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omgkatinka · 2 months ago

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Oh I feel like I missed a part or two? Just going to go back and start over, just to make sure 😉

eyes that see part 22

Eyes That See Summary: You’ve cared for others your entire life. This is a story of you learning to take care of yourself.

Eyes That See Part 22 Summary: You tell Justine when you’ll be officially moving out, and you have an argument about it. Afterwards, you go to Sy for comfort. Length: Around 11-12k

Tags: passive-aggressiveness, fighting, emotional vulnerability

When Sy drops you off the morning after Amelia’s Christmas party, you linger in his truck while his engine stalls in the driveway. The weekend has felt so long and so short at the same time, jam-packed with activities and now coming to a screeching halt.

“Well,” you say as you plop your overnight bag on your lap, “guess this is bye for now.”

Your voice is a bit scratchy, your throat dry from dehydration. There’s an aching in your head that you entirely deserve.

With pink-tinged eyes, Sy’s not much better off. “Whatcha doin’ this week?” he asks.

You sigh. “Workin’ like usual. The portal’s gonna open for me to sign up for next semester’s classes, so there’s that…Oh, and I get to sign the lease for my new place.”

“When?”

“Sometime over a lunch break this week.”

“You doin’ that alone?” he asks, and when you nod, he follows up with, “You good?”

“Oh, yeah,” you answer. “It’ll be fine.”

“Read everything before signin’. Don't let ‘em fuck you over.”

“It's just a standard lease,” you chuckle.

Sy rubs his beard. “Yeah, well. Read everything before signin’,” he advises again.

You nod. Then it’s quiet again. You don’t want to exit the truck. Sy probably doesn’t want you to, either. You’re both procrastinating.

“Can we meet for lunch sometime this week?” you look over and ask.

He reaches out and puts a hand on your leg. “Of course, baby.”

“I didn’t know if you were busy or anything,” you say with a shrug.

“Never too busy for you,” he replies with a wink and an easy smile, and it’s cheesy enough that you lean in and kiss him.

When you back away, he puts his hand on the back of your head to keep you still, and he kisses you again, three long pecks in succession that end with you both softly and stupidly smiling at each other.

“Bye.”

Sy runs his thumb across your cheekbone before you move to open the passenger door. “Bye,” he repeats.

He waits until you’ve safely opened the front door of the house to reverse his truck down the driveway.

Moving your hair to cover your neck, you walk inside the house to unexpectedly find Justine sitting on the couch alone. You lift a hand to greet her and try to put a small smile on your face for good measure, as well, but you're not sure how it comes across.

Anyway, you’re sadly only masking; now that she knows about your plan to move out, things are tenser than ever before between you.

You’re gonna have to talk with her soon–really talk. Once you finalize when you’ll actually be moving into your new apartment, you'll have to share your plans with her, and you'll have to get some things off your chest at the same time, too.

And you dread it.

Without any children around making any noise–not even the dog–the room is quiet in a way that’s almost eery. As you walk in front of the television, the silence is anything but comfortable.

“Got the day to yourself,” you ask, “or is everyone still asleep?”

Justine briefly glances at you. “They’re out. Comin’ back tonight for school tomorrow.”

“Oh, cool,” you say, and then, after it gets weird, you internally sigh and just lug your bag down the hallway and into your bedroom.

You spend the day doing laundry, mindlessly picking up around the house, and catching up on a book. When the kids come home, you don’t let the weirdness between you and Justine keep you from eating at the kitchen table with them, and it’s a typical, normal evening.

In your bedroom at the end of the night, you mentally prepare yourself for your talk with Justine. You’ll approach her at just the right time some night this week... You’ll sit at the table and have coffee together. You’ll break the inevitable news. You’ll have the difficult conversation. It’ll suck at first, but it’ll be alright.

Later on, you text with Sy back and forth before waiting for sleep to come, but as you lay in your dark room, it just…doesn’t. After tossing and turning for a while, you realize that something’s different. The room’s darker than it usually is. Something’s off.

You stand up and peek out of your window blinds. Where Miss Donna’s house usually has a front-porch light shining so radiantly that the gleams actually show around your window blinds and literally change the environment of your room, her house is now entirely shrouded in shadows.

Subconsciously, you guess you’ve gotten used to the light, however distant, being there somehow, and it’s just weird seeing Miss Donna’s house entirely dark across the street.

Her car is outside in her long driveway, so she’s got to still be home, you reckon. Unless she’s in the hospital or something. But if that were the case, then Sy would’ve mentioned something.

You put on a robe, go into the hallway bathroom where a supply of lightbulbs are kept, and quietly step out onto the porch.

This is so stupid, you think while you scurry across the road to her house in your slippers, robe, and pajamas. As you knock on her front door, you think it again, over and over like a mantra. She’s probably entirely fine.

“Who's there?” a voice from inside the house calls out after several silent moments.

“It’s me,” you loudly answer. “Y/N. From across the street?”

The door opens. “Well, why didn’t you say so,” Miss Donna murmurs harmlessly, wrapping her own robe around herself. “Had me worried if I should even open the door this late at night. You never know.”

You make an apologetic face. “Right, I'm so sorry to scare you, but that’s actually why I’m here,” you tell her. “I don’t mean to be nosy at all, but you usually keep your porch light on all night long, ‘cause I’ve gotten used to seeing the light from the bottom of my blinds I guess, and it wasn’t on tonight, so I didn’t know if you just weren’t here or if the bulb needed to be replaced or if you were okay, or…"

You shrug after holding up the small package of lightbulbs.

She reaches out to the wall and flicks a light-switch up and down. “Oh, wouldja look at that. I had no clue.”

“Here.” You make quick work out of changing the lightbulb and sticking the old one back in the packet, and when she flicks on the inside switch next time, a glow spreads around.

Beginning to turn the other way and smiling with a small wave, you say, "I'm real sorry for botherin' you so late, but hope you have a good evening."

“Can’tchu come on in and sit for a spell?” she asks before you can step off the porch.

Your natural inclination is to deny the offer, knowing you’ll be an imposition. But are you really an imposition if she’s willingly offering?

“Are you sure?” you still ask.

“Come on,” she beckons you with a quick-waving hand. “I made too much for dinner. Sy’s on me for gettin’ too skinny, and here I’ve been cookin’ enough to feed a whole family. Even with Sy comin’ over to get leftovers, it’s entirely too much. My fridge is plumb full.”

“Cookin’ for one is hard,” you comment as you step inside and shut the door behind you.

“Let me heat you up a plate,” she says, but you politely decline.

“Oh, thanks, Miss Donna, but I actually had a big dinner myself.”

A college football game is playing on the television. After you’ve declined her food, Miss Donna wastes no time in sitting down and gluing her eyes to the screen.

"You really enjoy football, huh?" you ask after sitting on her couch.

"Oh, I just like to keep up," she brushes off, making it seem like she's a casual watcher, but the way you catch her moving her arms after every play signifies a much deeper attachment than she's leading on.

“All the bowl games are exciting,” you mention.

That gets her going, and you chat about football for a while until the game on TV goes to halftime.

"You sure you don’t want somethin' to eat?" she asks. "Sy said you got those food allergies, but I can whip up just about anything, you know."

