I groan and fall back onto my bed, tossing my forearm over my eyes. “Ugh, I think you’re right. That’s the worst part. I’mdrama,and you’re right!”
Beck laughs and then laughs some more, so I, of course, start to giggle, too.
“Seriously, though. He told you he loves you.”
Yep. I told Beck.
“And… I mean… he’s Atticus. He wouldn’t say that, defend you against the evil witch at lunch and then abandon you because you didn’t stand up to Connie on his behalf.” A door closes in the background, and Beau shouts, “hey, Goldie” as Beck’s focus returns to me. “He’s a big boy.”
“Amen,” I whisper.
“As I was saying, I'm sure he doesn’t need or expect you to stand up for him. I mean, you said yourself he gave her some back pretty good, right?”
I nod, now back to sitting up and biting my nail. “Yeah, I mean, he did, but I don’t know if I spoke up for him enough. It’s a blur. The whole time I just kept thinking,I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”
Beck’s tone is soft. “You know, it doesn’t make you a bad person not to need or want a close relationship with your mom.”
I sniffle, my eyes burning. “You don’t think so, huh?”
“That,” Beck says, her tone sharp. That’s a real friend. Yelling at you when you’re crying, because you’re being a total baby. “That need for approval. You know she’s a bitch, Goldie. And you know that’s never gonna change. She’s damaging and toxic, and no one can validate your need to separate from her if you can’t.”
“I know,” I whisper because in my sessions with Dr. Longo, I’ve been learning about my insecurities around decision-making. Confidence-based decision-making is rooted in a healthy childhood where a multitude of opportunities have been given during growth so children grow up comfortable with critical thinking and, by default, decision-making.
Constance ran my life like she was my rude, pessimistic personal assistant.
“You okay?” Beck asks, her voice now full of concern. “I am trying to help you, but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper again, and the other line beeps.
“I gotta go,” I say, pulling my phone from my face to read Atticus’s name across the screen. “It’s him.”
“Good luck. And hey, he’s okay. Alright? You two are going to be fine.”
“Thanks. Call you later.”
Then, I click over.
“Hey,” his gruff voice vibrates through the line.
“Hey,” I say, pulling my knees to my chest and pinching the phone to my ear with my shoulder. “I want to see you tonight. Do you want to see me?”
“Yes.” We’re both quiet, and my heart flutters at what it could mean. I get to see him. Beck’s right. It will be okay. “I’m coming over now.”
“Hey, why… why didn’t you answer my calls earlier?” I ask, feeling pleased with myself for asking, for having the courage to find out rather than sit and assume and build a story based on my own frantic, insecure narrative. I want to know, and it’s a harmless question that people in a relationship are entitled to ask. I set my shoulders back and prepare for an argument.
“Oh shit, sorry, baby,” he says, groaning. “I was under my Dad’s sink all night. He clogged their dishwasher garbage disposal with sweet potato, and I had to completely take apart the line. My phone was in my jacket, and my jacket was probably on the couch.”
My eyes water. Tears spill over. I laugh. The laugh becomes a little hysterical.
“You ok?” he asks, sounding… concerned.
“I thought you were going to dump me because of lunch. That you were ignoring me.”
He growls. “I thought we got square in the truck after all that.” Another deep breath. “I’m gonna have to swat that ass of yours for thinking I could ignore you. If you don’t know you’re mine, there won’t be a question after tonight.”
“You stood up for me and I just sat there, dazed—”
“You’re used to trash, but I already told ya, I’m the King.”