I cursed the heavens for giving Landon a Chad Michael Murray body.
I stayed seated as long as I could before I grew too flustered and had to stand and leave the table. I could feel his satisfied grin as I walked away, too.
What was supposed to have been a bet about falling in love quickly shifted into the realm of Landon and me falling deeper into our hate. Well, at least that was what was happening for me. I couldn’t speak on his behalf, because I didn’t care what he thought. I despised him. From the top of my head to the bottom of my feet, I loathed that man.
But still, I didn’t know why my heart kept deciding to skip every now and then whenever he pranked me. Or why he’d cross my mind, and my thighs would ache in desire. Or why my stomach swirled whenever he came my way.
Probably gas.
As Landon’s and my hate deepened, it seemed Mima’s and Dad’s did, too. Each day I came home from school, I’d walk into the house to hear the two of them bickering. Mima was always getting on Dad’s case about one thing or another. Lately, she refused to let the diamond earring fiasco go. Mom even offered to sell them for extra money, but Mima was stern with her words.
“It’s not about the money, Camila. It’s about where he got the money. His small jobs are not enough to pay for something like that. Open your eyes,” Mima scolded.
“How about you mind your own business, Maria?” Dad would snap.
“My daughter is my business,” she’d reply.
I knew Mom felt as if she was caught between the two of them—the love of her life and the woman who’d raised her. If there was one thing that was true about my mother, it was the fact that she was a peacekeeper. She didn’t like conflict, and she did her best to tiptoe around people in order to not hurt anyone’s feelings. All she cared about was making the people she loved happy.
Mima, though? Mima was the complete opposite. While my mother was a mouse, my grandmother was a lion, and she wasn’t shy about people hearing her roar. She faced conflict head-on with no remorse. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, and I figured that came from the struggle of having always been silenced by my grandfather when he was still alive. Once he passed, Mima promised to never bite her tongue for a man again, and she had held on to that promise, too. Unfortunately, that meant my father wasn’t saved from her spitfire. She wasn’t ever afraid to speak up, even if her words burned Dad.
It was hard for me to listen to them fight, because I loved them all so much.
I just wished, over time, they could find a happy medium.
That was why I did my best to be a good girl. There was already so much tension in my home, and I didn’t want to add any more stress to the situation, or add more stress to Mom’s already heavily laden shoulders. I was a perfect little princess. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do drugs. I never, ever skipped school. My grades were all As, and if there was ever extra credit, I was all over it. I was a star student, an easy kid to raise, all because I knew my house was too fragile to withhold any more struggles.
My parents never had to worry about what their daughter was doing—because I was always doing the right thing.
Whenever there was a big argument in the house, I’d escape to my bedroom and close the door behind me. I was certain everyone would clear their heads soon enough, but until then, I’d fall into my own world—my world of fiction.
In many ways, I was my father’s daughter. Every bit of creativity I had in my bones, I received from that man. When he wasn’t getting in trouble, he was an amazing storyteller, and whenever I felt lost in one of my writing ventures, I knew he was the one to go to for help.
He understood story structures and how characters worked in ways I only dreamed of. It was because of him that I got involved in not only writing but the acting world, too. There was no part of me that had a strong desire to be an actress, but Dad convinced me if I were to step into all aspects of storytelling, I’d be able to understand characters for my scripts even more.
“There’s power in looking at things from all angles. That’s what the masters do,” he’d say.
And all I ever wanted to do was be a master screenwriter like my father—minus his flaws. I had my own flaws to deal with; I didn’t need his mixing into them.
For a long time, he was convinced the drugs simply made his mind open more, made him able to see deeper, see clearer, create better stories. In a way, he was right. I had once gotten my hands on some of the scripts he’d written in a drug-induced state. Some of his best masterpieces were written when he was high. The words almost danced off the pages, and the story arcs were passionate and felt like magic.
Then, there were the manic stories. The ones that didn’t connect or lead anywhere. The ones that looked like scribbles across the wall. The ones that scared me. When I read my father’s messes, I ached with worry and fear for his sanity.
The stories Dad wrote outside of his highs felt more…forced, as if he was trying too hard to get the words right. It would take him months to finish a project while he was sober, compared to the manic state he’d write in while under the influence. He was too hard on himself when he wrote sober. He’d curse his words and call them trash, even though his idea of trash was my definition of glory. During those dark times, he’d fall into a depressed state, which would make him spiral back down the road of bad habits.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
Not only was he not himself when he was high, he also worked like a madman. He wouldn’t sleep, hardly ate, and would snap at people whenever his craft was interrupted. Sure, he wrote amazing words when he was wasted, but that didn’t make him an amazing man.
Mom supported Dad regardless of what he did, even if she didn’t agree with it. Mima called Mom an enabler and often told her that wasn’t how a relationship should work, but in the name of love, Mom never listened.
I came from a household of addiction.
My father was addicted to drugs—both using and dealing them—and my mother was addicted to him.
