Gage Cilleti has just begun his junior year of high school, and is becoming more and more involved in his school's activities, considering he'd been playing baseball since he was just seven-years-old.
Elijah McCay has just dropped out of school, du...
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I feel as though I can't move. There I sit, on what was once my family's sofa, but it is now where my mother sleeps, seeing as she feels sick whenever she rests in she and my fathers bedroom. My mother hasn't spoken, not since I bulldozed through the front door, only to find my father standing there—looking so, so guilty.
He's talking, apologizing maybe, but I can't hear him. When I look at him, I don't see my father anymore. I don't see the man that would drive me to and from practice every single morning and night, the man who used to talk to me about boys and never once made me uncomfortable while doing so. And I definitely don't see the man whose marriage I've idolized since I was a kid.
While drowning his voice out, I look over to my mother. Our eye contact seems to be the last straw because she stands, and an argument begins. She's upset because he's here, after being kicked out indefinitely. And he's upset because I refuse to speak to him—and so does she.
"Daria, you don't get to keep him away from me! He is my son—"
"He's my son, too! You haven't spoken to him in an entire week—"
"I was giving the two of you some space, some time away from me!" I'm still as still and quiet as a statue, having trouble getting breaths in and out of my ragged chest. The tightening is back. But this time, it's worst than what I felt while with Rick.
My mother runs a hand through her dark hair, cheeks reddening. "He didn't need space, I did."
"Yes, I did," I finally break my silence, sitting uncomfortably on the sofa. My thumbs fidget with one another between my still thighs, my cheeks flaming red as rage courses through my veins. "I did need time."
My father looks over to me, an apologetic look tossed over his wrinkling features. I try not to let the look get to me. This wasn't my fault. This wasn't my mother's fault. It was his fault. He doesn't get to look at me like that—like it's breaking his heart that I haven't spoken to him.
Because he broke mine first. Finding out what he did to my mother broke my heart. More than Terrance. More than Elijah. More than Rick leaving. More than all of that other bullshit. And it was his fault.
He takes a step forward, hand reaching out. "Gage, please—"
"No. No, I can't talk to you right now, Abba. I can't do this," I let my words hang adrift. He and my mother stare at me. They stare as though waiting for me to say something else. "I've just had one of the best nights in my entire life, and I won't let you come back and ruin it."
"I'm not trying to ruin your night, I swear. I just need you to listen to me—"
"And what we need is for you to leave." I say the words firmly. I've never demanded anything from my father, because I knew better. I knew better than to raise my voice and disrespect him. But nothing was the same anything. So, the same rules no longer applied.
I know that my mother agrees with me because she doesn't say anything, she bends down and receives an overnight bag that I hadn't even seen before, and shoved into my fathers chest. "Here," he startles, lips parting in surprise and devastation. "Please leave, Yusuf."
When he slings the bag over his shoulder, I follow him to the door, making sure that he doesn't turn and try and speak to my mother on his way out. Once we've stepped out, I shut the door firmly behind us.
When he notices this, he shakes his head in clear disappointment. "What?" I snare, "do you want to make her watch as you walk away? Again?"
He doesn't speak for the next few moments, his head reaching into his pocket to retrieve his car keys. "Gage, please, I just want the two of us to talk. Just for a second. I miss you, you're my son."
I part my lips to say something smart, but clamp them shut again when the urge to sob overwhelms my entire being. Crossing my arms, I turn away from him so can't see the stray tears falling down my tanned cheeks.
"I have no interest in sitting and having a conversation with you. Not anymore." My father nods his head understandingly, legs making their way over to that same car that he would drop me off at school in every day.
I push down the urge to leap into my fathers arms.
Before sliding into the driver seat, he turns to me, hand reaching out for my shoulder and planting it there. I resist the compulsive urge to shove him off.
Compose yourself, Gage. Making a scene won't do anybody any good. Especially mom.
"Just . . . I really hope that you know that no matter what's happening between me and your mom—you can always call me if you need anything. Anything at all, alright?" I don't respond, shooting him a blank stare that's hopefully reminding him that his words mean absolutely nothing to me anymore.
Eventually getting the hint, he slides into his car, starting the steady engine and pulls away.
I finally stop resisting the tears, pulling my shirt over my face and concealing the sobs that begin to erratically leave my lips. My chest heaved up and down without warning, a dry cry leaving my throat. I push open my front door abruptly, forgetting to close it behind me and running up to my bedroom.
My mother calls out after me, me sidestepping her along the way.
I bulldoze into my bedroom, locking the door behind me and collapsing onto my bedspread. I cry harder than I've ever cried before, my head beginning to swell and pulse from the oncoming tears.
Giving my father the cold shoulder was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And acting like it wasn't, was even harder. I missed him so much—but I knew that I wasn't ready to forgive him yet. And I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if my mother assumed that I was picking him during the inevitable divorce.
Because I would never. Ever.
The tears eventually subside and I pull myself out from beneath my covers and check the time. During my fit of sobs, I hadn't even noticed that the sun had begun to set. And it was now the middle of the night.
I pull open my bedroom door as quietly as possible, tiptoeing down the wooden staircase. My heart pierces in my chest when I see my mother asleep on the sofa curled up with Toro, an old romcom playing in the background.
I walk back up the stairs, and back into my bedroom. When I reach my bathroom I pull back the shower curtain, ready to wash away the tenseness that rested in my shoulders. Standing beneath the heated water seemed to ease my nerves the slightest bit.
Well, it was enough for me to want to sneak out without permission. Again. I knew that if my mother ever found out she'd be mad but I mean, I really needed this. Just a little me time. Away from this godforsaken house that's almost half empty now.
I quickly dry myself and pull a warm pair of sweatpants up my legs, followed by tossing a dark colored sweatshirt over my head. I slip my feet into a pair of tennis shoes, and pull open my bedroom window. With my house being a two-story home, hopping from my bedroom and onto the driveway would be tough—but it wasn't anything I'd never done before.
Once my feet hit the pavement I let out of a raspy breath, feeling the strong wind run itself through my untied curls. I stick my hands into my pockets, after pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head.
