A few days after my hotel inspection, I meet up with Steph and Alana at a sandwich shop in town. Seems strange that a couple of weeks ago we were barely on speaking terms, and now we chat almost every day. It started when Steph looped me into a group text with Alana to share some pictures of Evan on their roof fixing the hole from the storm. His jeans had ridden down, revealing half his ass, and she’d captioned the pics with: Someone’s doing a half-ass job. Then Alana shared a funny screenshot from BoyfriendFails, and—although I was worried it might sound like a brag or serve as another glaring allusion to the topic of money—I confessed to the girls that I’m the one who created those sites. Luckily, it only made them like me more.
“Settle something for us,” Alana says, gesturing across the table with a pickle spear. “True or false—Cooper has his dick tattooed.”
I almost cough up a french fry. “What?”
“A few years back, there was this story about some chick who got banged on the roof of the police station on Fourth of July weekend,” Steph says beside me. “And there was a picture going around of a dude with a tattoo on his dick, but we never nailed down who it was.”
“You didn’t ask Heidi this question?”
The girls stare at me with apprehension.
“What, was I not supposed to know about that?” My tone is glib. I’d thought it was obvious those two had been hooking up at some point in the recent past.
Steph and Alana exchange a look, silently debating how to respond.
I offer a shrug. “It’s fine. I get it, she’s your best friend.”
“They didn’t date or anything,” Steph says as a consolation. “It was, you know, friends with benefits.”
For Cooper, maybe. But when it comes to those types of arrangements, I know that one person, without fail, is always more invested than the other.
“Heidi’s still got a thing,” Alana adds flatly, never one to mince words.
I’d already suspected that unrequited feelings or maybe a breakup was the source of Heidi’s irrational hatred of me. My instincts are rarely wrong about these things, so Alana’s confirmation is almost vindicating.
“I figured,” I tell them. “But maybe she’ll be ready to move on one of these days. Cooper said there’s some guy interested in her? Jay something?”
That earns me two groans.
“Don’t get me started on that one,” Alana gripes. “Yeah, I want her to get over this Coop thing so life can go back to normal—but Genevieve’s brother, of all people?”
“Who’s Genevieve?”
“Evan’s ex,” Steph answers. “Gen lives in Charleston now.”
“I miss her,” Alana says, visibly glum.
Steph snorts. “So does Evan. Otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to bang her out of his system. Or rather, bang everyone else.” She flips her ponytail over one shoulder and turns to grin at me. “It’s all super incestuous here in the Bay. Evan and Genevieve. Heidi and Cooper—although thank God that’s over. Friends shouldn’t hook up, it’s just asking for trouble.” Her gaze pointedly shifts to Alana. “And then we’ve got this bitch here who keeps going back for seconds with Tate? Or are we on thirds now? Fourths?”
“Tate?” I echo with a grin. “Oh, he’s hot.”
Alana waves her hand. “Nah, that’s done now. I don’t like the friends with bennies thing either.”
“I’ve never done it.” I give a self-deprecating shrug. “My hookup history consists of Cooper, and a four-year relationship with a guy who was apparently sleeping with anything that moves.”
Steph grimaces. “Honestly, I can’t even believe you were dating that creep.”
I feel a groove dig into my forehead. “Do you know Preston?” There’d been a troubling sense of familiarity in her statement.
“What? Oh, no, I don’t. I mean, I know of him. Cooper told us he was cheating on you—I just assume all cheaters are creeps.” Steph reaches for her coffee, sips it, turning her face away from me for a second before glancing over with a reassuring smile. “And look, don’t worry about Heidi. Cooper’s crazy about you.”
“And Heidi’s been sufficiently threatened to behave herself,” Alana finishes, then reacts with a knitted brow when Steph gives her the facial equivalent of a kick under the table. They’re about as subtle as a jackhammer.
It’s not the first time I’ve caught a similar exchange between the two of them, as if they’re having an entire unspoken conversation I’m not a part of. My relationship with Steph and Alana has warmed significantly—and I have no doubts about Cooper’s sincerity where the two of us are concerned—but I get the distinct impression there’s a lot more I don’t know about this tight-knit group. Obviously, I can’t expect to fully penetrate the circle of trust so quickly.
But why does it feel like their secrets are at my expense?
I don’t get the chance to ponder that question, as my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my mother. Again. I woke up this morning to several missed text messages from her, picking up mid-rant from the several missed text messages from the night before. I’ve taken to periodically blocking her number just to get some peace from her blowing up my phone. It’s one tirade after another over my breakup with Preston. There’s nothing left to say on the subject. For me, anyway.
But it seems my mother is determined to force me to talk about it. I glance at my phone to find she’s abandoned texting and is now calling me. I send the call to voicemail just as a 911 text from Bonnie pops up to alert me that judgment day has arrived.
“What’s wrong?” Steph leans over my shoulder, apparently alarmed at the blood draining from my face.
“My parents are here.”
Well, not here. At my dorm. Poor Bonnie’s in lockdown mode awaiting further instructions.
Bonnie: What do I do with them?
