Chapter 18 Halfway Gone #2
I try to stay healthy, but how could I possibly guarantee that I’ll be this size forever?
“Gross. Why would I eat greasy delivery pizza?” he scoffs.
“You like pizza from Simms. He’s just being considerate.”
“I never eat this early.”
“I don’t think your meal schedule is on his radar. Lighten up. He just offered.” My skin chills as soon as the words leave my mouth.
That was probably strike one, and I don’t know how many I get.
“This is why the United States is the most obese country …” he begins his monologue.
“What the heck is your problem? All he did was offer to include us. He probably forgot you don’t work tonight and thinks he needs to hurry before you leave.” That may have been strikes two and three.
I’m losing patience. I have nothing left.
“I am working tonight, thank you. I don’t have anyone taking care of my expenses,” he snaps. Where did THAT come from? I did get help, but I didn’t ask for it. And I didn’t tell him about it for this exact reason.
I can’t win.
The basement door opens, and Jackson yells down the stairs, “Hey, I have ten minutes to put in this order before my next meeting. Do you want anything or not, Nate? Lu Lu?”
“No, thanks, Jacks! I’m good!” I holler up the stairs, drawing an accusatory look from Nathan.
“Lu Lu? Jacks? Jackson calls you Lu Lu now?” He bolts up, grabbing the TV remote, hurling it just left of my head and into the wall. “Figures you’d have something going on with my brother too.” His eyes shoot to my phone vibrating in my pocket.
“One of your other boyfriends?”
My face heats, and my heart pounds. It could be anyone … Alex, Joey, Annie, Jace, Sam. One of my sisters. Jude.
I feel trapped. Guilty. This is all my fault. Why did I come here?
“Well, go on, let’s see who it is,” he taunts.
Why am I terrified? I haven’t done anything wrong.
Sure you have. You spend time with other guys. All the time.
I don’t like this inner voice at all.
“What’s the matter? Caught you, didn’t I?” he sneers.
I tip my phone out of my pocket, glancing at the message.
Jackson: Everything ok? Let me know if you need help. I know how he can be.
Relief.
“It’s just Jackson asking if everything’s okay,” I say casually, trying not to sound intimidated.
He looks at me with disgust and maybe a little fear. “You text each other? Why would he think you’re not okay? What have you said about me?”
“We exchanged numbers because he boosted my car. You told me to call him! We don’t talk any other time,” I defend. Why wouldn’t he want me to have Jackson’s number? I have his sister’s and his mom’s numbers too.
A series of thuds like a tornado falling down the stairs is my only warning before I’m attacked by a giant blond wiggly floof.
“Murray! Hey, buddy!” Never have I ever been so happy to have my face licked.
Giant paws land on my shoulders, and I stumble back a step before I find my bearings to support his weight. It’s not unlike a Sammy hug.
He’s the perfect distraction. Nathan storms up the stairs, shouting and swearing at Jackson.
“Keep your stupid monster dog out of my space. I don’t want dog hair on everything I own. And stay out of my business! Why the hell are you texting my girlfriend? You have no idea how much pressure I’m under right now!”
My stomach lurches when he says girlfriend.
No.
“Maybe if you didn’t knock up your one-night stand and live in the basement like a teenager, you wouldn’t feel so much pressure,” Jackson responds.
I’m filtering out the four-letter words, but good point, Jackson. Nathan calls him a few names—a bold choice since he’s living under his roof.
Chairs scrape across the floor followed by clattering when something smacks a wall and falls to the ground. The yelling’s hard to make out, but my skin turns clammy when I hear my name.
I can’t tell if I’m hot or cold, and I can’t take a deep breath.
I hate screaming.
I hate how Nathan peacocks around the older church ladies like a prodigal returned, but screeches and swears like a deranged psycho in private.
More than anything, I hate unpredictable outbursts, walking on eggshells, and wondering what inconsequential thing he’ll lose his mind over next.
It’s too familiar.
I’m running my hand through Murray’s wavy fur again and again while he licks my leg and sniffs my shoes. I’ve never had a dog, but I love this guy. I’m glad he’s here.
“You didn’t know you signed up to be my emotional support dog today, did you, big guy?” He pops his head up and tilts it to the side like he’s questioning my sanity.
This has to end now. My eyes burn, forming a few tears, but it’s more from defeat than sadness.
These tears feel different. These are the kind where my heart goes numb and I finally let go.
I grab a tissue from the box on his dresser when I notice a brochure for a small beach cottage resort in Gulf Shores. I love the beach, but I’ve only been once, back when I was a kid.
Was he planning a trip for us? Too little too late, if he was.
I flip through the brochure and realize this is where he went when he needed to get away two weeks ago.
