He glowers at me. “Well, Beth, when you’re forking out $20,000 a year for your brother’s private school and $35,000 a year in college tuition, you can stand there and tell me what’s acceptable and what’s not. You wanted to do both of these programs, even though I told you it was too much for you. You promised me you would make it work, that I wouldn’t be disappointed, yet here we are.” He rests his elbows on his desk and exhales like his life is so painfully hard, like my average grades are a blight on his existence—like I am.
His stare cuts into me and his attention burns, just like his constant disappointment.
Like so many times in my life, anger gets the better of me, and I take a step closer to him. “So, you’re upset because I have a job and I’m double majoring while sustaining a B average?” I clarify and grit my teeth.
“Watch your tone.”
“How is it that we’ve all failed you so miserably? We do everything to please you, and God knows, Jesse and I try. Even Mom does. Yet, we’re all failures in your eyes.” I throw my hands up. “I’m not sure why we even bother.” A voice in the back of my mind is telling me to reel the anger in or he’s going to explode, but everything about him enrages me. His presence alone makes my mom look like Parent of the Year. “What do you want from me?”
“What do you want from me, Beth? Do you want me to be easy on you so that you have more time to party? So that you don’t have the pressure of keeping your grades up and actually doing something with your life? Why is it that everyone in this house thinks that I owe them something. After everything I’ve done for all of you.”
“What is it that you give us, exactly? Money? Because it’s not love and affection—you can’t even make it home for family dinners. I don’t want your money, if you’re going to hold it over me the rest of my life.”
He stands up, leaning his fists on the desk. “That’s enough,” he warns. The papers crinkle under his weight. “If you don’t want my money, then pay for grad school on your own.”
I swallow the prickly ball rising in my throat. I’ve been expecting this—wanting the liberation of it, in a way—but the logical part of me wonders what I’ve just done.
“Do whatever you want, Bethany,” he says, cinching the knot rapidly forming in my stomach. He sits back down, no longer able to look at me. “If you don’t care about your grades, then neither do I.”
His easy dismissal of me and my life is like a serrated edge against my skin. It cuts and aches, and I want to scream.
“Close the door on your way out.”
Without a word, I slowly turn for the door. I don’t want to cry over him, not anymore, and I hate that I can’t stop the tears from forming.
I close the door and stand outside his office for a minute, numb and exhausted from this constant battle. I’m not so spoiled that I don’t know other people put themselves through college all the time—students who have it harder than I do. I could figure out a way to pay for school without him, even if putting my apartment on hold for a little while was the compromise.
Straightening, I take a deep breath, but it hitches when I notice my mom, standing in the kitchen watching me. Ignoring the tears quickly forming, I walk past her and up the stairs. I’m about to shut myself inside my room when Jesse opens his bedroom door.
“Beth,” he whispers. There’s concern in his voice, even if his face shows no sign of it.
I smile, hinging it into place. “Hey.” I walk over to where he hangs out the doorway and rumple his hair. “I was just going to find you.”
“Mom found my cards,” he tells me. “Want to see?”
“I’d love to see your new cards, J.”
Ten
Bethany’s Journal
April 10th
Mom and Dad, thank you for asking about my day. My professor singled me out yesterday in front of the class, like always, because he doesn’t know that I have a controlling mother who only wants to talk to me in the mornings as I’m rushing out the door, making me late. And remember how I was so worried about him failing my paper I worked so hard on for extra credit? I actually did better on it than I thought I would. Oh wait, you don’t remember any of it because you’ve never asked.
Maybe one day I’ll actually write this. - B
Eleven
Bethany
Lying back on my bed, I stretch the stiffness from my body and flex my fingers and toes. Sitting cross-legged isn’t as easy as it used to be. With a sigh, I glance at my alarm clock and want to throw up. It’s nearly midnight, and I feel like I’ve only retained half the information I’ve processed over and over for the last three hours.
My Graduate Records Examination is coming up—only a couple weeks left before I know if I make a score decent enough to get me into an accredited psychology program . . . and I feel sick to my stomach.
I hate to admit that my dad is right in a sense. Double majoring seems like the dumbest idea on nights like these, but then, psychology is what I really care about. It’s what I want to do, and it wouldn’t be so stressful if that wasn’t the case. Design, that’s more for my parents—for my mom’s firm. I enjoy design, but I don’t want to work for her, and that type of work, well, it isn’t my passion.
School can’t be this difficult for everyone. Even double majors. Can it? I don’t understand why I struggle so much. It’s not for lack of trying. Too much on my mind and too many distractions, maybe . . . or, too much pressure. I heave out a sigh. All of the above.
I stare at my highlighted notecards and open textbooks. All I know for certain is, I need a break. Trying not to let my precarious notecard piles slide around, I climb off my bed. Milk and peanut butter cookies sound magical, and it just so happens, we have both.
When I open the door, I’m happy to see that Jesse’s bedroom light is off, which means he’s finally sleeping. Sleep isn’t usually a problem for him, except for nights after a big upset. Jesse’s always less predictable when my dad is home; his presence is a disturbance in the Force and Jesse is all about routine.