You smile. "I'm seriously fine. Thanks, though."

"Alrighty, well, if you're lyin' 'cause you don't want me to get up and wait on ya, just go on in there yourself and take whatcha want, fix up whatcha want."

"That's sweet,” you say with a laugh, then you place your hands on your knees and stand up. “I’ve got work in the mornin’, though, so I’m gonna go ahead and get.”

“Alright, then. Thank you so much for fixin’ my lightbulb, now.”

“Oh, you’re so welcome, Miss Donna,” you answer before reaching out of the container of lightbulbs resting on the couch.

"By this point, you should just call me MaMaw like the rest of 'em."

You let out another little laugh. "I probably will," you honestly say, then you begin making your way across the street again.

For reasons that you can no longer continue to blame on MaMaw’s house-lights being off, you sleep lightly that night, so when your bedroom door opens and there stands a small child sometime in the early, early parts of the morning, you’re alert enough to notice it.

“Daniel,” you sit up and say, blinking quickly. He doesn’t move at all, so you bunch your eyebrows together in confusion and gesture for him to come inside your room. “What’s up?”

He steps closer to your bed but doesn’t actually say anything. You assess him the best you can in the darkness. “Didju have an accident?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you hurt?”

Again, he shakes his head.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

His face contorts before he starts to quietly cry.

“Oh, honey, it’s okay.” You swoop the blankets off yourself and sit upright. “It wasn’t real. You’re here at home. You’re safe.”

He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“It’s okay,” you say again, hugging him.

When he calms down enough to breathe regularly, you finally let him go. “You can sleep next to me if you want.”

He shakes his head and sniffs. “Luke’s gonna make fun of me.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will,” Daniel sulks.

“He won’t even know,” you say. “When we get up in the morning for school, I’ll get you up first so you’ll already be in the living room. It’ll look like you just got up early.”

Daniel is quiet but obviously agreeable, so you start to prepare him a place in bed.

“Actually, you move constantly in your sleep,” you murmur, “so maybe I can set you up with a pallet on the floor…”

“I like sleepin’ on the floor,” he quietly says.

“Yeah, Weirdo,” you joke while preparing a comfy area of blankets next to your bed, but he barely laughs. Poor kid.

Once you’re both laying down with pillows under your head–you on your mattress and Danny on the floor–you look down in concern.

“You know Mr. Sy?” you ask.

Daniel sniffs. “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You know, he has bad dreams a lot.”

“Really?”

“Mm. Even grown-ups have bad dreams sometimes. And it’s okay.”

Daniel just nods and stares at the side of your bed. Before his eyes slip closed, he whispers out, “Night, Y/N.”

“Night, Danny.”

*******

Signing your lease is an exciting but quick event. Your first real apartment. You’ve lived in an apartment before back in Virginia, but this is your apartment. It’s different. There’s a feeling of independence unlike anything you’ve known before.

Justine’s in the kitchen when you get home from work, still riding the excitement of the lease-signing, and when you quickly glance at her and notice she's wearing sweatpants, you’re relieved. That means she won't be going out tonight. That means you can talk to her.

Maybe.

You dread-dread-dread it, but it’s got to be done. Your lease is signed. It’s done.

“I’m home,” you sing-song out in a funny voice to signal your presence to the house, but there’s no need; before you can even really close the door behind you, you drop down to your knees to accept a running hug from a full-speed Braylyn coming down the hall, then a just-as-excitable hug from Michael whose short legs take a while longer to reach you.

“Michael, Michael, Fo-Fiachle, Banana-Fanna Fo-Fichael, Me-Mi-Mo-Michaeelll.”

“You’re silly!”

You lean forward and blow a raspberry on his bare navel until he cackles. "So are you."

The living room is a wreck, and you sincerely don’t care for once. You hug the kids and accept messy dog-kisses from Molly and listen with exaggerated interest while tons of tiny voices talk over one another about what all they did today.

“I made a snowflake, Y/N,” Braylyn tells you, then she instantly runs into the kitchen and yanks a piece of paper off the refrigerator. “I use’ded scissors and paper and I folded it. Look.”

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” you enthuse, but you’re interrupted by Luke.

“It’s thirteen more days ‘til Santa comes,” he tells you, and you nod, trying not to ignore Braylyn’s snowflake that’s being excitedly pushed in your face.

“Sure is,” you tell him while making another exaggerated-impressed face at Braylyn’s art. “Just under two weeks."

For no reason at all, Michael shrieks by your side. You momentarily cover an ear with one of your hands.

"So–What was for supper?" you ask over the commotion.

"Pusghetti," Braylyn answers.

You widen your eyes. "Oh, spaghetti, yum."

"Did you eat it all, Michael? You eat it all, Luke?"

"I don't like spaghetti," he says over Michael’s loud screams.

"So, what'd you eat?" you raise your voice and ask.

Luke sulks. "Nothin’.”

“Nothin’?”

“I don’t like spaghetti,” he mumbles. “Momma said if I didn't eat what was on my plate, I don't get supper at all."

You frown while trying to consider what else you can make him before he goes to bed. You’d have to do it secretly or else that’d be some sort of issue.

You sigh and give him as sympathetic a look as you can. "Where's Danny?"

“In his room.”

“Huh,” you utter, and you excuse yourself to quickly go to your bedroom and change clothes. Just moments later, you tip-toe across the hall.

The door to Daniel's bedroom is oddly closed, so you knock before you step in. When you do, you see Daniel at his small bedside desk staring grumpily at a book with a pencil in his hand.

You approach him carefully and bend down to kiss the top of his head. "Hey, dude."

“Hey,” he mutters, and he sounds even surlier than Luke.

“Had an okay day at school?” you ask, touching his shoulder.

He just grunts.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Rough day, huh.” Poor kid’s been going through it this week.

In frustration, Daniel suddenly throws his pencil on top of the book. “I have to memorize this entire stupid poem.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” he answers moodily, “I just don’t wanna do it.”

“So you’re in a bad mood?”

“Hmpf.”

“Whenever I’m in a bad mood, I like to go for a walk,” you hint.

“Mom won’t let me go out this late,” he mumbles. “‘Cause the stupid sun sets at, like, five o’clock now.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not if I go with you.”

He lifts his head like he’s considering it, but then he turns back to stare at his book. “Then everyone else is gonna wanna go.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“They’re so stupid.”

“That’s not n–Well, that’s a very strong opinion.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Alright, little man,” you sigh. “I’ll let you chill. Let me know if I can help you study.”

You hold out your hand in offering, and for a minute you think he won’t take the bait, but he does: he reaches out his hand, too, and together, you give your secret handshake to one another. Before you walk out of his room, you see the tiniest twitch of his mouth, and you count that as a win.

There’s commotion throughout the next hour as the kids do their baths and nighttime routines, and after telling everyone goodnight individually–and sneaking Luke a bunch of snacks in bed–you go back to your bedroom again. You aren’t hiding from Justine. That’s not what you’re doing. You’re going to do this. You’ve got to.

Your thesis is almost entirely done, but it won’t be done-done until next semester. Still, you immerse yourself in schoolwork until your eyes get itchy. By the time you make yourself actually exit your bedroom, your palms are sweaty.

