Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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Family is hard. Everyone hates theirs. Everyone thinks that there's something their parents did wrong - I mean when they're an adult, because when we're kids, our parents are everything. The sun, the moon, the stars, they all revolve around the schedule of our mom's 9-5. And I mean a normal mom's 9-5, because mine never had one.
I suppose the question on everyone's mind - i.e. the King family, is what the hell is wrong with my family. Everytime anyone even remotely leans in that direction, Erik has the cross between a conniption and stroke. By the third helping of dinner, people realized not to say a word about where I grew up.
That doesn't stop them from wondering though; and I'm sure in their minds they've created some sort of story for me. Maybe it's nice and normal and I just didn't get along with my parents and we're taking a break. Maybe my mom's narcissistic and made my whole childhood about her. Maybe my dad's an alcoholic and I hate men that drink.
All of them are plausible, none are the truth.
The truth is hard and sometimes uglier than we expect. Unlike in a picture book sold in stores, there are no true villains or heroes; everyone has the potential to be good or bad depending on the way you're holding the paper.
I'm sure to some people I may be a villain; someone that doesn't realize just how lucky they are. The thing about luck? It always runs out. And I am neither delusional nor on anti-psychotics, so I don't need to tell you that I'm not an exception. I am the rule. And the rule is that the other shoe will always drop.
"You getting ready for bed soon?" Erik wonders, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head. If he keeps doing that, I'm gonna start charging him a holding fee. And I don't mean some bullshit one that the library charges to punish the reckless that request a book and never pick it up. I'm talking some serious reserved a table at some fancy ass restaurant and never showed up.
Do they charge a holding fee? I don't know. I don't frequent those places. But you get the point.
"Yeah." I answer, ripping my eye sockets away from where they've been practically piercing a picture of the King family at their summer house. Or one of their summer houses. Everyone is seriously ripped or bodacious and it makes me wonder where the hell I would fit into that picture? The flat pancaked one? Oh yeah, that's Erik's girl.
Doesn't exactly roll of the tongue, you know?
"What's on your mind?" Erik asks me, taking a turn away from generic romance novel stereotypes and being the one that wonders too much; worries too much? Then again, I do both as well. Maybe cares too much is the right term? Usually it's the woman fawning and falling all over for the man - not the other way around.
"Nothing." I answer, because as we've previously discussed, the truth is hard. "Just tired." And that, my imaginary friends, is a bold-faced lie. I did wake up at 4:00am this morning - and stay in bed an extra hour due to some serious shenanigans brought to you by the King himself. But I am about as tired as a college student that just downed five energy drinks: suppressing it and in denial.
