Move on?
“Yes. Perhaps it’s time for you to move out and spread your wings. You went to Vegas, you got drunk, and you got married. And from what you’re saying, you didn’t get an annulment, which would’ve been the responsible thing to do as soon as you got back to school, but you didn’t. For whatever reason, you’re dragging your feet. I don’t know why, but there must be something about this boy that you like enough not to separate from him.”
She’s absolutely right of course; she usually is. But just because I haven’t gone and gotten an annulment yet doesn’t mean I’m attached to Ashley in some way that would make me want to stay married to him at twenty-two years old. It’s not like I’m purposely putting it off, am I?
“Do you want me to move out?”
Mom shrugs casually…coldly. Pulling an expression I’ve never seen on her before.
“You’re married. You should go figure your life out. You have a husband somewhere and you’re sitting in my living room, wallowing.” She stands, brushing her hands on the front of her jeans. “How does thirty days sound? That’s what most landlords give their tenants.”
Tenants? “I don’t pay rent.”
“Exactly,” Mom says as she leaves the room.
I am at a loss.
Too stunned to say anything, to go after her and beg her to forgive me. My chin begins to wobble a bit. In the back of the house, I hear a door open and keys jingling—an indication that Mom has left the house.
I remember when she and Dad would fight, she’d take the car and drive around, sometimes stopping at the Dairy Queen to get an ice cream. She’d sit in a parking lot and stare off into the distance until her nerves had settled, and I wonder if that’s where she’ll go now.
Welp. She’s definitely telling Dad.
They almost never punished me when I was growing up; I had enough self-loathing to do the job for them. Disappointing my parents would eat me alive, and not a lot has changed since I was younger.
I drag myself to my bedroom and flop down on the bed, tears at bay until I’m well and truly alone. The one person I want to call is sound asleep and halfway across the world.
You should go figure your life out.
You have a husband somewhere.
Figure it out.
I should.
It’s been months since the wedding, since we packed up our things and said our goodbyes on the steps of Ashley’s house at school.
Months since we made love and kissed.
I hardly know him, but it’s like I’ve known him all my life and what am I doing here?
I cannot allow him to come here. I can’t ask him to give up his job or the role he plays in his family. But I also can’t afford to go there—I have no money for an apartment and clearly no job prospects in England.
Well, I have none here either.
Tears continue to flow down my face, pillow getting soaked, my nose beginning to run. I hear both my parents come home a little while later, and then a knock at my door.
I wipe my nose with the sleeve of my pajama top and sit up as Dad walks in, Mom leaning against the doorframe.
She doesn’t look mad anymore, just…unreadable.
“Mom told me your news,” he begins.
I wait as silence fills the air.
“We’re really disappointed, Georgia Margaret.”
Disappointed? A bold understatement, I’m sure.
“We’re disappointed by the fact that you didn’t tell us, and we’re disappointed that you were foolish enough to get so drunk in a city where you could have been kidnapped—”
“Or murdered,” Mom adds from the doorway.
“Or murdered. We may not have known for who knows how long, not to mention you’ve never mentioned being romantically involved with this boy—excuse me, this man to whom you are married—let alone brought him home to meet us. You’ve had ample opportunity.”
The list of offenses is humiliating.
I can’t tell if Dad is done with his spiel or not, so I keep my mouth shut and continue listening as they stew, him pacing in my tiny room, wearing holes in the carpet.
“Your mother and I talked, and she’s right—you have to figure your shit out. We love you, buttercup, but you’re married.” He seems to choke on the word, voice cracking. “We think thirty days is fair.”
If I have to be out in thirty days, there’s no way Ashley can come here. Not to this house, not to stay, not even for a night.
What a mess.
“We’re doing this because we care, sweetie,” Mom says. “You can’t hide out here. You go to work and come home and don’t leave your room—and I hear you on your phone. I hear you crying.” She pauses. “It’s time.”
“Shit or get off the pot is what Grandpa Parker told me when I graduated from college. Make a decision. Rip off the Band-Aid.”