Justine’s still in the kitchen.

“Hey,” you greet her while opening the fridge and looking inside. You bought a buggy-full of groceries two days ago but don’t even know what there is that you could whip up right now. After grabbing some soy milk, you close the refrigerator door and start fixing up some coffee.

While keeping her focus on the plate she’s washing, Justine murmurs, “Hey.”

You’ve been so absent lately that it’s evident: dirty dishes are piled so high in one side of the sink that they’re overflowing onto the counter.

“Want me to make you a cup?” you look at the coffee-maker before asking Justine.

When she replies with, “It’s nine o’clock,” you assume she doesn’t want any.

“It actually helps me sleep sometimes,” you murmur.

As coffee finishes filling your mug, you continue the conversation. “You goin’ anywhere tonight?”

Justine turns her head to look at you over her shoulder. “Why, you goin’ to your boyfriend’s again?”

“No.” You shrug, trying to make it casual. “Just wanted to see if you had time to talk, that’s all.”

She’s silent for a minute. “I got these dishes to do, laundry…the house is a mess.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, instantly wanting to move around and clear off all the surrounding surfaces out of a mixture of guilt and the need to feel useful, but you push down your instincts. You didn’t make any of this mess.

But your agreement with her has always been to help out more around the house so you could get a deal on the rent, you can’t help thinking.

But–are you really getting a deal on the rent at all?

You clear your throat. You dread this, you dread this, you dread this.

“If you're too busy to chat tonight, then maybe tomorrow or something?”

Feeling you out, Justine stares at you over her shoulder for a moment. When she finally turns around, she wipes her hands on her pants and leans back against the sink.

“Oh,” you say when you realize she’s looking at you expectantly. “Like…” You shrug again. “Like–an actual sit-down chat.”

“Sure.”

You feel stupid just standing where you’re at without moving. “Oh, you mean like you’re good now?”

“I’ll be out most of the day tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and you walk to the table and pull out a chair. You don’t ask if she needs childcare because it’s a school-day tomorrow and you guess she’s got things figured out for after-school care.

Justine follows your lead and sits down at the opposite end of the kitchen table. It feels so much like deja’ vu of the most recent conversation you had with her that you almost frown.

You and Sy also had a hard conversation at this very same table, you recollect. In these very same seats. And it’d been one of the hardest conversations of your life.

But you’re gonna keep it positive right now. The talk with Sy was hard, yeah, but it had ended up being one of the greatest things of your life. You got everything out honestly and openly, and you felt a lot better afterwards. Your relationship is as solid as ever.

This conversation with Justine will be just like that. You take a sip of your hot coffee to steel yourself.

“Alright. So.” You sincerely make eye-contact with her. “First off, I wanted to apologize to you,” you say, and you briefly think of Sy and all the things he would tell you for starting this thing off by saying sorry–and to Justine of all people–but you’ve got to do it. You’ve got to.

Above all else, you have to stay true to yourself and do what you morally feel is right. Secondly, Sy–or anyone else, for that matter–can’t always be around to fight your battles for you, and you’ve got to make your decisions on your own without looking for external validation everywhere. Some things are just always going to be unpleasant, and you’re doing yourself a giant disservice by just continuing to avoid things at the sake of preventing arguments.

But–If you can at least start this discussion by bringing up your own imperfections in your friendship with her, hopefully it’ll even out the negative news you’re about to share about you moving out.

“For what?”

“Well…I know things haven’t been the greatest between us for the past few months,” you say. “And I know a lot of it’s been because you’re–because I’m not the greatest at…communicating.”

You leave your sentence floating in the air for a few moments, waiting to see how Justine reacts to your words, but so far, she just looks impassive. She does give you a slight nod, however.

“So this is me sayin’ sorry for that,” you sincerely go on, briefly looking down at your slowly wringing hands on the table. “I know I probably keep too much inside. Sometimes it’s just hard for me to get it out. But I’m working on it.”

Again, Justine nods, and awkwardly, you clear your throat. Afterwards, you raise your head and look at a spot next to Justine’s face so you don’t have to directly look her in the eyes anymore. It’s just–she’s being really quiet right now, and it’s making you feel strange having all of the attention like this. Like you’re being examined.

“Okay, so first off,” you hop to it, “I just…I wanted to let you know that I’ve gotten things finalized at the place I told you I was lookin’ at. The efficiency apartment by the police station."

Justine remains quiet, and you clear your dry throat again before going on.

"I’ll be movin’ in during the first week of January," you tell her, and then you're instantly on the defensive: "And I know that’s pretty quick, so I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out. Which was today.”

“Mm,” she murmurs, and you close your eyes.

The tone she’s using isn't pleasant. She isn’t open for an authentic discussion, you can tell. She’s got her guard up. This isn't good news for her.

Worry starts filling your stomach and tightening your chest, but you breathe through it. You’re an adult, you tell yourself, and then: It’s just Justine. And then even more: You’ve got to deal with unpleasant things instead of avoiding them. That’s life. It’s inevitable. In your day-to-day work duties, you deal with the public all the time.

“So…I really wasn’t imaginin’ it bein’ so quick when I first told you last month,” you look her dead-in-the-eye again and state, “but the tenants there now are movin’ out at the end of the year, and if I don’t move in after they move out and get the place cleaned, the rental agency would give it away to someone else to get more prorated rent." You shrug. "You know…You know how those things go.”

The side of Justine’s mouth twitches. “I don’t think the whole town’ll be linin’ up tryin’ to snag that apartment before you do, Y/N,” she says with a little chuckle, and normally you’d chuckle, too, to keep things friendly, to coat your unpleasant words with a smile, but you don’t. You don't really find what she’s said to be amusing. It’s like she’s making fun of you for the apartment you chose.

She speaks up after neither of you says anything for a while. "So. First week of January."

In guilt, you sit frozen while internally warring with yourself. Is this conversation going to inevitably go in the direction of finances? Should you offer to pay her January’s rent in full for the inconvenience of shorthanded notice? February’s? What’s even the standard procedure for something like this? A notice for leaving employment is at least two weeks, but what is it for moving out of someone's home? You don’t know the rules for this kind of thing.

“Hello?” she finally asks, and you blanch at her tone.

"Sorry, I–"

You thought you had your shit together in your head for this conversation, but you guess not.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah," you murmur. "First week of January."

“Alright, so…” Justine puts her elbows on the table and quietly sighs. “Is that it? You’re apologizing that you’re bad at communicating right before you tell me you’re movin’ out in…three weeks?”

Instinctively, your eyes close. Because that’s what you do to hide.

But you open them right back up. Tilting your head, you finally look at her straight on. Dead-in-the-eyes. "What have I ever done to you to make you dislike me so much, Justine?" you quietly ask, almost in wonder.

She blinks a few times in succession. “Wh–What? Where’s that comin’ from?” she asks. “I don’t dislike you.”

“But you do, though,” you murmur conversationally. With a light tone, you're speaking as if you're just making an observation. “It's...” You let out a little laugh. “It’s extremely obvious you do. I know I’m not perfect, and I’m ownin’ that, but to feel like I’m not even liked…" You swallow. “Like, not even a little bit. Or appreciated whatsoever. And then to feel like I’m being made fun of, even…By someone who was supposed to be my friend…I just don’t get what I’ve done that’s been so terrible to you to treat me like this.”

