Love's Learning Curve (9 page)

What the fuck?  Another time?

Get your shit together, Stone!

We pull up to the house, and I cuss myself not for making a checklist of questions to ask on the next getting-to-know-Charlie session, which is what I should be kicking myself for.  No, I cuss myself this time for not taking the long way back to her house.  Now that I’m here, even after basically severing my nuts and handing them to her while I begged for the address and the duty of transporting her, I’m not really ready to watch her walk away.  Obviously, I need my ass kicked.  What in the hell do I care if she gets out of my truck?  Unless she’s warming my bed for an hour, she’s of no use to me. 
Remember the rules, Stone!  No fucking distractions.

“Thank you, Tyler.  For everything,” she tells me softly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, but I appreciate what you did tonight.” She opens the door, stepping out of the truck, and starts walking quickly toward the front door of the house before I even have a chance to pull my head out of my ass.

Not liking that she’s had the last word, I make quick work to fix it.  I jump out of the truck and catch up with her without effort thanks to my long stride.  I follow her the rest of the way to the door.

“Charlotte, you’re not an inconvenience.  I hope you’re okay.”  My words are freakishly foreign to me, and I realize my brain and mouth are experiencing a disconnect of control.  What am I saying and where in the hell did that come from?  Where’s my asshole persona?  I haven’t cared how chicks perceived things before, and it’s not going to start today!  I’ll probably never see her again anyway.

She reaches the door, turns the key in the lock, then opens it and walks inside before turning to wave good-bye.  No words.  I had the last word, yet for some fucked-up reason, I’m still not satisfied.   She closes the door leaving me stunned.  The entire situation is a mind fuck.  She’s a mystery, no question.  I’m unrecognizable to myself right now, and I don’t even know where to begin with the effect she has on me.

Oh … I’ll see her again.  I’ll make sure of it, I assure myself as I walk back to my truck and speed off in the direction of my apartment.  All thoughts of baseball bunnies warming my bed and working over my cock escape me and the only thoughts I care to process are about the beautiful brunette with sapphire eyes who consumes me in all the wrong ways.

What a disaster.

I meant for last night to be fun.  I just wanted to live a little.  I needed to feel my own age for a minute.  I didn’t feel it was too much to ask for, but in actuality, I didn’t ask.  I’m twenty-one years old.  I shouldn’t have to ask.  I knew what the answer would have been and that it wouldn’t have been up for discussion.

Running on any normal day clears my thoughts, so I thought it would help this morning.  Maybe put things in perspective or, at least, give me a chance to build my own defense.  However, today’s run is only serving as a means to flee.  I’m seriously a grown woman running away and hiding like a caged animal who’s found the hidden escape door.  I’m not naïve enough to believe that a common understanding will be found to allow space to actually live my own life.  My mother believes in sacrificing for the bigger plan.  Giving up any of my goals or dreams that deviate from their political dreams isn’t a sacrifice to them; it’s my obligation.

Today, I’m alert, hyper-aware of my surroundings, and looking over my shoulder at every turn.  As if
Mr. Attention Seeker
wasn’t enough yesterday, now, I’m quite convinced someone’s watching me.  How else would my mother know about the party otherwise?  I was at the party for less than two hours in which only half of that time was enjoyable but still not worth this.

The pounding of my soles on the pavement is doing very little in the way of alleviating my stress or helping me cope with the aftermath.  My mother’s disappointment is overpowering any of my efforts.  Even with music pumping loudly into my ears, I’m unable to drown the voices in my head.

Ha.  Even my own internal voice is screaming at me currently.

As of thirty minutes ago, when I switched my phone to the Do Not Disturb mode, I’d already missed fourteen calls this morning and have the double-digit text notifications to match.  I can’t bring myself to read the texts yet.  I only opened one so now I know what to expect with the others.  It’ll go from bad to worse. 

Avoiding the situation is only making it worse.  Giving her the added time to stew while waiting for me to respond is counterproductive, and the consequences are likely to equal that of dropping a bomb in enemy territory and beginning a world war.  But I couldn’t help it, I panicked.  Now, I’m thinking it’s imperative that I get my plan together before acting too soon.

The funny thing is when I first saw the missed call log and notifications, panic took over.  I thought it was a serious emergency, that someone was hurt, sick, or maybe even dead.  Oh … I was so wrong.  When I opened the texts and read the first line, I quickly realized I was the emergency.  She knew about last night's adventure and was beside herself with anger over what she considers my betrayal. 