Me: Send them to the coffee shop. I’ll meet them there.
I knew this was coming. I’ve been dodging calls and texts, making myself scarce. But it was only a matter of time before they came for my reckoning.
No one walks out on my father.
I bail on lunch with an apology and haul ass back to campus with my blood pressure spiking. After a short phone call, the best I could do was lure them to a public venue. My parents wouldn’t dare make a scene. Here, I have the strategic advantage—and an escape route.
Still, when I walk in the café to see them seated by the window, awaiting their rogue daughter, I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. No matter how old I get, I’m still six years old, standing in our living room as my father berates me for spilling fruit punch on my dress before the Christmas card photo shoot, after he specifically told me I could only have water, while my mother stands fraught in the corner by the bar cart.
“Hey,” I greet them, draping my purse strap over the chair. “Sorry if I kept you waiting. I was having lunch with some friends in town—”
I halt when I read the expression of impatience on my father’s face. He’s dressed in a suit, one sleeve pushed up to expose his watch. I get the message. Loud and clear. He’s missing meetings and who knows what other world-altering events to tend to his errant offspring. How dare I make him deign to parent.
Then there’s Mother Dearest, who’s tapping her manicured nails on her leather Chanel clutch as if I’m also holding her up. Honestly, I couldn’t say what the hell she does all day. I’m sure there’s a call with a caterer somewhere in her schedule. Her weeks are an endless haze of decisions like chicken or fish.
For a split second, as the two of them glare at me with annoyance and disdain, I see the template of their lives superimposed on my future, and it stitches up my side. My throat closes. A full-blown panic explodes through my nervous system. I imagine this is how drowning must feel.
I can’t live this way anymore.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I start, only for Dad to hold up his hand. Kindly shut up, the hand says. Okay then.
“I believe you owe us an apology, young lady.” Sometimes I wonder if my father uses the term because, for a moment, he’s forgotten my name.
“Really, you’ve gone too far this time,” my mother agrees. “Have you any idea the embarrassment you’ve caused?”
“Here is what’s going to happen.” Dad doesn’t look at me, instead scrolling through emails on his phone. All of this is a prepared speech that doesn’t include my participation. “You will apologize to Preston and to his parents for this episode. After which they’ve agreed to the resumption of your relationship. Then you’re coming home for the weekend while we evaluate how to proceed. I’m afraid we’ve allowed you too much latitude lately.”
I stare at him.
When I realize he’s being serious, I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Um, no. I can’t do that.”
“Excuse me.” My mother adjusts her scarf, a sort of nervous tic she gets when she’s acutely aware she can’t snap at me in front of quite so many witnesses. “Your father isn’t giving you a choice, Mackenzie.”
Well, at least one of them knows my name. I try to imagine them picking out baby names. If ever there was a moment in time they looked forward to a child, it was then, right?
“I won’t get back together with Preston.” My tone invites no argument.
So, of course, I get one.
“Why not?” Mom wails in exasperation. “Don’t be a fool, sweetheart. That boy will make a loyal, upstanding husband.”
“Loyal?” I snort loud enough to draw gazes from a few neighboring tables.
Dad frowns at me. “Keep your voice down. You’re attracting attention.”
“Trust me when I say Preston is not loyal to anyone but himself. I’ll spare you the details.” Like how he was a cheating prick who was probably messing around since the moment we got together. How in some ways he saved us both, because I was no saint either. “But suffice it to say we don’t have a connection anymore.” I hesitate. Then I think, fuck it. “Besides, I’m seeing someone else.”
“Who?” Mom asks blankly, as if Preston were the last man on earth.
“A townie,” I reply, because I know it will drive her nuts.
“Enough.”
I jump when my father smacks his phone down on the table. Ha. Who’s attracting attention now?
Realizing what he did, Dad lowers his voice. He speaks through clenched teeth. “This disobedience stops now. I will not entertain your provocations any further. You will apologize. You will take the boy back. And you will fall in line. Or you can kiss your allowance and credit cards goodbye.” His shoulders shake with restrained rage as I now have his complete attention. “So help me, I will cut you off and you can see exactly how cold and dark this path can get.”
I don’t doubt him for a second. I’ve always known he was ruthless where I’m concerned. No coddling. No special treatment. That used to scare me.
“Tell you what,” I say, pulling my purse off the back of my chair, “here’s my counteroffer: no.”
His eyes, the same dark shade of green as my own, gleam with disapproval. “Mackenzie,” he warns.
I reach into my bag. “Do what you must, but I’m tired of living in fear of disappointing you both. I’m sick of never living up to your ideal. I have had my absolute fill of killing myself to make you happy and constantly falling short. I’m not ever going to be the daughter you want, and I’m done trying.”
I find what I’m looking for in my purse. For the first time my life, my parents are speechless as they watch me fill out a check.
I slide it across the table to my father. “Here. This ought to cover what you spent for the first semester. I’ve decided my interests lie elsewhere.”
With nothing left to say—and certain this burst of madness and courage will not last—I hold my breath as I get up from the table and walk out, not sparing a glance behind me.
Just like that, I’m a college dropout.