Looking away, she sighs. Putting this out there so bluntly must be making her uncomfortable.

But you've been the one walking on eggshells around her for months.

“It’s not that I don’t like you, Y/N. We’ve been friends forever.” She crosses her arms and slouches back in the chair she’s using. “There’s just…The things you do irritate me, I guess.”

You look back at the table. “Like what?”

“Well…” Loudly enough for you to hear it again, she sighs once more. “You don’t ever come out of your room,” she says, uncrossing her arms to gesture down the hall with them. “We used to hang out together, watch shows together out in the living room…We used to have fun with each other. Now it’s like the only conversations you have with me anymore have to do with when something’s off with your schedule and you can’t be around or whatever. And more times than not, it’s usually with no real notice. So, yeah. That irritates me. That would irritate anyone."

Your lips part, your mouth falling open. Your shoulders raise as you instinctively want to argue with what she’s said, but it’s true. That’s why you’re having this conversation, after all. You’re bad at communicating.

“I get that, and I really am sorry,” you look up again and utter. “I know I haven't really hung out with you that much lately. This semester’s been pretty rough for me, honestly, so that’s a big part of why I’m in my room a lot doin’ work, but…I think it’s also ‘cause I have a lot of–”

You cut yourself off. You won’t talk about your social anxiety. You won’t talk about your random exhaustion keeping you in bed. You won’t talk about how the pressure of cleaning the entire house and cooking for the kids and driving clients around every day and typing case-notes and cramming for exams and talking on the phone all day every day completely depletes you of energy. You won't mention how sometimes the weight of all you do makes you feel like you're suffocating and can't bear human interaction for another second once you enter the house.

But there is something you do need to talk about. And that is how you've only found comfort in your bedroom recently because the rest of the house is so unwelcoming. Because you've been avoiding her. Because after all this time, the miscommunication after miscommunication has led you to withdraw entirely, and how that's led to passive acceptance of being used, and how that's led to true resentment.

“Alright, so…” You sigh a little, starting to feel a little happy that you’re both getting things off your chest. “I sorta feel like any time I ever come to you with anything that’s, like, in any way inconvenient, that I get some sort of bad reaction. And for whatever reason, it…triggers me. So over time, I’ve learned to just sorta be quiet and keep to myself so I don’t have to deal with it. And then that makes me wait until the last minute to bring some things up to you, which isn’t the best way to be, and I really do apologize for that. Like I said, I’m workin’ on it. I know it doesn’t make up for me doin’ it so much in the past, though. But I hope you understand where I’m comin’ from. Like…Where my mind’s at.”

You know you’re being less than eloquent here, but Justine will understand. She should, at least. After knowing one another all this time, after living with each other for so long, after taking care of her children for her, after cleaning her house and walking her dog and trying to do all types of overlooked things to make living together as stress-free as possible, she should be receptive to the unpleasant realities you’ve admitted. Hopefully she’ll even do some soul-searching right here along with you.

“Deal with it?” she repeats instead, and from her offended expression alone, you know your expectations of how this conversation is going to go won’t pan out. “Deal with what? What does that mean? Like, deal with me?”

You swallow thickly. “The–The reaction. From you.”

“Y/N, you–”

“I’m really not tryin’ to argue or anything,” you interrupt as reasonably and as gently as possible, your eyes wider than before, your hands open. “That’s not what this is. I just told you that I’m takin’ the blame for not speakin’ up when I should’ve. It’s just that–People havin' bad reactions to stuff I say or do has been the way it’s always been my entire life, and–”

“Your entire life?” she smacks her lips and asks, putting her hands in the air. “Y/N, we grew up together, come on.”

And then your mouth falls open.

This isn’t how this played out in your head at all. You thought you could both share the things about one another that you’ve been having issues with without arguing. Everyone has faults, after all. Everyone makes mistakes. You just thought…You thought you could work through them. Like adults.

“I mean…You don’t–You don’t know every single thing I’ve been through," you almost whisper. "So–yes,” you maintain. “It has been my entire life.”

The look on her face and the echoes of her mean voice and the frustration she’s exuding makes something snap inside you, and your body grows prickly as you feel it building within your limbs. This is going to be an argument.

And how could it not be? Your friendship has rotted.

Initially, you came into this conversation openly, wanting to apologize for any hurt you’ve caused and for any wrongdoings from the past, for the misunderstandings due to your inability to speak up, for anything you weren’t even aware of, even. Just to have a clean slate. It sounds like despite your willingness to apologize, though, Justine’s further attacking you.

“Since I was a kid,” you explain, using your shaky hands to help you articulate, “everything's always been brushed on me to do. You should know how my home-life was, Justine. I had to figure things out. I had to keep the peace in my own family because no one else could figure out their own emotions and talk about things like mature adults. I had to bust my ass doin’ everything and bein’ everything to everyone because no one else did shit. As a child. As a teenager. And it’s still that way to this day as an adult, Justine. And it’s like that in this house, too.” You pause and realize that you’ve begun to squint your eyes so strongly that you feel the skin in between them bunch up. “And I know it’s my own fault, ‘cause I’ve never, like, made boundaries or rules with you when we moved down here to start with, but–”

“This is unbelievable,” she interrupts, and you almost scowl.

Instead, you sigh. She just doesn't get it. “What is, Justine?”

“This sob-story,” she shakes her head and says. “When we’re the ones who’re gonna suffer until I get somethin’ set up because I don’t know how we’re gonna pay the mortgage now. But this is ‘cause of your childhood somehow?”

If possible, your mouth drops wider than it did before, but you get yourself together within seconds. “Look, I know that me movin’ out is gonna mean that you’re not as…comfortable as you are right now,” you slowly figure out the appropriate phrase to say, “but c’mon, Justine. You…You have a great job. You really do. You’re a per diem nurse. And I know you get child support and alimony, too.”

She heaves a sigh. “The point,” she replies like you’re stupid, “is the expenses.”

You close your eyes, tense all over. The thought of moving out of this house and leaving the children in any type of struggle financially has you feeling almost guilty enough to stay for a few more months–maybe more–but you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You know that Justine has a lot of bills, but…you do, too.

That’s selfishyou’rebeingselfish–

Nostrils flaring, mouth terse, you sit there and just breathe, trying to keep it together. “I don’t feel like you’re really gettin’ what I’m tryin’ to say here.”

“I get it exactly,” she replies, “because I’ve known you all your life. You're playin' the victim. Just like you always do."

You freeze. "I…What?”

She stares you down. “Y/N. I’m the single mom with four kids here. You don’t hear me complainin’ about it. And I haven’t complained about you movin’ out, either–not once–even though you’ve given me, like, hardly any notice. Like usual.”

You want to give in so, so badly. You blink a few times in a row, clearing your throat afterwards so you don’t end up doing something stupid like breaking down in tears while yelling at her or something. Even though that’s what you want to do, instead, you take a deep, even breath.

