Wyatt finally gives up and turns the truck radio on. I'm shocked when music actually comes out of the thing, and then immediately ashamed of my thoughts. Wyatt's being nice enough to take me out, to try to get my mind off everything, and I'm badmouthing his truck, even if it's just in my head. Wow, maybe I am more like my mother than I thought. And with that depressing revelation, I decide not to dwell on all the bad stuff that's happened, choosing instead to focus on the music Wyatt listens to. As a music major, the songs people listen to fascinate me. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to. That's not me trying to stereotype either; it's just the way it is.
The first song that plays in Wyatt's truck is Springsteen by Eric Church, followed by a band I don't know. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the music. Music was always a way for me to escape my parents. I could put on a set of headphones and tune out the hateful things my mother said. I could escape to another place for a little while.
Zoning out to the music makes the twenty-minute drive to wherever it is Wyatt is taking me pass quickly. "We're here," he says quietly as his breath fans across my cheek. His lips are so close to my ear that when he moves his mouth they actually touch my ear. It's like an electric shock, and I whirl around to face him. The only problem is that he really is right next to my ear, so when I spin around, I knock my forehead into his nose and see stars. Wyatt's word of choice is very colorful as he jerks back out of the line of fire.
"Sorry!" I yelp, my face flaming in embarrassment. I can't believe I just did that. I'm so socially awkward.
Rubbing his nose, Wyatt replies with a laugh, "No worries. You aren't the first girl to beat me up."
I hide my face in my hands, and attempt to ignore him. Not that he'll let that happen, but it's a nice idea. I hear his door open and shut before mine opens. A gust of cold air rushes into the warm interior of the truck causing me to shiver. Wyatt takes my hands away from my face and when he pulls me out of the car, he bends over so that I'm forced to look at him.
"Hey, Peyton, seriously it's okay. It doesn't even hurt anymore." His voice is gentle; he's trying to reassure me that he isn't mad. This guy makes it really hard to hate him in fact it's almost impossible.
But, I'm nothing if not persistent. "I wasn't worried, you have a pretty hard head so I figured it wouldn't bother you for long. Now, what are we doi
ng here?"
Turning me so that I'm standing directly in front of him, facing the building, I see a slew of go-karts and an outdoor track. Go-kart racing? That's what we're doing? I've never been in a go-kart, let alone raced one. This could definitely end badly.
"We are going to act like kids today. All the grown up shit can wait til tomorrow. Today is going to be all about fun. And, I'll get to kick your ass. That's always a plus since it's such a pretty ass." One side of his mouth tips up in a grin and his eyes have a devilish sparkle in them, that lets me know he's enjoying this entirely too much.
Even though I've never raced a go-kart in my life, I'm not about to let him think he's going to beat me. "Oh, you're on Mister..." Crap. I don't know his last name! How did I not hear someone say it?
Wyatt leans down to my ear once again, although not quite as close as the last time, "Parker. My last name is Parker."
Turning, I grin at him, but it's not a friendly grin. It's a grin that shows all my teeth, letting him know that he doesn't intimidate me in the least. "You're on Mr. Parker. Lead the way."
Wyatt keeps his hand on the small of my back while we walk inside and doesn't remove it until after we've gone to the counter to pay. While we're waiting for our turn on the go-karts, he starts telling me how to operate one.
"The trick with go-karts is to not jerk the wheel. Just be smooth and keep from putting the kart in a bind. In other words, hold your line fairly straight, turn as little as possible but still make the turn as close as possible to the inside."
He's completely serious when he says this but all I can do is gape at him. Those instructions made no sense whatsoever to me, but since I'm pretending like I know exactly what's going on, I nod my head and tell him, "I've got this. Are you ready to get your ass handed to you pretty boy?"