My mom comes home not long after Chase wakes up, but she doesn’t really say anything. It’s practically lunchtime and we’d cleaned up so it didn’t look like Chase slept here. She makes some small talk before going up to bed since she just got off work, but I don’t miss her giving Chase the I’m-watching-you glare.
When he leaves later that night, my mom comes down and gives me “the talk.”
“I know I’m not home all that often, Amelia,” she says. “But I have to be able to trust you.”
“You can trust me,” I argue.
“I’m not so sure—parties and staying out late studying. It all seems awfully like your life before we were in King City.” She looks at me, her eyes hard. “I can’t move again. I can’t go through it one more time.”
“I’m being careful,” I say. “I am, honestly, but being a normal kid is also a way of blending in. It’d be just as weird if I hid in the corner and didn’t talk to anyone.”
Our version of the talk has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with my mom blaming me for the state of our lives. She leans into this argument every time she sees that I’m getting close to someone in a new town. Chase is technically the first guy friend that she’s met since we moved here, so I guess she feels like she has to say it again, but alter it to be more suitable for boys.
“On your best behavior, no screwups, no secret talks, let nobody in—you are Amelia Collins, you can’t forget it.”
It’s the same speech, over and over again.
“Part of me realizes that you can’t not be who you are, so I’m glad you’re having fun, enjoying your life, but—”
“I know, Mom, I know. I can’t get close to anyone. I know.”
My mom’s face has aged disproportionately to her age—the strain of the last year or so weighing on her, causing crow’s feet to appear next to her eyes, and the bags under her eyes never seem to go away. Seeing her like this makes me feel awful, and as she goes on about how I can’t trust Chase even if he’s just a friend, even if he’s got the face of an angel and the body of a Calvin Klein model—he’s not her, and she’s the only one I can really trust.
Deep down she misses the house I grew up in—she misses my dad, our old routine, the familiar grocery store we could walk to, the school that was just behind our house, the ease of our everyday life. So she’s away as much as possible these days: more overtime, longer flights, farther-away destinations. And lately, I’ve noticed her getting into a car with some guy in the driver’s seat. Maybe she’s dating? Either way, she’s spending less and less time at home.
I always feel tense after our “talks.” I hate that my mom feels like she needs to remind me to stay away from people. I hate how I know I’ll never be able to be close to someone like Annalisa is with Julian. So, usually, I go to the gym to blow off some steam.
After hitting the punching bag aimlessly for a while I feel a bit better. I take a drink, then steady the bag and punch with all my might.
I hate him.
I always pretend the bag is the same person. The one responsible for everything.
I take a punch, the lifeless bag taking shape into him.
He ruined everything.
I punch.
I hate that I can’t be close to people.
I punch.
I hate that I can’t be my true self. That I can’t get in the pictures with Charlotte and Annalisa. I hate that I can never just let someone in. I hit the bag with all I have until I’m standing there heaving, all my energy wiped, tears threatening to escape from my tired eyes.
As I’m leaving, I recognize another person at one of the punching bags, hitting with abandon. I see a part of myself in her. Her technique isn’t very good, but she’s here out of anger and frustration, not to practice her form.
When she takes a swig of her water, I tap her on the shoulder. “Amelia?” Annalisa’s dark eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“Hey. I didn’t know you came here.”
“Yeah, sometimes.” She shrugs. “It’s a good way to blow off some steam, you know?”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I laugh dryly.
She adds a few more punches, the chains holding the bag squeaking as her final hit sends the heavy bag flying.
“So, who pissed you off?” I ask her, half as a joke, and half genuinely wanting to know.