"And I'm sorry," you utter. "I'm sorry for the short notice, okay? But I really don’t think it’s fair to say that I’m playin’ the victim or something when I’m just tellin’ you how I feel.”

She sighs. “Feel how you wanna feel, then,” she says. “I don’t know what you want me to say anymore. I’m a shitty person–I’m such a shitty person that you’ve locked yourself away in your room for months and now you’re movin’ out–and I gotta deal with all the aftermath myself. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”

Sighing, you say, “That’s not all there is to it. I'm not tryin’ to say you're this horrible person. That’s never what I intended from any of this.”

“Then what did you intend?” she crosses her arms and asks.

You just frown. “For you to understand me a little bit, I guess. And the things that I do.”

“I dunno about all that.” She huffs out a tiny laugh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever really understand…”

“I mean, I’m here to try to communicate, so. I can…I can try.”

“Yeah, well.” She sighs. “Here’s what I don’t get. You’re movin’ out, but you’re not even movin’ in with your boyfriend. You’re movin’ into an economy apartment by yourself. And for what? Seriously? When you could stay here and save money.”

"Living here isn't saving me money," you reply, not able to keep the frustration from your voice. You put your elbows on the table and lower your head in your hands. "It's not."

After doing all the math, you’re saving money by moving out. Not even counting the rent you pay, how often do you buy food for the entire family? How often do you get the kids little things they want when you're at the store? Groceries? Dog food? How often do you help out when random things around the house need to be fixed? How much have you spent on gasoline alone taking the kids to their sporting events?

“I know a lot of this tension between us lately is my own fault ‘cause I never speak up for myself, and I know that,” you tell her. “I’ve said that, like, four times to you already, but it…it still just doesn’t make any of this right.”

Confusion covers Justine's face. “Doesn’t make what right?”

You pause, not able to reply, and you must look stupid for a while as your mouth opens and stays that way. “Justine, you’ve brushed off everything on me since we moved down here, just about, and–”

“I have not,” she deflects. “Our agreement since the beginning was–”

“You were supposed to help me out by chargin’ me less rent, and I was supposed to help you when I could with the kids to make up the difference in childcare you’d be payin’ otherwise,” you tell her. “It was supposed to even out. But you took advantage of that. From the start, you did, and you just kept expectin’ a little more, and a little more, and then a little more, seein’ what you could get away with. And my spineless ass never did a thing about it, so then it became the way it was. Well, now I’m doing something about it.”

“Movin’ out,” she states. “Movin’ out entirely instead of just comin’ to me for a different arrangement. A pretty big fuck-you to me and the kids, don’t you think?”

“It’s not like that,” you retaliate. “I’ll always love the kids. I’m just…done. I’m done with this arrangement, Justine. I can't keep doin' this. I need to do something for myself for a change. It’s time I–It’s time I live for me.”

"But Y/N–” She makes a long, drawn-out noise. “I don't get how stayin’ here is keepin' you from that."

Tensely, you inhale through your nostrils. "I just–I don't think we're ever really gonna see eye-to-eye on this.”

"I guess not." Justine mirrors your sigh with one of her own, then it's quiet.

"Y’know, I thought you'd maybe actually be happy for me," you sadly chuckle. "About to get my Masters. Doin' stuff for myself for once. Finally datin' someone really great. After…everything that happened back in Virginia."

“I am happy for you."

“I really feel the support,” you mutter.

“Y/N, come on.”

“No, I have the right to be upset,” you tell her. “I get that me movin’ out is a big inconvenience for you, but–I know you won’t agree with this since we’ve already talked around and around and around it–you’re gonna be fine without me here. Really, you are. You have a really good job and two exes who financially support you and the kids. And here I am doin’ somethin’ for myself for once after workin’ two jobs for the longest freaking time, and I hardly have anyone down here to really share it with, and honestly, I just thought it’d be nice if–”

“Oh, my God,” she groans. “This is what I mean! You act like you don’t have a boyfriend whose ass you’re up all the time. Or people from work–at those two different jobs you’ve got–or even people from your classes. You’re around people all the time.”

At first, you don’t get the point she’s trying to make. You don’t get her meaning at all, actually. You don’t even have two jobs anymore, but you realize belatedly that you’ve never even told her you’ve quit Johnson’s, so of course that’s what she still thinks.

You stutter for a second before she clarifies herself. “If you don’t have other people to ‘share your happiness’ with when so many people are available out there,” she explains, “then that’s an issue with yourself at this point, Y/N. And that’s what I’ve been tryin’ to say.”

“Wait, what?”

“The fact that you don’t have friends isn’t on me!” Justine says in irritation. “I know you’re pissed off at me but won’t ever tell me what I’ve specifically done to you to drive you out, but I’m just one person. You’ve been here two years just like I have, Y/N. You’ve had the same chances I’ve had to make friends. But you sit in your room all the damn time. That’s why you don’t.”

Your eyes start burning with hot, welled-up water, but you pointedly try to keep yourself from crying. She’s dug up your biggest vulnerability again–the fact that you’re bad at making friends–and instantly, you feel like absolute shit.

Mentally, your brain begins agreeing with Justine. You have had the same chances she’s had to make friends while living here. Maybe even more chances. You’ve been around endless coworkers and peers your age in school. Because of how you are, though, you haven’t.

Justine notices your stinging eyes and sighs in frustration. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to be mean or anything, alright? But it’s the truth. This is what I mean about you playin’ the victim, Y/N–You don’t even try to–”

“Stop,” you interrupt with a rough, croaky voice. “Please, just stop.”

“I thought you wanted to get stuff out, though,” she retorts, and you stare at her for a long time.

You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or if she’s being sincere. “Maybe you are a horrible person,” you mumble despite your common sense telling you not to.

You’ve just let her get so into your head all of a sudden, so much that you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore, that you feel like you’re the only one who’s problematic in this friendship at all, and that just can’t be right. It can’t be. You’re not perfect, and you know you’re not, but you alone can’t be the purpose for this downfall. You’ve played a part in it, yeah, but you’re not the sole reason for everything going stale. You can’t be.

But maybe you really can be! Maybe you are! Maybe you really do play the victim without realizing it, and you really do keep yourself in your room all the time even though you really don’t think you do unless you’re doing homework or decompressing. You just–You just don’t know anymore–anything!–and while two tears fall out of your eyes, you feel crazier than ever.

Justine tilts her head to the side. “What?” she asks.

And something about her expression challenges you somehow, to the point where you lift up your chin. Sy’s not with you, but you pretend he is.

Maybe you don’t have a confident voice yet, but you’re forming one. And it’s the internal voice of Sy. Reminding you of your worth. Reminding you of everything you do that’s not been appreciated–hell, that’s not even been noticed until you stopped doing so much to begin with.

The image of Sy sitting in the exact same kitchen chair that Justine’s sitting in now…pointing down the hall to Justine’s room…listing off everything you do for her that’s taken for granted…speaking up for you because at that time you couldn’t do it yourself…

But you can speak up for yourself now. You no longer have to push down your emotions in fear of hurting someone else’s feelings. Not anymore.

