COMPLICATED.

CHAPTER 2

FAMILY

The aroma of pancakes drifting through the air is an unmistakable sign: my father has taken command of the kitchen. He’s a wizard at the stove whenever he decides to play chef, and that scent is the only thing capable of softening my morning wake-up call.
​"Morning, sleepyhead! I heard you’ve already been giving your mother a hard time. Great job!" he exclaims, a conspiratorial smirk plastered on his face. "You can’t be the perfect girl all the time, Emma. How boring would that be, right?"
​"Henry, stop it!" my mother chides. "Emma, don’t listen to him. You’re wonderful just as you are, although... well, if you hadn't wasted time on the computer this morning, you’d be ready by now and..."
​"Yes, Mom, I get it. More punctual," I interrupt with an annoyed sigh. "I have to wait for Leo anyway. If we’re late, it’ll be entirely his fault."
​At the mention of "Leo," my father’s mood shifts instantly. I already know what’s coming. Three, two, one...
"That boy doesn't understand the concept of punctuality. He’s an idiot. And lately, he’s become even more insufferable than usual!"
​Deep down, he’s not entirely wrong. Leo has been strange lately. He’s grumpy, always has one foot out the door, and justifies it by saying the pressure for the final football game is crushing him. Being the quarterback has its price, but his nervousness is starting to weigh on me, too. We need to talk. Seriously.
​"I like him," Paul chimes in with a sly grin.
My father shoots an alarmed look at my mother. "Theresa, what is wrong with this child? He never agrees with anyone, and now he’s defending him?"
Mom turns to him, winking: "He’s his father’s son, Henry."
​He pulls her into an embrace, kissing her as if no time has passed at all. It’s incredible how they’re still so in love after all these years. Paul, obviously, doesn't share my romantic sentiment; he grabs his backpack and bolts for the door with a look of disgust.
"Mom! Dad! Get a room, gross!" he yells before disappearing outside.
​Suddenly, the phone vibrates in my hand. It’s him.
"Hey, babe," I answer.
"Are you ready? We’re already late! I have practice in fifteen minutes!" Leo’s voice is tense, sharp.
"Alright, alright! Take it easy, I’m coming out now."
​My father must have caught Leo’s tone, because he whispers "idiot" with such conviction that I burst out laughing despite myself. But the laughter is short-lived. His gaze turns serious, locking onto mine.
"Did you have that nightmare again?"
​I confessed everything to my father because I know he can understand me. When he was my age, he fought similar dreams, though he never explained what they really were.
"Yes, but not now. I’m late, let’s talk later," I reply dismissively.
​I practically bolt out of the house, leaving him on the doorstep with an expression full of worry. I’m sorry, Dad. But not now. My mind has already raced too much this morning, and for now, all I want to do is forget.