I was surprised an addiction hadn’t swallowed me whole yet.
After Dad got out of prison, he’d given up writing. He figured that was his trigger—his creativity. Yet, ever since then, he’d struggled to find his footing, to find something to keep his mind and heart busy.
Mom said he needed a hobby. Mima said he needed a more worthy job.
My father called himself a jack-of-all-trades. He never worked a solid nine-to-five job, because he said he couldn’t deal with that level of repetitive tasks. So, he currently juggled three jobs a week. While that kept his mind busy, it didn’t feed his soul.
I just needed him to find some form of happiness so he could be the man we all knew he was capable of becoming.
“Knock, knock,” a voice said through my closed bedroom door.
“It’s unlocked.”
Dad turned the knob and stood there in the doorframe with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “You okay?”
“Good, just working on my audition that’s coming up,” I said, leaving out the fact that there was still a knot sitting in my stomach from listening to the three of them argue.
“Oh yeah, you got the school play coming up, right?” he asked, moving into the space and sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Yup. Romeo and Juliet.”
He nodded slowly. “‘O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?’ A classic.”
Indeed.
“Are you ready for the audition? Do you want me to listen to your piece?” he asked, acting as if there hadn’t just been a war zone in the living room a few minutes earlier.
I didn’t look like my father. He looked like the cliché all-American boy—blue eyes, blond hair, lopsided smile that always looked more like a frown. His skin was pale, and his hair was buzzed short. The wrinkles around his eyes told his history, along with the way his shoulders were always slouched forward. His face was also sunken in a bit from his past drug and alcohol habits. He looked much older than he should’ve, but he was here,
alive and somewhat well.
If that wasn’t a blessing, I didn’t know what was.
“Are you and Mima ever going to get along?” I blurted out.
Dad raised an eyebrow, shocked by my question. He shouldn’t have been surprised with the amount of arguments those two got into.
“She and I are too much alike. That’s why we butt heads so much, but I can’t blame her. I’ve let you all down countless times in the past. Maria is right to be concerned, but I don’t plan on screwing up again. Not this time. This time is different, okay?”
I wanted to believe him, but one’s belief in a person faded a little more each and every time they broke your trust. It was hard to trust people who’d always lied in the past.
“Promise?” I asked him.
“Promise.” He stood up from the bed and moved over to me. He combed my hair behind my ears. “I’m sorry about all the fighting, Shay. Really, I am. Also, I don’t blame your grandmother for feeling the way she does—she’s just looking to protect you and your mother. That’s her job, but I need you to understand that my job is to protect you now, too. I’m here, and I’m healing so I can be a better father and husband. I’m working on myself so I can work on us.”
There was a tiny corner in my heart I reserved for my father’s words. I didn’t let that corner expand too much, because I feared being let down by him. I worried about allowing my heart to break over the first man in my life who was supposed to heal my broken pieces, not create the cracks.
In that tiny corner of my heart, that was where I believed him. That was where I hoped for him. That was where I prayed. I hoped that tiny corner would never get smaller. I hoped someday, somehow, it would grow, making room for more of my father’s love.
“Now, come on,” he offered, leaning against my desk. “Let me hear this monologue of yours.”
If there was one thing my father did well, it was believe in me and my creative skills. That was the only thing I knew was one hundred percent true. His praise was so authentic when it left his lips.
I practiced my chosen dialogue for him for the remainder of the night. He gave me his input, critiquing my pauses and pace and facial expressions. He directed me. He made me laugh. He made me smile. He made me believe in myself, in my talents, in my soul. Then, he gave me his two-nod signal of approval.
And that tiny corner of my heart? It soared.
9
Landon
If there was one person in the world I never wanted to be like when I grew up, it was my father. He was a coldhearted man, which probably helped him in a courtroom. He was driven by two things in life I didn’t care anything about: money and praise.
He was a criminal defense attorney and almost too good at his job. The number of criminals he’d gotten off was off-putting. Still, Dad never called them criminals; he called them men and women who were falsely accused.
Sometimes I thought he was so jaded he actually believed the lies he told himself, or maybe he told the lies to help him sleep better at night. I didn’t know how a mother like mine could’ve fallen for a man like him.
“You’re late,” Dad barked as I walked into RH Law Firm on Wednesday evening. I was ten minutes late, and he was already busting my ass about it.
“Only ten minutes,” I muttered. “There was traffic.”
“Ten minutes is still late. You’ll stay twenty minutes after to make up for it,” he huffed.
I wished I looked more like my mother, but I was a younger copy of father dearest. From his brunette hair to his crystal blue eyes, there was no way he could’ve ever denied being my father.
The resemblance was remarkable, except he wore thousand-dollar suits, and I wore some cheap tie he’d forced me to buy for the internship. I would’ve bought a clip-on if I could’ve found one. Dad would’ve had a heart attack about it, too.