“I said, maybe you are a horrible person,” you repeat louder, so loud that it’s clear what you mean but not loud enough for the kids to hear anything. “I get that you’re mad at me, or–we’re mad at each other, at this point–but here I am tryin’ to actually say sorry for makin’ you feel like I was springin’ this on you ‘cause I didn’t tell you how unhappy I’ve been all this time. I’m the one actually tryin’ to fix some of this. But you know what? Even if I had actually spoken up a few months ago when it started gettin’ bad, I don’t think it even would’ve made a difference.”

Justine tries to interrupt you, but you keep talking.

“I still don’t think you would’ve cared if I did try to tell you how I felt earlier,” you tell her. “You wouldn’t’ve cared. You wouldn’t’ve cared at all. Because all you want is your free childcare, and your free kennel service, and all your extra money, and the freedom to go out and do the kinda stuff you used to do when you were single. But you're not single anymore, Justine."

With her mouth dropped open, she scoffs. “Seriously? So after everything else, this is you slut-shamin' me now?”

“Oh, my God,” you say in irritation. “Do what you want, Justine. Do whatever the hell you want. Again, that’s not the goddamn point I’m tryin’ to make.”

“Then what is?” she loudly asks.

Feeling like a child backed into a corner with no other defense but her voice, you almost scream in retaliation. You almost do, you’re so close, you’re so mad and fed up and hurt that you almost do, but coincidentally, it’s the fact that the actual children are in the house that stops you.

“Your kids come to me when they get hurt,” you tell her through tightly-gritted teeth, waiting for your tears to dry up before falling once more. “When they need something. When they’re scared. In the middle of the night, they come to me when they have nightmares. They don’t know any different. Do you–Do you even realize that, Justine?”

Her mouth turns into a straight line. “If you don’t tell me, Y/N, then, no,” she mutters through similarly gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t know that.”

As you stare her down, your tears dry. “I don’t think that’s true,” you stonily say.

“They’re my own damn kids, Y/N. What does that even mean?”

“Now, I take a lot of blame for not speakin’ up when I should’ve,” you tell her. “I just apologized about a dozen times for that. It would’ve made things a hell of a lot easier if I hadn’t kept so much inside. But I did. And I’m sorry.” You blink, but you don’t look away. “But you’re their mother. You can’t tell me you’ve had no idea this whole time. If it weren’t for me, they’d be goin’ to school with dirty hair and dirty clothes. They wouldn’t’ve had their homework done, no–no lunch sometimes. Sometimes no dinner at night. You cannot sit here and tell me you never realized what all I’ve done for you. If you can’t see it at all for yourself, at least see it for your kids.”

“It’s always been about my kids,” she retorts. “I moved down here to be closer to Rob–you know that. I went to school so I could get the job I have now for them. So they could have a better life.”

“Right, but–”

She interrupts you with: “But, but, but. There’s always a ‘but’ with you.”

“Because you still aren’t recognizing how much I do for them!" you argue. "And you! How much I’ve done for so long. Just because I’m not their biological mom doesn’t mean that I’m not busy, too. I seriously–"

“Try havin’ four kids and see how busy you’ll be then.”

Sighing, you give up trying to get your point across. Your pointlessly-made coffee is going cold. “This is going nowhere.”

"Guess so,” Justine agrees. “This is the thing–We had a very clear arrangement from the very beginning–like, before we even moved down here–about finances. About how we'd do things evenly, how you’d have cheaper rent in exchange for help with the kids. We agreed on it."

"Stop with the arrangement," you want to beg. Instead, you just sigh again. “But it hasn’t been even,” you say.

"According to you,” she mumbles. “So in summary, you're movin' out because you feel like I don't acknowledge how busy you are?"

"I'm movin' out because you're a bad friend," you correct sharply, watching Justine as she blanches, “and I can't take it anymore."

“And now we’re all just fucked,” she states. “We’re probably gonna have to move somewhere else entirely–”

“Justine–Here’s what I don’t get,” you reply in exasperation. “Your name is on the mortgage. Just yours. This is your house. It’s always been your house. You got this place because the bank literally said your income alone could cover it with no regard to mine whatsoever. So if you want to be pissed off at me for not understanding all your expenses, then maybe you should re-evaluate whatever the fuck you’re buying.”

You stand up, wipe your eyes, and turn around to begin walking to your bedroom.

“Don’t you do that.” Justine stands up and begins following you. “Don’t say something bitchy like that and then just walk away.”

You whip around. “I’ve tried being civil the entire time, Justine. If you won't take accountability for your part in this at all, I'm done.”

She looks unhappy, but he crosses her arms. "Fine."

"Fine," you repeat, trying not to shout it or slam your door as you speed-walk into your room and throw yourself on your bed.

You're crying within seconds. "Fuck," you mutter to yourself, angrily wiping your eyes.

That didn't go how you wanted it to at all.

You don’t want to be in this house a minute longer. The thing is, where would you even go? You won’t get keys for your new apartment for weeks.

…Obviously, you know a place you could go.

You just hope he won’t mind.

He won’t. You know he won’t.

You reach for your phone on your nightstand, pocketing it before rushing around to pack a quick overnight bag. You throw in all types of work clothes and comfortable clothes, your glasses, and all your medicine, and for a minute, you impulsively consider taking a bunch of other stuff into the car, too. You end up stopping yourself. You aren’t moving out yet.

You really wish you could, though. You wish you could temporarily stash belongings at Sy’s house. Things had gone so badly with Justine that you fear she’s going to go in your room and pour bleach all over your bed or something.

Honestly, though, Sy probably would have no problem if you took some of your stuff to his place. You unplug your bedside lamp, grab your succulent off your bookshelf, then sling your bag over your shoulder. It's not much, but it's all you can carry without struggling, and the small act of rebellion feels nice.

In the hall outside the boys' bedroom, you pause as a new set of tears stream down your face. This just fucking sucks.

You don’t bother telling Justine that you’re leaving. If one of her kids wakes up wanting water in the middle of the night, you guess she’ll have to get off her own ass and get it for them herself.

Walking outside while shushing Molly, you feel even shittier that a thought so mean would even pass through your head. You don’t want to leave the kids. You really, really don’t. And you don’t want to have this type of hate in your heart, either.

This feels like a break-up. With the kids' innocence at stake.

Sy’s grandma lives right across the street from them, though, you remind yourself. You’ll see them as often as Justine allows you to. Maybe someday you two can be civil enough for the kids' sake. Maybe she'll still let you take them out sometimes. Somewhere. Not due to any obligation, but because you want to.

None of it was any obligation to you, anyway. It's always been a lot, but you aren't bitter towards the children at all. You love them. So much that you can’t even be as happy as you want to be about getting your own apartment because you fear what their lives will be like with you gone.

That's giving yourself way too much credit, though. You're not a savior in their lives. You've been a glorified nanny.

…But still. You love them.

After drying off your face, you march back into the kitchen to wash out your coffee cup, and after you dry it off, you place it back into the cabinet, turn on your heels, and stomp back outside.

The drive to Sy's house is automatic. You take the few easy turns out of the residential area where the houses are a little closer together, then you pass the library, Pop’s Ice Cream Shop, and the Bait & Tackle. After that, you find yourself on the first long and dark road to Sy’s, and after you switch on your bright-lights, you pull out your phone and press a few memorized buttons.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Sy’s easy voice answers right away, and it minimally eases your ongoing heightened emotions.

