The whole time my mind is wrapped around a hot firecracker with honey-blonde hair and a sexy bite.
Five
Gemma
Saturday morning starts with me tripping over the miscellaneous moving boxes yet to be unpacked lining the hallway. I groan, rubbing my stubbed toe as I hobble down the hall.
Most of our house is assembled, but anytime we move we get complacent about what’s not urgent. Since Alec and I were born, we moved three times around Colorado Springs.
Two months in Ridgeview and there are still random boxes in every area, some acting as makeshift tables while others are relegated to the corner of no return.
“Morning hun,” Mom greets as she enters the hall. She turns her attention to the boxes with a determined air. “This weekend! Family goal: finish these boxes.”
“Didn’t you say to Dad there were some you never unpacked from your first house when we were loading the moving truck?”
She waves me off. “Okay, updated goal: everyone picks one box. We’ll keep going like that until we’ve finished.”
A fond smile at her newfound resolve crosses my face. She probably found some Pinterest article on organization tips. Mom’s always trying stuff like that. Big fan of the Marie Kondo method. Except when it comes to the miscellaneous moving boxes.
“You’ve got it, Mom.”
“Fresh coffee downstairs in ten?”
“It’s a date.”
I was too chickenshit to tell her the whole truth about that night two years ago. Part of me wanted to confess it all, but then I put it off for so long in fear that she’d be mad at me for putting myself in that s
ituation. All I told them was that a boy tried to touch me, glossing over who it was and the extent of it other than firmly stating I wasn’t raped.
It wasn’t the reason we moved. I told them I wasn’t happy at school, so they fixed it. I no longer had to see him in the halls. They’re great about helping and supporting me when I go to them. Then I struggled at the school I transferred to. I broke down when I couldn’t take it anymore and begged for another change.
So my parents found work elsewhere and sprung this move on us.
The smell of caffeine greets me downstairs. I cling to the mug Mom hands me and hum.
“Did Alec say how his night was? What about you, did you meet any new friends?”
I choke on the scalding sip of coffee. My stupid lizard brain flashes to that bastard Saint and his grabby hands. New friends.
“Uh, he had a good time. Yep.”
I gulp more coffee and skip over the party. And the kiss playing on loop in my head. Definitely not bringing any of that up. Despite her question about making friends, Mom and I don’t chat boys.
Dad and Alec enter the kitchen like zombies. Mom waves them to the coffee.
“Morning, Dad.”
He mumbles to me, incoherent until he’s halfway through his first mug of the day. He slumps at the table, half-dozing. Alec fares the same, but I think he’s hungover. He’s not hiding it that well. I keep an eye on Mom and Dad’s reactions to him.
Mom narrows her eyes, but she’ll wait for him to say something about it. As we’ve gotten older, they like us to take responsibility for choices like that. Dad’s favorite new saying from the last couple of years since we first got caught drinking is: if you’re going to pretend to be an adult you’ll face the consequences like one.
Once Dad comes to life via caffeine, he perks up. “How was the first week of school? Adjusting okay?”
They always say we can talk to them about anything. But I can handle it on my own. I can’t run scared just because of some jerk's threat.
“Sure. It’s fine. Books. Knowledge. The works.”
Alec burns a hole in the back of my head as he fixes his drink. The clink of his spoon stirring sugar into his coffee jars me.