After he scolded me about being late, I didn’t see him again the whole afternoon. He headed into his office and stayed there for the remainder of his night shift. It was like that every single time I came over to work at the firm. My father was a ghost, and I never even saw his shadows. That was okay with me, though. I was definitely a bigger fan of my mother.
She often texted me while I was at the firm, asking me how Dad was doing. Hell if I knew. My father hardly ever let anyone into his psyche. He had walls built so high, higher than mine, which was somewhat of a talent.
Working at the law firm was my least favorite way to keep my mind busy. Time moved slow there, and I felt as if I was on high alert whenever Dad’s secretary would go to his office and close the door behind him.
Her name was April, and she was nowhere near as beautiful as my mother.
I didn’t tell Mom about Dad’s activities, because I didn’t have any real proof that my father and April had ever done anything inappropriate, just my doubts about the kind of character my father possessed.
He seemed like the type who would cheat on his wife with his secretary.
Still, not enough evidence to ever tell Mom.
I finished up my pointless tasks at the office and headed out without saying goodbye to Dad. I doubted he even noticed or cared, but he did make sure his assistant stayed with me those extra twenty minutes.
Mom texted me a few times after I got home to check that things had gone okay at the firm. She knew I hated working there and told me I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to, but knowing my father, he’d come down hard on her if I quit. Mom already had a hard enough time with my father; she didn’t need me adding to her stress.
Mom: How was your father? Did he take you to dinner?
Me: Nope. Never does.
Mom: Was April working today?
Me: Yup.
Mom: Did she help your father a lot tonight? Did they seem close?
I knew what she was getting at, and I hated it. I hated how that April chick made Mom doubt herself. Her insecurities were so loud through the messages.
Me: She’s not you.
She waited awhile before responding.
Mom: I love you, love you, Land.
Me: You too, Mom. Night.
“What is this thing between the two of you?” Monica hissed, marching up to my locker on Thursday morning. She looked wild in the eyes and pissed off, but then again, it was Monica—she always looked wild in the eyes and pissed off.
“You’ll have to be more clear on who you’re talking about.”
“Little Miss Perfect and you—what’s the deal with this bet?”
Oh. Shay. Of course.
I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s just for laughs.”
“No one’s laughing,” she muttered. “I don’t even know why you would want to spend any of your time thinking about that annoying bitch.”
I smirked. “Oh really? Because at my party the other day it seemed like she was one of your closest friends, which prompted you to slap me repeatedly.”
“Whatever, I was drunk. Just drop whatever it is that’s going on between you two, okay?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did I miss the chapter of this messed-up book of ours where you get to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You owe me. You promised me you’d be there for me.”
I knew exactly the promise I’d made to Monica over a year ago, a promise to look after her whenever I could, and for the most part, I’d kept my end of the bargain. If she was low, I was there for her, but that didn’t mean I had to give up the small bit of life I had to give in to her ridiculous requests. Soon enough, we’d both be off to college anyway. She’d have to learn to stand on her own two feet.
Also, I’d made the promise when I was high as fuck. Promises made under the influence should be null and void.
“Listen, I promised to look after you, all right? And I’ve done that. When you need food, I get you food. When you’re fucked up, I help you sober up. But let’s be really clear about this: I am not yours to control, Monica. I’m going to do what—and who—I want, when
I want.”
She pursed her lips and eyed me up and down. “You’re really going to do this stupid bet with Shay Gable? Seriously? We hate her guts.”
Wrong. I hated her. Monica hated the way I hated Shay, as if my hatred was giving too much attention to another girl.
“It’s really none of your business what I do.”
She pushed her purse up on her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Landon. It’s not like she’d ever want to fall in love with someone like you, anyway. A person like her would never fall for trash.”
There it was, the insults. Right on time.
Then, she shoved me hard in the chest.
What the hell?
Was she drunk?
High?
It was ten in the morning. How was she already messed up at ten in the morning?
I took a breath and stepped away from her. It was too early to be dealing with her antics. I had hardly shaken off the exhaustion in my body from yet another night of only getting about an hour of sleep.
“Okay, Monica. I think we’re done here.”
I started walking off, and she shouted toward me. “Yeah that’s right—walk away! Walk away from the truth. I just hope you know you’re going to lose your stupid bet, because no one could love someone like you. You got those scars to prove just how unlovable you really are.”
My hands clenched together at her words, and I hated how she had the power to make my chest instantly light on fire. I didn’t respond to her, though. I didn’t look back in her direction, but she didn’t have to look me in the eyes to know her words burned. She knew how to hit me, where to strike to cause the most pain.
I skipped my next class. I went to the football field—which was covered in snow—without a jacket and stood underneath the bleachers to get away from everything, from everyone.
My chest was tight, and each breath I took in felt frozen like the Illinois air, harsh and intense.
I knew what was happening. I’d had my fair share of panic attacks over the past year. I knew there was no getting around it. Once my body decided it was going to fall apart, all I could do was allow it to crash.
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