“Hey, Sy,” you breathe out. “Can I–I know it's last-minute, but–Can I come over tonight? Would that be okay?”

“‘Course,” he immediately tells you, then just as immediately: “What’s goin’ on?”

He must’ve heard you sniff. “I just–I sorta feel like shit right now, and I was hopin’..." You let out the breath you weren't aware you were holding in. "I was just hopin’ it’d be okay to sleep over.”

“Stay put,” he tells you. “I’ll getchu.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “I’m actually–I’m actually already in my car.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Watch out for deer.”

“Okay.”

It’s silent, but neither of you hang up.

“What happened?”

“I finalized my lease this afternoon during my lunch break,” you tell him. “I get to move in a little over three weeks.”

“That’s great,” he says, but there’s underlying confusion in his tone. He probably thinks you got ripped off. You know he was worried about that.

“So, uh. I talked to Justine about it just now,” you eventually say, and Sy makes a deep noise to let you know he knows where this is going.

“Didn’t go so hot?”

“Uh…No. Not at all,” you answer. “Told her when I’m gonna be movin’ out and…tried to talk things out with her. We just ended up in a big argument.”

Sy grunts. You know he’s holding back what he wants to say.

"I’m really sorry. I promise I don’t mean to ruin your night," you explain.

“Y/N,” he starts.

"I know, I know. I’m not burdening you,” you say aloud what he would probably tell you, “but still–you were probably gonna have a relaxing night, and now, this. I promise I won’t, like, cry on your shoulder or anything," you chuckle quietly. "Just wanted to…I just wanted to be with you tonight."

You stay on the phone until you arrive at his house. At the front door waiting on you under a lit porch light, Sy ends the phone call, puts his phone in his pocket, and walks to your car where he grabs your overnight bag and carries it inside for you.

When you walk into the kitchen, there are two shot glasses full of amber-colored whiskey on the counter, and you can't help but smile.

"Thanks," you murmur, and silently, both you and Sy reach out to lift the glasses into the air.

He's not one for meaningless toasts, so neither of you bother with making something up to lighten the mood, but you stare at one another before tossing the bourbon back and speak with your eyes. It's gonna be okay. While your chest burns, you step closer to him and place your head on his chest.

“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

You wrap your hands around his waist until they touch the small of his back. "Yeah," you say.

And then you just stand there together.

A few moments later when you're feeling somewhat lighter, you both make your way to the couch. Sy lifts both of your legs to rest over top of his thighs, and you place a pillow between your back and the arm of the couch. With the warmth of the fireplace before you, the serenity of the Christmas tree in the corner, and the comfort of Sy sitting directly next to you, things honestly do feel a little better.

The prospect of actually packing up your belongings and leaving Justine's house seems…possible now. It's not a giant thing anymore. You’ve had your conversation with her and it didn’t end well, but now it’s over. The dreaded communication part is done.

Now there’s all the other shit that comes after it.

Sy nudges you, and you up at him to see him lifting his eyebrows curiously. You’re brooding.

“Fuck her,” Sy dismissively says, tugging on your socked foot. “Soon you won’t even gotta deal with her shit.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, shrugging. “I dunno. I’m just upset with myself, I guess.”

“For what?”

You shrug again.

“What’d she say?”

“Nothin’ that wasn’t already true,” you mutter. “I just let it get to me. Said things I told myself I wouldn’t say.”

“Lemme guess…You told her when you’d be movin’ out…maybe tried to talk through some shit about why you’re movin’ out…and she prob’ly had some way of blamin’ you for everything.”

You tilt your head to the side. “In a nutshell.”

"Narcissists’re all the same,” he mutters.

Frowning, you glance at him. “You mean Justine?”

“Justine, my piece-of-shit stepdad, your old piece-of-shit boss. Don’t matter who it is. Nothin’s ever their fault.”

You never really considered that that’s what she is. Selfish, maybe.

“Don’t listen to people’s words,” Sy advises. “At the end of the day, talkin’ is just bullshittin’. People lie. Look at what they do. Look at how they act. That’s where they’re gonna tell you the most.”

"Talkin' isn't just bullshittin' to me."

"Not to me, either," he agrees, "but we’re not most people."

“I raised my voice at her,” you mumble. “And I cussed. And I was trying so, so hard to not make it into a fight.”

He softly grunts. “Around her, I woulda raised my voice, too.”

You make eye contact with him and almost smirk. Cussing would be a given.

“She said that I–I don’t know if she was tryin’ to imply that I’ve lied to her about what happened in my childhood or somethin’ to get attention, but I brought it up, kinda to explain why I have problems with conflict and stuff, and she said that I play the victim all the time.”

Sy snaps. “Ah, that's another thing narcissists do,” he says, and you look at him in confusion. “That’ll be called some good old-fashioned projection.”

Your lips part. “Huh?”

“That’s what they do,” he persists. “They don’t wanna live with the guilt themselves, so they’ll push all their shit on someone else to make that person the bad one.”

“But, like–that’s my thing. What if I am the bad one in this? I keep analyzing everything, and, like, from the outside I can see that okay–it’s clear she’s using me–but then I over-think it and I’m, like, but what if she wasn’t? And I’m just a really bad person screwing her over now?”

Sy sighs. There’s a half-finished bottle of Coors on the coffee table that he reaches for, lifts, and takes a long swig of. When he lowers it and places it back on the table, he licks his bottom lip and then slightly shakes his head.

You start biting your thumbnail. “...What?”

“It’s like these people share a fuckin’ textbook,” he mutters. “That’s ‘cause she’s makin’ you question your reality.”

You just sit there, blinking while distantly gazing into the burning logs in the fireplace. Gaslighting. “I swear, it’s like epiphany after epiphany with you,” you mutter.

“Think about it,” he proposes. “How’re you playin’ the victim? In anything? The person who’d rather lie about her own discomfort than complain? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

You start biting the nail on your index finger next. "Well, I mean, yeah, you’re right," you agree, "but I really can’t help but feelin’ like I am the problem in all this. I feel like the stuff she said…” Stupidly, tears sting at the sides of your eyes. “I feel like it’s true."

You said you wouldn’t be crying on his shoulder tonight, but what you really meant was that you wouldn’t be crying at all once you got here, and already, here you freaking go.

“And feelin’ like nobody likes you has to be one of the worst feelings there is," you squeak out. You angrily swipe the sides of your eyes to clear them, but more tears just take their place.

“Oh, hell,” Sy murmurs. “C’mere.”

Reluctantly, you let Sy pull you closer into his body. With one arm around your shoulders and one hand on top of your thigh, it feels nice, of course it does, but you still feel dumb.

You wipe your eyes again and try to dry them out for good. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Cryin’ over somethin’ so stupid when it’s true. I don’t have many friends,” you admit.

Instead of saying what everyone always says–Yes, you do–Sy just ponders what you’ve said. “Why d’you think that is?”

You shrug. “I repel people,” you dully joke.

He chuckles. “Y’know, I’ve had that said about me, too.”

“No clue why that could be,” you murmur, and your voice is nasally.

