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Wounded

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

Isaiah’s retreating silhouette does terrible things to my heart. It’s worse when I think about what comes next. He’ll call Marjorie for a ride. He’ll take to the safety of his room. He’ll feel like shit.

Because of me.

I cross the lawn to the front door, where I duck into the house. Major gallops into the foyer, bursting with love and snuffles. I sidestep him, heading for the dining room, where I park myself at the table and glare at our current puzzle, an arrangement of supple green succulents, while I wait for my parents.

I expect a fight.

I want a fight.

I’ve slotted three edge pieces into place before they come through the door.

Dad’s agitated.

Mom won’t look at me.

They drop keys, phones, and wallets on the counter.

Dad says, “Lia, we’re not mad.”

I don’t believe him.

My friends were right. I should’ve told my parents about Isaiah. It would’ve been hard, but this—hurting Isaiah, my parents’ shock—is much worse.

“We’re…surprised,” Dad goes on. “And confused.”

Mom inhales a shaky breath. “Who is he?”

I don’t like the way they’re standing over me. I wish they’d sit. I wish they’d treat me like an equal.

“I know him from school,” I tell them. “He’s in my Ceramics class.”

“Is he—” Mom’s voice breaks, and she pauses, struggling to collect herself. “You were holding his hand.”

I’ve no idea what to say—yeah, I was.

Is that so terrible?

Part of me is relieved to have been found out. Part of me wishes I could’ve kept Isaiah to myself indefinitely. Part of me wants to burn, burn, burn, until I’m a pile of ash to be swept away by a wayward breeze.

Who are my parents to interrogate me about walking down the sidewalk with a boy? I was fifteen the first time they saw me and Beck kiss, and they were elated. For months, they’ve preached about healing, moving forward, blazing my own trail. Now that they’re witnessing me doing exactly those things, they’re acting like raging hypocrites.

Mom hovers near the hutch, where she’s proudly displayed the coil pot I finished last month; it leans like the Tower of Pisa. Dad sits down at the table. He folds his hands, leaning in as if I’m a junior soldier under his counsel.

“Is it serious between you and this boy?”

For the duration of a breath, I consider lying. I can’t do it, though—not to Isaiah, not after the way I minimized his importance outside.

“It’s not not serious.”

“Why is now the first we’re learning of him?”

“Because of this,” I say with enough sharpness to unhinge both his jaw and Mom’s. “Because you’re looking at me like I’ve done something horrific—like I’ve renounced my fate. I knew it would go exactly this way.”

“Lia—” Mom starts, but I cut her off.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just…I’m trying to give life another chance. But if you think there’s no guilt when I’m with Isaiah, you’re deluded. If you think I’ve stopped missing Beck, you’re wrong. If you think I’m only capable of loving once, well, maybe you don’t know me at all.”

Dad’s eyes are bright with tears.

Mom’s clasps her hands, prayerlike, her expression creased with unhappiness. “We just worry it might be too soon.”

“It’s not up to you,” I snap. “You lost your right to an opinion five minutes ago, in the front yard. The way you treated Isaiah… God . I’m humiliated. I can’t even imagine how he feels.”

Mom steps forward. “Lovey, I’m sorry. We’re sorry.”

Dad nods. “We’ll fix this. The next time we see him, we’ll make it right.”

I flashback to how wounded Isaiah looked on the sidewalk.

I’m not so sure there’ll be a next time.

My parents hurt him, but the worst of it’s on me.

I let him walk away.