Tightening my ponytail, I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. I relish the quiet hours when the house is silent, and I feel like I’m in my own little bubble. I hear a few muffled words in my parent’s master suite, though, and I’m not the only one awake. My parents rarely argue these days—they barely talk to each other—so when they do, I know things are bad. Unable to resist, I take a step closer.
“ . . . you be a little more understanding?” my mom asks, and I like that she’s annoyed with him, even if she’d never confront him in front of us.
My dad doesn’t say anything, and for a minute, I panic that they know I’m outside their door.
“If I’m easy on him, he’ll stop trying to do better,” my dad finally says, and I roll my eyes. For being such an intelligent man, he’s stupid in so many ways, it’s actually cruel. I wonder if he’s ever once stopped to think about how his actions translate to Jesse.
“It doesn’t work like that, Charles,” my mom says evenly. “If you were around more, you’d actually see how well he’s doing. Every time you come home, you get him all riled up—” She stops abruptly, and I hear muffled movements before she speaks again. “If you’re angry with me, Charles, be angry with me. Leave the kids out of it. It’s not their fault,” she says more softly, maybe even a little desperate. “Jesse’s a boy, he needs a father, not a drill sergeant.”
“This is who I am, Laura. You knew what you were signing up for when we decided to make this work. I could’ve left, but I stayed—for you. For them.”
While the sharpness in his tone doesn’t surprise me, his words do. My parents are dysfunctional, but I didn’t realize my dad had made a decision to stay.
“You can’t make me a man I’m not, not after everything that’s happened. If you want Jesse to have a different father, then go find one. This is me, this is how I am. Period.”
My heart beats fervently, and I’m not even sure why. We’d all be happier if my mom left my dad
, but something about this conversation doesn’t feel right.
“What about Bethany?” my mom asks.
“What about her?” The knot in my stomach returns and tightens at the coldness in his voice.
“You weren’t home ten minutes and you nearly had her in tears.” He doesn’t say anything.
I straighten and wipe away the unexpected dampness from my cheek.
“She’s still struggling, Charles.”
A dresser drawer closes, and my father finally speaks. “She’s always struggling.”
“She’s trying to make you happy.” My mom’s tone is almost frantic, and I can tell she’s exhausted, trying to make him understand, like me.
“No, she’s doing whatever the hell she wants. If she wanted to make me happy, she’d listen once in a while. She would’ve quit her job when she decided to double major—she wouldn’t have assumed she could handle a double major in the first place. Her grades would be up. She’s been fighting me the whole way, and look where it’s gotten her.”
“Maybe if you’d help, instead of throwing money at her—”
“Oh, and your relationship with her is so much better? When was the last time you even had a conversation with your kids? You work just as much as I do, so don’t try to make me the asshole.”
“You don’t need any help in that department,” she mutters.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I take a step backward, caught somewhere between shock and fear of what they might say next.
“I’m trying to make this work,” my mom finally says, wearily.
“Yeah, since when?”
There’s a sudden chill in the air as I back further away from their room. The acid in my dad’s voice—the desperation in my mom’s—makes my heart ache for them. For me, and for Jesse. I don’t know how it came to all this, but we are beyond broken.
Twelve
Nick
If my dad hadn’t stormed out of our family dinner a couple nights ago, I wouldn’t have taken his blowing me off for breakfast this morning so personally. Should I be worried about him? The more I think about it all, the angrier I get. He hasn’t just been distant, lately he’s been almost absent.
As I pull into the parking lot at the U, my phone rings again, his fifth attempt to reach me this morning, and I finally pick up.
“Nicky?” he says, and I hear the surprise in his voice.
“I’m heading into class,” I tell him and shut the Explorer off. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Well, we need to, and soon.”
“We could’ve talked this morning,” I remind him. “I was there, waiting for you.”
“I know. I’m sorry, son.”
“What’s going on with you, Dad? This isn’t like you, at all.”
He heaves out a breath, and I can practically hear him shaking his head. “There’s a lot to say, and now’s not a good time, okay? I’m at the office. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Yeah, okay.” I don’t expect him to bear his soul in a room with his subordinates, so I don’t push him. “I’m gonna be late for class, I gotta go.” I end the call, staring at the darkening screen for a moment and wondering if I shouldn’t try harder to get some insight out of my mom. Thinking back, I wonder how I couldn’t tell something was wrong sooner than this. Clenching my hands, I let out a deep breath. Whatever is going on with them, it isn’t good.
When I look at the dash, my mom and dad fade away, and I grab my bag. “Goddammit.”
I hop out of the Explorer and slam the door shut behind me. I’m fucking late. I jog through the parking lot toward the quad. I know I won’t make it there in the two minutes I have until Professor Murray’s class officially starts, but I haul ass anyway. By the time I get to Building C, there are only a few students hustling around, which means I’m officially screwed.
