Peyton Church is a city girl by anyone's standards. Born and raised in New York City, she grew up wanting for nothing. She attended the most prestigious preparatory schools, shopped on Fifth Avenue, dined with the rich and famous and was adored by...
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THE MIDDLE OF the week has never been a favorite of mine. Tuesday through until Thursday is just an irritating stretch of time that keeps the next weekend at bay. And, surprise, surprise, this week may go down as one of the worst.
I'm careful to slam the door gently when I get home. The bones of the house tend to rattle if I take out all of my irritation on the old door. I'm barely inside before my mother is calling, and I wince.
"Peyton? Can you come here please?"
I toe off my Keds and kick them into a corner before following her voice to the kitchen. It smells like Yaya's cooking, and my angry stomach grumbles, making my cramps feel even worse. Stupid PMS.
"How was work?" Mom asks when I pull out a chair and collapse into it. She's cleaning the counter with a bemused smile.
I'm not bemused. "Everyone was loud, and I would like to rip my ovaries out," I reply. "Did Yaya leave leftovers?"
As if on cue, the microwave beeps and Mom pulls out a plate full of delicious smelling food. "She said she was sorry you couldn't make it, and hopes you enjoy this," she tells me, setting the plate down in front of me and taking a seat across from me with her cup of tea.
I dig in, stabbing a piece of chicken with a fork rather aggressively.
Hunter had been teasing me about my "cranky" attitude all day. But he'd also brought me a mocha and cookies this morning, and spent the entirety of our lunch break rubbing gentle circles on my lower back. Not to mention he'd put up with my bipolar affection throughout the day. I could've kissed him or killed him all day. But he'd brushed it off, smiled, and reminded me there'd be no more goodies from his mom if I dumped him in a ditch somewhere.
Mom manages to grab my attention away from my late dinner by clearing her throat quietly. She never does that. I look up just in time to see her blank expression.
"Your father called," she says flatly. Metaphorical crickets chirp, and she takes a long sip of her tea.
A muscle in my cheek twitches as I do my best not to grimace. Setting down my fork carefully, I take a deep breath. "And?" I ask calmly.
She looks at me over the lip of her mug. "He's been trying to get ahold of you."
Of course he has. But I wouldn't know, seeing as I'd blocked any and all New York numbers on my phone— starting with my father's. Long distance charges are a bitch, and I have to pay my own phone bill, thank you very much.
Oh yeah, and I don't want to talk to him.
"That's unfortunate," I tell her, pushing my chair back. I get up, making my way to the fridge to look for a drink.
