Chapter Twelve
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Sarelia
“I’m still in the state,” I answer. “Don’t worry.”
“In the state?” he worries anyway. “How far away are you that ‘in the state’ seems like an appropriate answer? You’re not at Colleen’s house?”
Colleen is an acquaintance I sort of kind of like from the job I had before I was making money from my books. I like her well enough, but we’ve never hung out outside of that job, and I’ve certainly never gone to her house, despite Dad’s hopeful dreams that I was making myself a lifelong friend.
“I’m not at Colleen’s house,” I tell him. “I have never been at Colleen’s house. I will never be at Colleen’s house. You have to let the Colleen thing go.”
He grunts. “I just want what’s best for you,” he insists.
“Which, by the way, is not you being off in some random part of the state after leaving home in a huff, crying and carrying on because your mom and I wanted to offer you help. Do you have any idea how worried you’ve made us?
Your mother is in pieces, thinking you’ve died.
You know how she is. You couldn’t have called?
Sent a text to let us know you were okay? Did you want us to worry like this?”
Shame hits me square in the chest, followed quickly by irritation.
“Of course I didn’t want you to worry,” I reply.
“You’re right, though. I should have known that I would worry you.
I should have thought about what you guys would be feeling.
” Even if they so rarely think about my feelings.
Still. Bigger person. Trying. “I apologize. I wasn’t ready to speak to you guys, but that doesn’t mean it was okay for me to be inconsiderate like that.
I should have texted to let you know that I’m safe. ”
He sniffs. “Yes, you should have.”
Not exactly an “I forgive you,” is it?
“I am safe, though,” I assure him through a forced smile. “I’m in a safe place with safe people that I trust. You guys don’t need to worry.”
“We don’t need to worry?” he repeats, voice rising. “Our only daughter has run away to who-knows-where with who-knows-who, and we don’t need to worry?”
“That’s Sarelia?” I hear Mom ask in the background. “She’s not dead?”
“She’s not dead,” he grumbles. “She’s just off ‘in the state’ with ‘people she trusts,’ whatever that means.”
My teeth grind painfully against each other. “It means,” I cut in, “that I am a grown adult who can make her own choices about where she goes and with whom and when.”
“You keep saying that,” he replies. “That you’re a grown woman who can make her own choices, but then you make the most confounding ones, and you won’t let us help you. What are we supposed to think, Lia? What are we supposed to do?”
Oh, I don’t know, trust me? Support me? Let me make my own choices, whether they’re mistakes or not?
I don’t say any of that, though, because I know where that leads. It leads to me on a park bench being handed a handkerchief by a stranger in a Hawaiian shirt, and I can’t risk another kidnapping. I’m already exactly where I want to be.
“Who is she with, anyway?” Mom inquires into my silence. “Is it Colleen?”
“It’s not Colleen,” I sigh. “I’m with Archie. Pine.”
“Archie? Who’s Archie?”
I scowl. What does he mean who’s Archie?
“Archie Pine?” Mom asks. “That boy she has taped up all over her bedroom? She goes missing, nearly dies, and she’s still talking about him?”
Goodness gracious. “I did not nearly die,” I protest. Sure, I was kidnapped, but Stone was very respectful and non-threatening, and Archie has been nothing but focused on my safety and happiness.
“You’re with the boy on your walls?” Dad asks. “That famous internet boy?”
“Archie’s a man,” I inform him. “And yes. I’m with him.”
“She says she’s with the boy from the walls,” Dad tells Mom. “Did you know she knew that boy? I thought he was just in those videos.”
“I think she met him at one of those conventions she’s always going to,” Mom replies. “You know, the ones with those people in those suits.”
“My conventions don’t have furries,” I groan. “Not that there would be anything wrong if they did, but they don’t. They just have CubeCraft people.”
“She says there’s no furries,” Dad repeats. “Just this boy and his friends.”
“She always says that, but I’ve seen online. I know about the furries.”
“Anyway!” I proclaim. “I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m safe, I’m not too far away, and I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“When’s she coming home?” Mom asks. “I have a pot roast in the oven. Is she coming home for pot roast?”
Of course. Not dead? Have some pot roast. Then, while your mouth is stuffed full of delicious home-cooked food, I’ll deliver your guilt trip for making me think you were dead.
No, thank you.
“I’m not coming home,” I tell Dad. “I’ve moved out.”
Several beats of silence meet this news.
