Jessie Kensington thought she had escaped her troubled past when she faked her death and started a new life as Violet Arrowood. But three years later, she finds herself at Vanguard University on a scholarship, trying to build the future she always d...
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I've been washing my lunch plate for the past ten minutes. Before that, I was drinking a Coke for fifteen minutes. Before that, I was eating a sandwich for thirty minutes, a packet of chips, and a pink sparkly cupcake that I'm pretty sure was my sister's and I would be mocked into my fifties if anyone ever saw me eating it.
I've been in this damn kitchen for an hour, hoping that my mum would come downstairs and do that whole motherly psychic thing she does sometimes—ask me what's wrong or tell me what's wrong so I don't have to bring it up myself. Mum always said the men in our family had trouble expressing our feelings. She said I take after my dad in very few things, but bottling up our emotions is one thing we share. But despite me wasting time in here, she hasn't come downstairs, and the last sixty minutes have shown me that I, Tyler Conners, am a fucking pussy.
Because fuck me, I don't know what's wrong with me. Then I remember mum texting me last night, asking if I was staying here or at my dorm. I didn't do either, but she doesn't need to know that. Georgie's been in bed all day, so I bet that's why mum was messaging me so late—she must've been up with her all night.
I roll the glass I'm about to wash in my hands and hate myself for what I'm about to do. The shatter of glass rings through the house, and so does the sound of my masculinity crumbling.
"Tyler!" Mum's voice echoes as I scramble to get the dustpan and broom. Her angry footsteps get louder and louder.
"What did you break?!"
"Just a glass, sorry."
"Did you cut yourself?"
I sigh. "I can handle a cut, Mum. I'm not five anymore." Says the grown-ass man who just broke a glass to get his mum to come talk to him. #Goals #Amazing #Growth
I take my time sweeping up the glass, piece by piece, carefully brushing it into the pan.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, why?" I try to sound too nonchalant.
"You have the look of a wounded puppy on your face," she teases, "or like that time you had the flu and I made you miss your football game—" Her face falls.
"You're not sick, are you?!" Mum rushes over, practically slapping her hand against my forehead. I hold back a sarcastic reply—like, of course I wouldn't come home if I were sick. Even though I visit often, I moved out when I was seventeen, spending my time dating, travelling for football games, and generally avoiding anything that could jeopardise Georgie's health. That rule has been ingrained in me since her diagnosis.
"I'm fine, Mum," I snap, but she stands there, scrutinising me with that intense stare that makes me uncomfortable. She looks exhausted, her skin pale and her frame too thin. I wonder how long she's been like this while I've been too wrapped up in my own world to notice. "Have you eaten today?" I ask.
"I had a coffee earlier," she dismisses the question. "But tell me, what's going on with you?"
I ignore her and start making a sandwich for her, just like the one I had earlier. She watches me in silence. I slide the plate over to her, and she thanks me with that warm, proud smile I only see during rare good moments, like when I play football or Georgie has a good day.
