Yellow || hs au

| 21 |

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My childhood home. It looks exactly the same it did before I moved to New York a few months back. And it looks the same as it has for the past eighteen years.

The American dream farm house. That's what I think of when I look at it. Tall, two stories with white paneling and light stained wood shutters around the windows. The pillars in the middle of the house are wrapped with garland and red bows, the door holding a large wreath and a light brown doormat that says welcome in in black cursive.

  The driveway is obnoxiously long, just like all of the houses on the block. The neighborhood screams 'stuck up rich people' who eat caviar or some shit. My parents.

I slowly make my way up the door steps, knocking on the front door before I slowly push open the door, peeking inside. It smells like pine trees and meatloaf.

"I'm home" I call out bluntly, cringing at my strained and tired voice. I'd spent a majority of the drive here crying. It's been four days since I left Harry's apartment, and each time I think about it, the more my chest aches.

"Hey Lucky." My father comes walking around the corner from the kitchen. Lucky. That stupid nickname he's always called me. Now he uses it to suck up to me.

I don't say anything as I close the door behind me, my father stepping forward to take my bag from my hand, his eyebrows furrowing at the lack of luggage.

"Hi." I breathe, slipping off my snowy shoes carelessly, my father staring at me intently. He's aged. His hair is salt and peppered now but he's still tall and lean and maintains the comb over. "I can take it." I mutter, my father nodding as he steps back, allowing me to walk through the entrance corridor and to the stairs.

The wooden stairs are just as creaky as I remember, however I forgot how fucking many steps there were, my legs practically aching by the time I've reached the second floor.

My bedroom is the same. Bare and stripped of anything that made it look like a teens bedroom. The sheets are white, along with the pillow cases and duvet. The desk in the corner in cream and bare. The walls are also an off white color. It's sad.

I had taken everything of my art supplies and the clothing from my closet when I moved. I told my parents to get rid of the rest. Seems as though they had no problem doing so either. Typical.

I drop my bag on the floor that is filled with a singular somewhat nice outfit for Christmas dinner, the rest of the clothes being sweatpants and too big t-shirts. And my sketchbook that I haven't touched in days.

I let out a short sigh as I move to sit on the edge of my old bed, glancing at my phone in my hands. I don't expect anything from him, I know he won't call and he sure as hell doesn't want me to call. But I miss him.

Maybe being here will be a good distraction from Harry and Cora. The last thing I need is having to sit alone in my apartment and cry about my problems. I miss Cora. Is it wrong that I miss her? Is it wrong that I miss Harry? I'm confused with my own feelings.

I shake my head at myself and set my phone on my bed, glancing out into the dark neighborhood. Everything is exactly as I left it. Lonely and painful. I hate it here. I want New York and Harry.

I quit my moping and return back downstairs, finding the table set for the three of us. It seats twelve but I don't remember the last time I've seen it full. My seat is the same. First seat on the right side next to my mom who sits at the head of the table, my father across from me.

"I'm glad you decided to come home, Lucky." My father speaks up, the sound of my mothers knife scratching across the China plate causes me to cringe. "Your mother is too."

"I can speak, Jonathan." My mother bites lowly. Her hair is down and straightened, her lips lathered with red lipstick. "I'm hoping your grades are next to perfect." My mother voices, her teeth chattering against the metal fork.

"Genevieve, give her a break about school." My father replies, my mother sending him a scolding look which he seemingly ignores and turns to me instead. "How are you, Clove?"

"Fine." I answer quietly, pushing the meatloaf around my plate. I hate meatloaf. I've taken a few bites from the mashed potato's that my mother seemed to mash with her knuckles seeing as there's nothing mashed about them.

"How's the art coming? You haven't sent any photos of your work recently." My father continues. I shrug my shoulders.

"No big project worth sharing yet." I mutter quietly, leaning my temple against my knuckles as I watch the meatloaf sit stiffly and dryly on my plate.

"And how's Coraline?" My mother asks. She seems more excited to simply hear about Cora than she is to see me after almost four months.

"She's good, doing well in nursing school." I answer. My mom wears a proud grin on her bright lips, nodding her head.

"I knew she would, she's so hard working. Very devoted to the nursing field." My mother nods, taking another bite from her food. I nod, seeing my father shake his head. "Any boys in your life yet, Clove?" My mother changes the subject. There's no way in hell I would tell my parents about Harry right now. Is he even in my life anymore? Was he at all?

"Genevieve." My father scolds.

"She's nearly nineteen, Jonathan. Grand babies are around the corner." She states, my father cringing just as hard as I do. My mother is obsessed with having grandchildren. She doesn't ever let the subject go un talked about.

"No. I'm focusing on art." I answer. My father nods his head approvingly while my mother just chews her food in a judging way, raising her eyebrows to herself. "I know that's kind of difficult for you to comprehend, but it takes a lot of focus to be a good artist." I rattle on, my mothers eyes snapping up to meet my own.

"We're not starting this." My father interjects immediately, my mother's jaw slack as she scoffs under her breath. "I'm tired of this mess between you two."

"You mean the three of us?" My mother snaps, my father clenching his teeth as he stares at my mother.

"Clover is obviously serious about her art, it's time we get behind her and show her our support, Gen." My father voices bravely and confidently, my mothers tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she nods, allowing her silverware to clatter onto her empty plate as she stands from the table and disappears to the kitchen.

"What, do you just all of a sudden support me and my decision?" I question, my father sighing as he leans back in his chair, staring at me from across the table.

"I believe that you can do whatever you put your mind to, Lucky. And if that's art, then thats what it is." He shrugs. I wet my bottom lip with my tongue as I stare back at him for a moment.

"Thanks." I nod, standing from my chair. My father motions to my plate causing me to hand it to him, not saying another words as I make my way upstairs for the night and probably the rest of this horrific break.

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Hiii happy update! Here's a short little filler chapter, I hope it was alright!
How are we doing? Feeling okay?

Much love
~C