Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Getting married wouldn’t erase this feeling that I was an albatross around his neck, something I swore to myself a long time ago I would never be.
“Man,” he said, lifting me off my feet. “I really wish you’d tell me what I’m sayin’ wrong here.”
“I have to carry my own weight,” I said ironically, laying my head on his shoulder as he brought me downstairs. “I need to be a productive member around here.”
“You’re takin’ care of Rhett,” he argued, sitting down on the couch. “That’s pretty fuckin’ productive.”
“You’ll resent it,” I muttered, closing my eyes. “No one wants a mooch who just expects the other person to pay for everything.”
Michael froze, but I didn’t realize it at first. After a few moments, though, I noticed that his hand was stationary on my back and his heart was thundering beneath my ear.
“That sounds like your parents talkin’,” he said, his voice rough with anger. “That what they told you? That I’d resent you if you came back with Rhett, and I had to support the two of you?”
I didn’t reply because it was so close to the truth. I loved my parents, and for most of my life, I’d trusted them, but they’d never let me forget that I had a responsibility to pull my weight within our household. When I was a kid, it was to get good grades, follow the rules, do all the chores. Any time I didn’t meet their expectations, the punishment was swift and awful. I didn’t clean the dishes, well then I could eat off the counter the next day. With my fingers. The bathroom wasn’t clean? Then I wasn’t allowed to shower. A bad grade? I couldn’t do anything except study after school until bedtime.
It was their house, and I didn’t contribute financially so I had to contribute in other ways and if I didn’t, then I didn’t get to enjoy the things they so selflessly provided. After I was grown and had Rhett, those conversations had become even more direct. They were supporting me, putting a house over my head and Rhett’s, and any time I hadn’t met their expectations, I was reminded that they paid the bills. They could no longer force me to eat with my hands or wait to shower, but they used other ways to get their point across.
Oh, I thought being with Michael would be so much better? How would he feel when I brought Rhett to him, two extra people to support and me with no marketable skills? Was I just going to mooch off of him like I mooched off of them? How long did I think that would last before he’d had enough? Did I really think that he’d just let me sit on my ass all day while he worked, like they did? What, what I going to put Rhett in daycare so I could get some menial job that barely paid for groceries, much less child care? How would Michael feel about that situation?
The memories slapped me, one after the other, making the knot in my stomach wind tighter.
Michael’s head snapped up when someone started knocking on the front door.
“Who’s that?” I asked, climbing from his lap.
“Don’t have x-ray vision,” he muttered, striding toward the door.
When he swung it open, and I saw Charlie standing there, I nearly groaned in mortification.
“Hey,” she said brusquely, striding inside, she looked at me. “Nice hair. Not feeling good?”
“What?” Michael asked in confusion.
“I’ve just had a headache all night,” I said, trying to be vague enough that she’d believe me. I pulled at the unfortunate haircut.
“You just didn’t want to come back tomorrow after the shitshow today,” she corrected, moving into the living room. She threw herself into a chair. “I don’t blame you.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Stop apologizing,” she said, waving me off as Michael and I sat back down. “Nobody gets it right on their first day.”
“Told you,” Michael mumbled.
“I’m really not feeling great,” I replied, reaching up to rub my forehead for effect.
Charlie watched me closely. “I hope you don’t think I was mad at you today,” she said after a few moments. “I wasn’t.”
“I killed your espresso machine—”
“That’s what I get for buying it secondhand,” she argued ruefully. “You didn’t kill it. The thing was on its last leg already I was just too cheap to replace it.”
“And now you have to.” I grimaced.
“What part of you isn’t understanding that it’s not your fault?” she asked curiously.
“Even you called it a shitshow.”
“Well, yeah, it was,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “Your car wouldn’t start so you were a few minutes late, you had to leave your kid while he was crying, and then we had to cut the day short so you didn’t even get your full eight hours.” She stared at me. “And then it looks like you got into a fight with a lawnmower. Sounds like a shitshow to me.”