Demi Lovato Imagines

Stay

2014

"Have you got your toothbrush?!" your dad shouts up the stairs. Quickly, you get to your feet, scampering out your room and to the bathroom.

"Yep!"

It's new. And pink. You chose it yourself last weekend and have been brushing your teeth for an extra minute each morning and night because you like the colour so much. You toss your hairbrush in the bag as well.

"Coming?!"

"Yep!"

Down the hallway, down the stairs. Your dad is standing at the front door with his foot holding it open. He's wearing his blue baseball cap that he always put on when he drops you off.

"Ready, bub?" he smiles as you jump the last few steps to the bottom. He ruffles his fingers through your hair.

"YeahIthinkso," you mumble, sitting down to tie your laces. He waits patiently.

"You're going to pick me up on in two days though, right?"

"Always do," he nods, checking his watch again and unlocking the car from inside the house. You can tell he's in a rush but these shoes are tricky. You can't get your feet into them without loosening all the laces first. By the time you're done, he's already taken your bag and thrown it in the back of the car, standing at the front door waiting to lock it after you.

"Bye!" you shout back into the house with a dismissive wave. He laughs at you, at the strange things you do. It makes you feel all warm inside. But as soon as you slip into the car, you shiver, tucking your hands underneath your armpits. As your dad shifts into gear and eases out onto the road, it's silent.

"How many more times do I have to go?" you ask quietly. You don't feel your heart beat knocking against your ribs until you've said it. But now you can't ignore it.

"What do you mean?" he asks back. His beard is a bit longer than usual, more dark and rough. You like it like that though.

"How many more times do I need to go to mom's house?"

It's a question you've been thinking about a lot. There's a sheet of paper tucked under your mattress at home with a little line for each time you've spent the weekend at hers. You'll need to count again when you get back but you know it's a lot. It must be. Every other weekend since you were eight years old. That must be - like - a thousand times by now.

"I thought you liked going to your moms?" he says, making his eyebrows wiggle like a worm. Or a caterpillar. You just did a project on butterflies at school.

"Mmm," you hum, looking out the window. The leaves are all green just now.

"Hey," he says, "What's up?"

You huff, hauling your shoulders up then pushing them down again so he knows you're annoyed.

"I just don't like mom."

"Why?"

"'Cause she doesn't like me!"

He checks the rearview mirror before sliding out of the lane to overtake.

"What makes you say that?" he says, kind of loudly. "Course your mom loves you!"

"That's not what you said," you murmur, looking back out the window and twisting your arms further around yourself. Your muscles ache and there's a long stretch of nothingness.

"I never said your mom doesn't love you--"

"Yes, you did."

He sighs, and you almost want to flinch away in case he goes into one of his rages. But he never usually has one on the days he drops you off.