“This ain’t gonna help none, I’m sure, but I don’t got many friends by choice,” Sy admits. “I got a few, and I stick to ‘em. If it weren’t for our poker nights each month, we’d probably go years without even talkin’. It’s about quality, not quantity.”

“Yeah,” you murmur softly.

You sit in silence with your head against Sy’s arm while staring at the fire.

"You want another drink?" he asks into the quiet air.

“Nah.” You ruefully shake your head. "I’m not really supposed to even drink alcohol with the medicine I take."

“Wait, what?” he sharply asks.

“A little bit is okay,” you explain, but Sy raises a dubious eyebrow at you.

His voice is uncharacteristically stern. “Y/N…”

“Don’t be mad at me,” you quickly let out. “I didn’t, like, intentionally keep that from you or anything. I just didn’t think to mention it before now.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he finally replies.

You close your eyes. “Just disappointed?”

“No.” He sighs. “Concerned.”

You open your eyes but keep them diverted. After clearing your throat, you say, “One of Justine’s main things was that I haven’t communicated enough with her. And she’s right. It’s one of the worst things about me.”

“Hey, now,” Sy warns.

“But it’s true. Sometimes I just don’t feel like talkin’,” you admit, sniffing. “It’s probably a really weird thing to say, but…I just don’t.”

“I’m the same way.”

“But it’s not like I hide information on purpose or anything,” you say. “It just doesn’t come to me to even say stuff sometimes–like the alcohol thing. And with Justine–now it’s built up where she’s, like, resentful of me for tellin’ her how I’m feelin’ when I could’ve told her a long time ago. So it just sucks.”

"You did everything you coulda done," he tells you, and you want to scoff.

Apparently you do scoff because in the next moment, Sy's firmer with his voice.

“You did everything you coulda done,” he repeats himself.

“And now she hates me,” you mumble childishly, “just like everyone else.”

“I don’t hate’chu,” Sy speaks up, and you chuckle a little. “MaMaw don’t hate’chu. My sisters don’t hate’chu, those kids don’t hate’chu…Amelia don’t hate’chu…That chick at the bar that you helped that one time don’t hate’chu…I could go on. Everyone loves you.”

“That’s not true,” you can’t help but argue.

“Everyone that knows the real you does,” he corrects. “And fuck the rest.”

“Well, I still feel like the world’s shittiest person alive right now,” you admit. “She said after I move out that it’s gonna be a struggle.”

“That might be true. But that ain’t your problem,” he tells you. “Now, if she was smart, she’d’a saved up what she could while you were there helpin’ her out, and she’d be set. Maybe even be able to still do the monthly trips to Disneyland. But if not…” He shrugs.

“But the kids…”

“Child support, right?”

“Yeah,” you utter, and you’re silent for a minute until you sharply look up at Sy. “Wait, do you think she’s making it up? Like, them havin’ to struggle with me gone?”

“Hard to say.”

“It’s just–She’s a single parent,” you murmur. “And a nurse. She’s got a lot on her plate.”

Sy touches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, and it’s one of the first times–if not the first time–he’s outwardly shown any sort of annoyance with you.

You frown. “But she does,” you say quietly.

He caresses his thumb along your shoulder to show his support, but still, his voice is passionate when he speaks. “You have got to stop stickin’ up for people who’ve fucked you over, Y/N. You’ve got to. Stop justifyin’ her bullshit. Just ‘cause a person’s under a lotta stress don’t give ‘em a free pass for bein’ an asshole.”

You look down. “Yeah.”

“Lookatchu,” Sy hums. “Look at all the shit you’ve been through just since we met.”

“I mean, it’s been a lot, yeah,” you admit, “but it’s not really anything anyone else couldn’t handle.”

“Give yourself some credit here,” he sighs. “Since I met you, you–shit, you’ve had two jobs, you’ve finished a semester in graduate school, you got a tetanus shot, had your car break down, had a panic attack on my bike, signed a lease to a new apartment, and you’re basically like a mother to four kids that ain’t even yours…I think it’s safe to say that a lot of other people couldn’t handle every single thing that you’ve been able to.”

You know internally that he’s right. You even brought it up to Justine, all of the things that you do. There’s just some odd part of you that thinks you’re egotistical for giving yourself credit for things.

You’ve got to get out of these dysfunctional thinking patterns you find yourself caught in all the time.

“What’s wrong?” Sy asks. “Don’t agree?”

“No, it’s just–I just feel dumb,” you admit. “I’m–I’m not stupid, and I know I’m not, but…it’s like, I can talk all day about human behavior and psychology and this and that, but when it comes to stuff actually goin’ on in my real life, it’s like I’m blind or something. I don’t get it.”

“It ain’t that easy,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

“Yeah,” you mutter.

You take a deep breath and slowly breathe outwardly through your mouth. After putting your hand up to your jaw and moving your head to one side to crack your neck and then the other, you then shake out your hands. You're good.

“I’m gettin’ in with a counselor,” you say so lightly that it could be a whisper. “I can’t be seen ‘til the end of next month, though.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Maybe I won’t feel so crazy then.

“Sy?” you utter, and when Sy questioningly lifts his eyebrows, you softly smile. Your eyes have entirely dried, and you honestly do feel much better. “Thank you for listening to me.”

Sy’s eyes bore into yours. “Happy to.”

“But here I’ve done nothin’ but talk about myself this entire time,” you mumble, wiggling in his lap. “How was your day? How are you?”

“Been a shit day for me, too, honestly,” he admits.

You frown while trying not to feel guilty for taking over the entire night with your own bullshit while ignoring Sy entirely. “What’s wrong?”

“Knee’s flarin’ up somethin’ awful,” he admits. “Nothin’s helpin’ but whiskey.”

“Sy,” you mumble in sympathy. “Did you go get your shot this week?”

He nods. “At this rate, they’re fixin’ to refer me to an actual specialist. And when I say that, I mean they’ve been threatenin’ it for ages and are gonna come down hard now.”

“‘Cause you’ve been too stubborn?”

He grunts.

“Maybe I should amp you up, then,” you suggest. “Sit here and tell you how great you are and how everyone loves you and how everyone wants your bum knee to be in better shape so you can drop-kick all the narcissists and–”

“I only care about one person who loves me,” Sy interrupts as he coaxes you backwards against the actual arm of the couch.

“Yeah?” you ask while you lay back a bit. “Your grandma is a special lady.”

After he leans down and presses his lips to yours, he chuckles out of his nostrils. The hot air against your face makes you smile. The kisses that follow are ungraceful.

Sy doesn’t care. When he breaks away, he looks down at you with a calm peace covering his face, a brightness filling his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You feelin’ any better now?”

You lift your hands to wrap around his neck and nod. “Thanks to you.”

He kisses you. When your mouths break apart, he speaks against your lips. “Come to Chattannooga with me.”

Maybe too tired by now, you don’t understand him at first. “Huh?”

“This weekend,” Sy says before sneaking another kiss. “Come to Chattannooga with me.”

“...What’s in Chattanooga?”

“Us. This weekend.”

You roll your eyes. “I mean, what’dju wanna do there?”

“Take you out.”

Sy puts his forehead down onto yours. You’re almost cross-eyed as you try to maintain eye-contact with him.