She got dressed a little while ago to make a run to the store for Sam. I guess Maddie woke up puking this morning, so Viola’s getting medicine and crackers for the poor kid. I’ve been lounging in bed and watching TV, but I can’t find anything to hold my attention, and the reality is that I’m bored without Viola. If she were here, we could find a movie to watch, we could talk, we could kiss, we could have sex. On my own … there’s not much to do.
Restless, I get up and take a shower since I haven’t yet today and it’s something to do. Normally I’d wait for Viola and have some fun, but I’m too antsy to wait. Viola still hasn’t given me an answer about staying with me over the break. I’ve been chalking it up to her being busy and distracted, and I know when I brought it up before, she’d said she hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
But now the break is here. Surely she can think ahead to tomorrow by now.
I haven’t wanted to be pushy, so I’ve been biting my tongue. But I need an answer of some kind today. Yes. No. I need to visit my parents for a week first, and then I’m all yours. Something.
When I get out of the shower, Viola’s voice reaches me through the closed bathroom door. She’s obviously on the phone, though I can’t tell with who yet. Smiling to myself, I hurry up and towel myself dry, ready to stroll into the bedroom naked and see how quickly I can make her get off the phone.
When I hear her say, “I know, Mom,” I cringe a little. Partly because from her tone of voice, she’s not thrilled to be talking to her mother. And partly because I know her conversations with her parents can take a while and end with a grumpy, stressed-out Viola. Selfishly, I’m annoyed, because I was enjoying our lazy day of filling all our carnal desires—sex, sleep, and good food.
Now I’ll have to spend time helping her work past whatever bullshit her mother’s feeding her before we can get back to that. And I don’t mind doing that for her, except that I hate that she lets her mother affect her so strongly. I’ve mentioned as casually as possible that she’d be happier if she put up a stronger boundary, but that conversation ended up worse than not saying anything. She took that as me telling her to cut off her parents like I did mine—though that’s not really the whole picture. My parents cut me off. Not the other way around. Sure, they’d welcome me back. But only if I came crawling on my knees, begging forgiveness and promising to accept their religion as the one true way to live. Even then, I’m sure I’d get punished in a thousand different ways for the rest of my life for daring to leave at all. My dad might paint himself like the father in the prodigal son parable, throwing his arms wide and welcoming his son home. But the reality behind closed doors would be far different.
Viola’s situation doesn’t mirror mine at all. Her parents are overbearing, sure, especially her mom, but I don’t get the feeling that they’d disown their daughter for daring to tell them she’s happy.
Taking my time now, I wrap the towel around my waist and run my hands through my hair to get it out of my face. I listen intently to her half of the conversation, trying to determine how much damage control I’ll need to do when she’s done.
“Oh my god, Mom!” comes through loud and clear. “No! What is wrong with you? Yes, we are.” She lets out a frustrated growl that catches me by surprise. She’s usually the picture of calm, cool, and collected when she’s irritated, something that always made me want to see how far I could push her until that facade broke. But I’ve learned it’s a defense she’s built up over a lifetime of having to explain herself to her parents. If she couldn’t stay calm or give what they considered valid reasons for her actions or desires, she would get overruled.
The fact that she’s getting pushed into making obvious sounds of frustration is concerning. I reach for the door handle, but stop when her voice lowers, though her tone is still biting and fierce. “No. I will not break up with him. Why would I do that? He’s … Will you stop interrupting me?” She falls silent, which makes me think that no, her mom won’t stop interrupting her.
But what the fuck? Her mom wants her to break up with me? Why?
“You don’t know anything about him. Or about us.” Silence. Bitter laughter that startles me. “No. Definitely not. I will not bring him by for dinner.”
My hand clenches around the door handle. Is she embarrassed about me?
But before I can give that any more thought, she continues. “No, Mother. No, I didn’t plan to.” Didn’t plan to what? Tell them about me? What happened to no dirty little secrets? “Yes, I’ve seen the emails. No, I’m not going to respond to any of them. You what?” That last question is louder. I hear her moving around the room, then I only hear her muffled voice, too quiet to make out words.
When I open the door, she’s not in the bedroom, and the door between the bedroom and the living area of our suite is closed. Taking a breath, I decide to get dressed while she finishes her conversation.
My stomach twists itself into a Gordian knot and my chest hurts as I grab a pair of track pants and a T-shirt from my suitcase.
I wait until there’s silence for several minutes, fidgeting and tapping my fingers the whole time. I’m not naturally a patient person. But I won’t be able to keep myself from asking what they’re saying and generally being a pain