“What?” Mom asks. “What’d she say?”
Dad clears his throat.
I gulp.
“She said she’s not coming home,” he parrots. “Says she’s moved out.”
Predictably, Mom does not like this information. She moves through four of the five stages of grief while my father says nothing, his loud breathing the only proof I have that he’s still on the line.
My phone buzzes while Mom wrestles with anger, and her curses play background noise as I open the text from Fred.
Freddie: I didn’t know she even knew half of these words. Not gonna lie, I’m kind of impressed.
Lia: This isn’t funny. This is a disaster.
Freddie: And who set that system up?
Lia: Uh… them? I just wanted to retire in peace.
Fred has no reply for that, I guess, because he does not text me back before Mom finishes her sailor cosplay.
I make an attempt at ushering her into acceptance via Dad, but he refuses to do more than sigh, so it goes nowhere.
Around Mom’s fifth or sixth burst of swearing, I decide that I should just rip the Band-Aid off fully to save me from more of this in the future.
“Also,” I announce, “I’m married.”
Dad ceases breathing.
Mom’s explicit tirade cuts short, replaced with, “What? What? What’s she said now?”
“She needs committed,” Dad whispers. “She’s gone off the rails.”
One could argue he is correct. And yet, I find his conclusion offensive. “I got married. I didn’t have a manic episode and tell everyone I’m a prophet.”
“She says she’s married,” he chokes. “Married!”
The phone shuffles, and suddenly I’m speaking to my mother directly. “Married!” she screeches. “You got married? Your dad’s right. Forget the rails, you’re off your rocker.”
“Getting married is a perfectly normal thing for a woman to do,” I reply. “And Archie’s a very good husband. You guys will like him.”
“Archie? You married that internet boy?”
“I married the wildly successful and professional CubeCraft Youtuber,” I reply, gritting my teeth.
Mom makes a low, knowing sound that puts me on edge.
“What?” I ask. “What’s that for?”
“Is this the ‘retirement plan’ you were talking about?” she asks. “The one you told us was ‘solid, well researched, and sustainable’?”
My mouth opens, shuts, opens, then shuts again so painfully I wonder dimly if I should set up an appointment with my dentist to make sure I haven’t cracked anything.
My whole face protests, eyes watering and nose stinging.
Whether it’s protesting the abuse of my teeth or the abuse of my character is anyone’s guess.
“You believe,” I say slowly, hoping the words will transform into deceit as they leave my tongue, “that I, Sarelia Elowen Prim, married my celebrity crush in order to use him for his money so that I never have to work again?”
“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” she asks, defensive.
An angry, hot tear falls from the corner of my eye.
“You’re supposed to think exactly what I told you,” I grit.
“You’re supposed to think ‘Wow, my daughter is so responsible, smart, and good with her money. She’s taken her writing career and made it profitable enough to have money to invest, then invested well enough that she’s able to retire at such a young age.
It’s amazing how the little baby I once nursed has turned into a woman any mother should be proud of. ’”
“I should be proud of you running away and marrying some man your father and I have never met?” she retorts, missing my point completely.
My shoulders droop.
“At the very least, you should trust me. I’ve never lied to you.
I’ve never lied to Dad. I’ve never shown myself to be a person with bad judgment, either, but both of you treat me like…
like… like I couldn’t screw a lightbulb in correctly if I tried, and that when I messed it up, I’d lie about it to cover up my own stupidity.
I’m not dumb, I’m not irresponsible, and I’m not a liar. ”
Mom tsks. “No one is calling you dumb, Sarelia. No one thinks it, either. We just worry you’re not thinking through all of these decisions you’re making.
Like this guy—were you two dating before this?
How long have you known him? Why haven’t you introduced him to us if it’s such a good idea to marry him?
And if he doesn’t have anything to do with your retirement thing, then why did you have to marry him now, without any of your family there? ”
Disappointment bolts through me. Her questions have merit. Of course they do, they’re the questions of a mother worried that her daughter is going down the wrong path—worried that she’s making mistakes it will be hard to come back from.
And yet.
I think of Archie’s family. I think of how they don’t know me at all, but Archie said we were getting married, and they moved, making it happen immediately.
They didn’t question his judgment on the matter.
They trusted him, and they respected him, and they loved him.
And, sure, he says they were afraid of him a little, too, but they didn’t seem afraid to me.
They seemed… happy. To celebrate him and his joy.