Morgan … I decide I need to talk to Morgan as soon as possible.  She’d know what to do, but Morgan didn’t answer her phone.  So I did the next best thing I could think of.  I set my iPhone to Do Not Disturb, laced up my shoes, and am now running for my life.  Well … not literally, but it feels like it.

I knew that escaping the problem at hand, choosing to lace up my shoes and hit the road instead of handling it as an adult, were not actions proving my maturity and ability to responsibly take control of my life.  But I’m sure anyone with Sandra Baker as a mother would do the same.  This is no time for rational resolutions.

Run until your body aches and you can’t think about the hell of your unfulfilling life. Run to chase away the never-ending expectations.  Run.  Run.  And run some more then just keep running.

I push my body harder than it is accustomed to.  Running, which I was once able to use as my therapy to relieve some of the stress, has now taken on a whole new trend, and it’s not positive.  Instead of releasing stress and pent-up frustrations, the adrenaline is somehow fueling the anger.

Taking the next turn off my normal route, I decide to do a lap around the block that leads to George’s and my favorite park.  When the fields of sprouting green grass come into my view ahead, my body begins to scream for a little rest.  The park looks like the perfect place of retreat for a moment to catch my breath.  Even I have to admit that I’ve run myself into exhaustion this morning and need the breather.

The empty playground with colorful slides and jungle gym is calling my name.  I love the swings, so I sit in the one at the farthest end and sway lightly.  The thick branches shield me from the sunshine overhead, and the shade feels nice.  Taking in the bright green leaves sprouting the signs of spring, I feel myself relax.  I take in my surroundings while also glancing around for a possible hired stalker.

Finding the courage, I pull my phone out of the hidden pocket in my running shorts.  As much as actually reading the rest of the words from my mother pains me, I know I must do it.  I flip the Do Not Disturb setting off and allow any additional messages to filter through before I scroll to the first of many messages.

Mother: What has gotten into you, young lady?  A party?  Drinking?  This had better be a sick joke.

Well … I’d like to know how you actually found out
, I think to myself.  I’m not sure what she heard, but it really wasn’t that bad.  It was two hours of my life, and no one died.

Mother: Charlotte Maryland Baker, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you need to call me right away.  I’ve seen the pictures of your little tirade.

Pictures?  I didn’t see anyone snapping pictures.  How exactly could she have gotten photos?  Who’s the one with the sick joke again?

Mother: You know what’s at stake.  Is sabotaging your father’s reputation and campaign your way of thanking us for giving you a perfect life?  I’m so ashamed to be your mother.

Perfect life?  Are we kidding?  She must have forgotten who she was texting.  I could describe my life as many things, but perfect wouldn’t even make the list of possible adjectives.  Incomplete.  Broken.  Corrupt.  Fake.  Unloved.  I’d use those words.

Mother: If this makes the newspaper, you’ll destroy the family.  I’m disgusted with you.

I didn’t even do anything major.  How could a photograph of the evening be that damaging?  Playing back the events of the evening, with the worst being me taking a few sips of beer while playing the game, I can think of nothing that would justify her response.  But this is not a normal mother, and we aren’t a normal family.  I’m twenty-one years old, and you’d think I was sixteen.

I cringe at the viciousness of her words, but I’m not at all surprised there weren’t any to make sure I’m actually okay and survived the evening.  I knew this could happen at some point, which was why I never attempted to be adventurous.  She has always kept close tabs on me, but the distance gave me courage.  It was a stupid risk, but in the end, I don’t regret it at all.  For a short time, it was a lot of fun.

Eyes and ears are everywhere
, I hear my mother’s voice in my head. 
Be careful what you say and do; you are a direct reflection of your father and me.

My mother’s words sting, but over the years, I’ve become somewhat immune to the personal attacks.  Not that they don’t affect me at all, but after hearing them over and over, I guess her words have less power.

I’m frustrated.  I’m overwhelmed.  I feel like no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to live up to their expectations.  I’ll always fail. A 4.0 GPA isn’t good enough. She never regards volunteer work with multiple charity organizations as doing well unless it comes with a photo opportunity and publicity for the campaign.  I’m nothing to anyone unless my presence benefits others.

I just want to scream.  With my head in my hands, my fingers lace through my hair and I imagine being able to scream at my mother.  I scream so loud and tell her all the things that I’ve held back.  I’d lift the rug hiding the terrible things she’s said, and instead of ignoring the comments and biting my tongue, I’d say what I think.

The urge to scream builds fiercely, and before I know it, I’m screaming into the empty park.  Not screaming words, just screaming out my frustrations.  My God, I’m losing it.