I understood his reasons, but it hurt since he never makes plans for us and he wouldn’t tell me where he was going.
He’s refused dinner, movies, concerts, and even short road trips other than family events. His family.
He says we’re not in a position to waste money and there’s no reason for us to travel together if I won’t sleep with him. I flinch at that thought as the full meaning settles in my gut.
I’m not worth the money if he doesn’t get anything out of it.
Nice.
I slide down the wall to the floor, looking at some cards that fell out of the brochure. Murray takes that as an invitation to flop down and rest his head in my lap.
They’re business cards from the resort office and one from a bar with room numbers written on them … and girls’ names and phone numbers on the back.
It finally hits me why Nathan gets so many texts from unsaved numbers. He always claims they’re wrong numbers, which I never questioned other than to wonder why he didn’t block them.
The messages always seemed oddly specific when he’d show them to me, not that I asked, but this is enough to put all the pieces together. It’s like he preplanned a defense just in case. I’m a little dazed, and I feel nauseated.
The yelling dies down, and I pat Murray’s head, encouraging him to stand up so I can. I leave the brochure and cards on the floor so Nathan can see for himself that I found them.
When he comes back downstairs, my ears are ringing and I feel like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
“Get back up there! You smelly mutt.” I flinch when he stomps toward Murray and chases him back up the stairs. “Shut the door and keep him up there!” he screams at Jackson.
He drops back to his bed, and I just stand here.
Lost.
I’m not sure how I got here, physically or mentally.
His eyes shift to me. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
His words aren’t harsh, but they sure aren’t warm and fuzzy.
“Everything. I can’t do this,” I say, sniffling. He reaches out and pulls me to the side of the bed, hugging me to him without getting up.
“I’m stressed out, okay? But it doesn’t affect you.
You can still do whatever you want, so I don’t know why you’re upset.
You’re fine.” He rubs my back, but his words don’t solve anything, and his touch is less than welcome.
“Don’t cry. Your face gets all red and puffy, and it’s not attractive at all.
You already smell like the dog.” He scoots over and pulls me onto the bed next to him.
Did he not throw something at me ten minutes ago? And I wish I could say it was the first time. I don’t know how to make him listen without making him explode, but I need to get away.
Sitting next to him isn’t comforting. Every part of me recoils, and his touch is making me sick. He wants me to get over it, but I want … nothing.
I want it to end.
If I bring up the brochure and phone numbers, he’ll be angry that I snooped through his stuff.
I don’t even care. I just don’t know how to break up.
He’s going to demand reasons so he can shift the blame.
He’ll claim they were contacts for the front desk or room service or some other nonsense.
Or he’ll turn it back on me and bring up my friends, specifically, Jude.
My conscience would’ve been clear until this week and maybe one night six weeks ago when I was too distraught to go home and thought we were done.
But it won’t matter. I’ll be at fault because I don’t hide who my friends are, just how much I’ve needed one of them lately.
What happened in Gulf Shores will have to remain a mystery, because asking would set off a fit of rage, and I’m not falling for that. He has me trained not to question anything he does.
Oh.
Ohhhh, my goodness, that’s it. Just like Dad. How could I let this happen?
I want out.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn my head to face him. He leans in as if a kiss should solve all our problems, but I don’t want this. I don’t want him.
I want to feel safe.
I want to be understood.
I want to feel the way I feel when I’m with Jude.
But mostly, I want the strength to walk away.
Before I can move, he tries to kiss me, pressing hard, making my insides churn. His hand slips under my shirt, gently rubbing my back at first, but it quickly becomes a cheap move rather than a sweet caress when his hand slides into the gap of the waistband of my loose shorts.
He tries for a feel like some high school kid, or maybe exactly like a twenty-five-year-old who already has one girl knocked up.
Finally, something snaps, and my brain reconnects to my body.
I’m done.
“Stop it! Stop!” I push him away, my stomach threatening to revolt. “I don’t want this. I’m leaving.”
“Of course you are. You want me to make you feel better, but you won’t let me touch you. Normal people hug, kiss, and have sex, Lucy! You better figure out what your problem is because you’re not normal,” he says as I walk to the door. “It’s probably because of your weird family. You need therapy!”
Thankfully, he doesn’t even stand as he yells.
“Maybe. But I’m done.” I don’t think he understands the finality of what I am telling him, but I can’t have another pointless argument.
I’m about to be sick.
I race out the door and drop to my knees, vomiting in the grass near my car, purging the last of whatever hold he had over me.
The bottle of water Jace gave me yesterday is still in my cupholder. It’s warm but good enough to swish my mouth. I’ll stop to brush my teeth later.
Without another thought, I begin the three-hour drive to Cookeville. Jackson texts me something, but I can’t look now.
Music on. Brain off.