It could be a lot worse, I know. After all, Gran and Grandad are pushing me toward a European vacation. That’s hardly torture. And it’s nothing like the confining life my father wanted for me. My mom’s parents aren’t controlling or manipulative. But they are old school. As Grandad lifts his hands and opens his mouth, I know what’s coming.
“Fallon, think about what we’re offering. You love to travel, and this is a safe way to do it.”
“Safe? I don’t know these people,”I reply, signing and speaking.
“You’ll meet them Tuesday. And we know them, and their families. That’s certainly much safer than a young woman traipsing through Europe alone and staying in hostels.” Gran’s lips and fingers convey the same argument we’ve had for over a year now. Much to the dismay of my grandparents, I’m planning to backpack through Europe next summer. The thought of a woman going anywhere without her husband,or at least a man, is risky to them. Riskier still is staying anywhere that hasn’t been given a five-star rating.
“It’s such a nice group of young people. You can make new friends, maybe even find yourself a beau. Perhaps Thomas wasn’t quite right for you, but there are plenty of other fellows.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend, Gran,” I tell her, because it’s mostly true. I’m not opposed to hanging out with a guy or having a casual relationship, but if and when that happens, it will be on my terms, not because of something my grandmother set up.
“Darling, if you don’t date anyone, how will you ever find a husband and have a family?”
I just don’t have the strength to tell my grandmother—for the hundredth time— that marriage and babies aren’t every woman’s life goal, but the look on my face must say it all because she's shaking her head, as though that will delete her last sentence.
“I guess the world is a different place than when Grandad and I were young,” she continues. “But I really want you to give this trip some consideration. It’s the perfect solution. You’ll be safe in a large group, and you’ll be able to explore new corners of the world. Please just say you’ll think about it.”
I’m torn, but then I look across the table. Lifting his hand to his temple in a circular motion, Grandad wiggles his fingers and pleads with his eyes.
It’s so hard to say no to this man, even for me. He’s never shown me anything but love and affection. Whereas my dad was controlling and dictatorial, Grandad has always been kind and accepting. He stood up for me when Mom was unable to. I hate to admit it, but I owe him this much, so I nod, agreeing to give the idea some thought.
I’m not going on that particular trip to Europe, and I’m not going anywhere with Thomas, but maybe there’ssome sport of compromise we can reach? Some happy medium between a solo adventure and a month-long youth group field trip?
After kissing my grandparents goodbye and promising to come back for brunch next Sunday, I drive home to Bainbridge and hope Kendra and Cody are locked in her bedroom, or better yet, out of the apartment entirely. I’ve peopled and played nice all day, and my tank is empty. If they’re screwing on the couch or she’s giving him a hand job while he’s watching cartoons, I can’t be responsible for my actions.
2
Ollie
Iwake up in a cold sweat every night from the same bad dream. It’s been this way for weeks now. We’re at a club. It’s me and my teammates, although the bar isn’t Wolfie’s, our usual hangout. It’s some nameless, vague club that only exists in my dream state, but is, of course, cool as shit.
I don’t hang out in dive bars.
Okay, I totally do.
But not in this dream.
In this dream, I’m with my guys and the night is ours. Drinks are flowing, the deejay is spinning banger after banger, and the dance floor is one big, filthy, beautiful orgy.
Everything is perfect.
Except it isn’t.
Something’s…off. It always takes me a while to figure out what the issue is, though it’s the same every time: my suit doesn’t fit. And really, I should wake up screaming at the exact moment I realize it because what the fuck? My suits always fit. And I always look damn good in them.
Yeah, yeah. Everybody says that.
But it’s actually, objectively true for me.
I look fan-fucking-tastic in a suit.
And even better out of one. Don’t take my word for it. The MyFans account I’ve had for two years now—the one that the powers that be at Bainbridge University don’t know about—is all the proof you need.
I go to great lengths—and sometimes really bendy ones—to keep my face hidden or out of the frame in every post. But my body? I show that shit off whether I’m dressed in a bespoke suit, a g-string, or a pair of bunny ears and some other guy’s boxers.
But in this dream, not even my chiseled abs can save me.
The shoulders on my jacket are too narrow. One sleeve is slightly longer than the other. The buttons don’t line up right. The seat of my pants is baggy and lax, despite the fact that my ass is a perfect peach. It’s delectable.
