Our menus are set down in front of us, and we order our drinks. My mom gets a raspberry tea, and dad orders a diet Pepsi. I copy my mom. I know my mom would much prefer wine and my dad a beer, as they always got when we’d go out to eat growing up. I don’t say anything, though. I know their change in beverage choice is to help make me feel at ease. That’s the thing, though. It's frustrating when everybody changes to accommodate me, to treat me like I’m about to explode and jump on the table to grab their cups and drink like a fucking lunatic just from smelling the alcohol. What I loathe the most is people thinking they’ve got to walk on eggshells around me.
I don’t say anything because I don’t want my parents to have to get some twisted answer about it. I don’t want them to feel even worse than they already do just by being associated with me.
When the waiter is out of sight of us, already out of earshot due to the low chatter that fills the restaurant, my mother starts the conversation.
“How’re your AA meetings going, Gracie?”
I stare at her. It’s all we talk about when I’m with them: AA and therapy and sometimes school. I’m so sick and tired of it. If this is what our conversation is meant to be, we could’ve stayed home and eaten a three-person meal for free. At least there, they wouldn’t have to worry about running into people they’ve hidden me from.
“They’re fine.” I shrug and look down, picking up my napkin and tearing at it to keep myself somewhat busy.
“Are they helping?” she asks, pressing me.
She knows they do if taken seriously. With Tris being an alcoholic and sober for so many years, she’s talked so much about the meetings being a blessing for her. I simply nod.
As if sensing I really don’t want to talk about it, my mother falls silent.
“How is school?” my father asks, changing the subject.
I snap my eyes to him. His jaw is set, eyes tight as he stares directly at me. I might be daddy’s little girl and get what I want if I stomp my foot just right, but he’s still strict regarding certain things. School, for example. I don’t even get why he’s asking. My grades go to his home, and he receives emails about them. He knows exactly how I’m doing.
“I don’t know. How am I doing?” I counter, cocking an eyebrow at him.
My father looks at me, unamused by my sass. For a minute, we stare each other down. As close as we are, sometimes it can be hard when we argue.
“Gracie is doing good,” he finally comments, breaking eye contact with me as he turns to my mother. “The lowest grade she has is one C, and that’s in math.”
I scowl and dip in my chair, crossing my arms. “Never been into math,” I grumble.
My mother laughs a little, and the sound makes my heart soar. I can’t help but get excited when my mother gets happy because ofme.I sit up a little straighter, forcing my face to stay as stoic as possible and not give in to my thrill.
“That’s good, Gracie. We’re proud of you—”
“I want to quit,” I blurt, the words rushing out before I can even consider whether I want to talk about this.
I’ve known I’ve wanted to quit since my talk with Colton, but bringing it up to my parents has been my setback whenever I’m around them.
After the words are in the air, I look right at my father. He makes the big decisions, especially when it comes to the arrangement he and I have. As I guessed, he isn’t happy. He’s staring at me with a mixture of surprise and anger, his jaw ticking, cheeks and ears red. He doesn’t say anything, and because of that, I shrink again in my chair, dropping my gaze.
“Gracie,” my mother starts when my dad doesn’t say anything. She stops, however, when our waiter appears and sets our drinks down.
When we tell him we’re not ready to order yet, he flits off with the promise of being back in a few minutes to check. I watch his back disappear after checking on a few tables, chatting inaudibly with them.
“We had a deal,” my father finally grunts, finding his voice.
I look at him again. “I know. But I don’t want to do it anymore. I can’t. It’s boring, and I just – I want to do something else.”
He sighs and rubs his lined forehead, the tufts of red hair that still cling to his scalp jiggling when he moves. He doesn’t believe in toupees and has said many times that people will just have to watch his head go bald because he’s never wearing one of those.
“Reuban,” my mother chastises, her voice a warning before turning back to me. “So, what do you want to do, Gracie?”
I shrug and pick at my nails. “Colton offered me a position at his grandpa’s diner. As a waitress. You said I have to go to school or get a job. I can get a job. I also want to do my pottery again.”
My father sighs and huffs out a breath of air, trying to pull himself together. “Okay, okay,” he says slowly, thinking over his words. “Let’s talk about this.”
Chapter43
Gracie