I just wish my parents could be that way, too.
I’m happy. Why can’t they be happy for me?
Another tear falls, though not as hot. “You guys can meet him,” I offer, unsure what else to say. “Soon. He’s really… he’s wonderful, Mom. You’ll see. You’ll like him.” Probably more than they seem to like me, even. Maybe they’ll be happy for him.
She sighs. “We’d like to meet him immediately. Then we can talk to both of you about this decision.”
Yippie. “I’ll ask him when a good time is,” I promise, then sniffle while trying not to sound like I’m sniffling, because the last thing I want Mom to know is that she’s reduced me to tears when I’m trying to give Responsible Adult.
Nothing screams I’m a baby! quite like crying every time you have a disagreement with your parents.
“You know we love you, right?” she asks after several seconds of us both listening to me pretend not to cry. “We just want what’s best for you.”
“I know,” I confirm dully. “And I love you guys, too.”
“Sarelia,” she mollifies.
Ah. A tone shift into placating but also somehow guilt triping, meaning we’re now in the portion of the conversation where I am supposed to comfort her so she doesn’t feel bad about the things she’s said to me or how she’s said them.
I believe I’ll take this as my cue to leave. “I have to go. I’ll let you know about when we can arrange a visit. Tell Dad I love him, and give Fred a noogie for me.”
“Sare–”
“I have to go,” I repeat, interrupting her. “I love you. Bye, Mom.”
She hesitates, then bids me goodbye. “Let me know when we can meet him.”
I mumble an agreement, then hang up.
Tick, tick, tick.
“Don’t talk to me,” I grumble. “I’m mad at you.”
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Yeah, well, it’s not the one who just had to have that conversation, now is it?
I sniff, then reach for a stack of dainty, vintage pink handkerchiefs on the back edge of my desk. The Pine family, it seems, is against the use of disposable tissues.
As I pat away my tears, I can’t say I think they’re wrong. The vision of me dressed in my best princess dress sitting in my very princess room dabbing at my face with a lacey, soft handkerchief has me thinking they’re significantly on the side of right, in fact.
I smile through the next tap tap, adding an extra-princessy flair to my movements, then snort.
The clock ticks.
My eyes narrow at it, then widen. “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was!” I squeak. “Letting me chase morale when I’m running late. Are you kidding me?”
Chimes replace ticks just as a knock sounds at my door, making me jump.
“My princess?” Archie calls through the thick wood. “Family meeting time!”
“You’re the worst clock ever,” I hiss as I drop my hankie and gather my lists.
The clock, predictably, tocks.
Rude.
When I reach the door, I take a deep breath, send up a hopeful wish that I won’t look like I was crying, paste a smile on my face, then turn the knob.
“I did it!” I declare, pulling the door back to see Archie’s perfect, beautiful, amazing, mischievous face.
“I did my homework, thus not irreparably disappointing you! Yet, anyway. You still have to read the goals.” I frown, glancing at my papers.
“They… might not line up with your goals for us, and then you might be irreparably disappointed that I would dare to ever have a goal outside of what you think is best, because obviously you know best. And obviously it would be insane of me to think otherwise. And… um… maybe we do your goals first?” I push my gaze toward his and bite my lip.
“Do you mind? I’d like the chance to edit. ”
Archie’s brows furrow, and his eyes narrow on mine.
Panic hits my bloodstream.
Is he going to make me go first? Sans editing? Unfiltered Sarelia bursting forth in horrendously wrong marital desires?
I clutch the lists to the vicious beating of my chest. “Archie?”
His hand shoots out to pinch my chin almost painfully, twisting my face one way, then the other before forcing it back center, barely inches away from his.
“Who made you cry?” he asks, the words ripping from his chest like a storm about to burst.
Ah.
My shoulders drop. I guess my wish was not granted.
“I’m okay,” I say, bringing a hand to his wrist.
This was the wrong answer.
Thunder rumbles in his throat, and his hand slips from my chin to grip my neck. “Who. Made. You. Cry?” he repeats, each word a strike of lightning between us.
My eyes flutter closed, unbidden.
It was a stupid wish, anyway. Why would I have wanted to prevent Archie seeing me post-cry when he responds like this.
This might even be better than a touch-her-and-die.
“Sarelia.” His fingers flex against my skin, biting. “Answer me.”
Scratch that, this is way better than a touch-her-and-die.
Morale forthcoming, I lean into his touch.