When I get to Professor Murray’s lecture room, I brace myself and open the door. He’s addressing the class, writing down names as they shout them out. He glares at me as I hurry to an open seat in the second row, his eyebrow raised. “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Turner.” He looks back to the rest of the class.
“And, Miss Martinez, who will your partner be?” he asks as I pull out my notebook and peer at the person’s desk next to me to see what they’re talking about. There’s no handout and no one’s books are open yet.
“Debra Hess,” she replies, and the young women exchange a grin. Professor Murray calls out a few more names before the lecture room door opens again. Everyone stops chattering as Bethany walks in, her chest is heaving and her hair mussed, probably a lot like mine.
Professor Murray looks from Bethany to me. “Since you and Mr. Turner don’t seem to care who your project partners are, the two of you can work together.” He smiles with false amusement and writes what I assume are our names down on his paper. “We’ll see if between the two of you, you can get your project completed on time.”
Heaving out what little air is left in my lungs, I lean my head down on the desk and silently groan. There are worse things than being her partner for a project, but this isn’t what I need right now.
I can smell her perfume before I hear her footsteps and apologies coming down my row. She slides into the empty seat beside me and pulls out her things.
“Partners?” she whispers. “For what?”
I look at her, already exhausted from this day. “I have no idea.”
Bethany glances at her phone, adjusting it to silent, when I see a text message pop up on her screen. I don’t mean to pry, but I read the message without thought.
Mom: Your father and I have late meetings tonight. I need you to pick up Jesse after class.
Heaving a sigh, she shoves her phone into her purse.
“If you’ve learned anything in this class this past semester,” Professor Murray begins, “it’s that design is mostly about planning. It’s about the bigger picture and, even more than that, it’s about making your client happy. Luckily for you, there is no real client, however, I expect a full mock-up of a room design, as if there were. I want a written proposal, an estimate, and a budget of no less than ten thousand, complete with an image board, list of possible vendors—the whole gamut. I want to know what your project is, what purpose it’s serving, and what it’s going to look like and cost in the end.”
“Professor Murray?” one of the students asks a few seats down.
“Yes, Mr. Mallory?”
“When’s this project due?”
“I want everything on my desk by May first.”
The class groans and his eyes narrow. “I’m happy to move the deadline up a little, if you’d like.”
“No, May first is great,” Chuck says regretfully. “Just checking.”
“Good. Three weeks should be plenty of time for this, especially given you all have partners.” Professor Murray’s eyes land on Bethany and then on me, and I glare back at him. This is an elective for me, and I don’t have the patience for this today.
“This is going to act as one of two final grades for this class,” he continues. “So, prioritize it accordingly. I’m going to give you the rest of class to meet with your partner to outline and plan. If it looks like you aren’t using your time wisely, we’ll dive into the next chapter in your Integrative Theories coursework and focus on historical architecture trends in modern societies.”
Everyone groans.
“Riveting, I know.” His gaze shifts around the room. “Well, then, get to it.”
This isn’t happening. My tolerance has reached its limit this morning after only two hours of sleep, spilled coffee on my jeans, my non-breakfast with my dad, and because of him, being late to class. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Bethany right now, too.
She turns to face me fully. “Well,” she says, her voice as prickly as I feel, “this is going to be interesting.”
“Yep.” I lean back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest. Then, we stare at one another. Her eyes
are duller than I remember, with dark shadows, like she’s exhausted. “Late night?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I care.
“Something like that,” she says, brushing off my comment. She picks up her pencil, poised for note-taking. “We’re going to need time outside of class to work on this. Maybe we should start by figuring out a meeting schedule.” She pulls her teal-cased phone from her bag and scans her calendar. “Thursdays are out, those are my nights with Jesse. I could do Saturdays, though—mornings are best.”
I nod. “Fine. I’m assuming we should meet at the Falls Library?”
“That works. We should meet this weekend so we can get started, if you’re available. We can divvy up the tasks and just check in through email or texts after that.”
I only half-hear her as I make a note to meet up with her this Saturday, then a text pops up from my dad.
Dad: Crap. I can’t do tonight.
Of course he can’t. I shove my phone into my pocket.
“Study date on . . . Saturday,” Bethany mutters and her fingers flutter over the screen. “I’ll bring the coffee.” She clicks off her phone.
A study date, really? The absurdity of our situation is too much, and I can’t help but laugh, which only makes Bethany’s frown deepen.
“What?” Her eyes turn to slits, and she heaves out a breath. “What’s the problem?”
“This is hilarious. Me and you—partners—planning study dates. It just proves my theory.”
Bethany lifts a perfect eyebrow and pulls her glossy bottom lip between her teeth. It only irritates me more. “Do I even want to know?” she asks.
“Sure—it’s like a game. The powers that be are toying with us. They’re testing me. It’s really funny, if you think about it.”
“You know what, Nick? You can laugh about this all you want, but this isn’t a joke to me. I need a good grade on this project, and if that means we have to suck it up and get over our shit, then I’m willing to do that. Are you?”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 75
