Page 83 of Spicy Ever After
He pauses, and a little ball of panic forms in my stomach.
“We need to meet him,” Dad says, looking determined.
The panic ball swells.
“We’ve had one date and scheduled a second. It’s way too early,” I argue, scowling.
Dad arches a brow. “Is it, now? I’m of a mind that too early is better than too late, but?—”
“No but,” I say loud and clear. “I shared this with y’all because Margaret said I should. Don’t make me regret sharing things with you guys.”
I can almost feel Margaret and Merrick lean in closer. Like they’re silently urging my parents to listen. And, man, am I glad they are here.
But then again, it was Margaret’s big idea to do this, so?—
“We don’t want you to regret sharing things, Hattie,” Mom says, giving a tight shake of her head. “But it’s more complicated than that.”
Complicated?
This confuses the hell out of me because, no lie, spending time with Beck—whether in person or texting or on the phone like we were for hours last night—feels like the least complicated thing I’ve ever done.
“Say more words,” I tell Mom. “You’re confusing me.”
Mom and Dad share a long look, but it’s Margaret who finally speaks.
“She deserves to know, guys. You’re not being fair.”
This is when the panic ball in my belly cracks open and searing hot fear gushes out.
“Kn-know what?”
Mom starts. “We have—” I watch her visibly swallow. “We’ve been putting this off for a long time.”
“P-putting what off?”
The certainty that this cannot be a good thing makes me want to call for help. And even though Margaret and Merrick are here, and I feel like they are here to support me, whatever this is about, they knew.
They knew and they didn’t tell me.
Margaret didn’t tell me.
And even though I’m in my home and surrounded by family who love me—and I know they really do love me—I’m so scared.
It’s stupid. It makes no sense, I know, but, God, I really wish Beck were here.
And it’s the thought of him—the recognition of how much I want him near me—that fractures my control, and the tears slip free.
My Dad’s face twists up. “Baby?—”
“D-don’t call me baby—” I gulp out. “I’m n-not a baby?—”
My face and neck are hot. I dash my knuckles across my eyes.
“That’s not what I mean,” Dad defends, shaking his head, looking like I’ve hurt him. And fuck, this is what I was afraid of.
Why is it so hard to talk to them? Why don’t they listen? Why haven’t they learned that the way they talk to me—the way they respond to my feelings—almost always makes everything worse, not better.
I mean, if they haven’t learned by now, will they ever?
