Page 35 of Lovesick (The Minnesota Mustangs #1)

LITTLE MISS PERFECT

MERIT

I don’t know what’s worse: having to sit through my dad’s lecture or doing so while afflicted with one of the worst hangovers of the century.

“Where were you last night, Merit?” my father asks, palms splayed on the dining table as he hangs his head, the deep, trembling bass of his voice battering my addled brain.

God, everything hurts. The noise is too loud, the lights are too bright, and my throat is dry and scratchy from going all Exorcist over Crew’s shoes. I’m not even sure how I’m awake right now.

Actually, I would be all snug in my bed if it wasn’t for my dad calling me twenty times in a row at seven in the morning.

Crew stayed with me last night. Not only that, but when I was awakened at an ungodly three a.m. because of my pea-sized bladder, he was still spooning me.

Then, when I got back into bed, he Velcroed himself to me again like it was as natural as breathing.

And I, for once—being a known cover-hogger and victim of restless leg syndrome—was so placated by Crew’s arms that I didn’t leave him to freeze or kick him off the bed.

Everything was going so well. I mean, I don’t remember anything that happened, but I think it went well considering that Crew didn’t run for the hills after I DIY-ed his sneakers in regurgitated Jell-O.

I fiddle with my pewter-colored ring—the small, bothersome culprit responsible for my father pulling me out of bed before noon. I’m thankful it doesn’t connect to my location.

“I was just at a small kickback with Irelyn,” I lie, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my palm as if the pressure will mitigate the migraine crushing my skull like a garbage compactor.

Is lying the best way to approach the situation? No, but I’m really not in the mood for an all-out admonishment.

My stomach hollows with hunger or nausea or a repulsive combination of both, and phosphenes hang in a shadowy parasol over my dull-edged vision.

“Your heart monitor app said that your heart rate was in the one-thirties,” my mother relays, the frown on her lips emphasizing the crow’s feet by her sage eyes.

Speaking of hearts, mine doesn’t like being in such a compromising situation. The ring on my finger is practically a pocket-sized lie detector. “I was dancing a lot.”

“For two hours straight?”

I swear I’m never the type to talk back to my parents, but ever since they crane-lifted me out of New Jersey and dropped me in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, resentment seems to be the impetus for my unusually reactive episodes.

“It’s really none of your business,” I snark under my breath, so overstimulated that all my thoughts just blend together like Rorschach blots on paper. Anger steamrolls over me, pressing into all my sore spots and goading me into saying something I really can’t come back from.

My mother places her hands on her hips—an intimidation pose, and one that always manages to trigger my flight response. She’s normally the more levelheaded of my parents, so when I surpass her threshold of patience, I know I’m in deep shit.

“ Excuse me? ”

Come on, Merit. Stand up for yourself. You can do it. Your parents are overreacting. You’re not in the wrong here.

My tone borders on apoplectic, delivered with a growl that’s been plumbed from the deep pit of my chest. There’s a fever ravaging my body, and their looks of unjustified disappointment are oxygen to an open flame.

“I wasn’t doing anything illegal. You guys always treat me like a child!”

My father stands up from his seat, the legs of his chair screeching in protest. “We’ll stop treating you like a child when you start acting like an adult,” he barks.

“How am I supposed to act like an adult? No, really. Tell me. You monitor everything I do. You make me relay everything that happens in my day-to-day life. I had to leave my dream school because you were worried I’d drop dead, and now I’m stuck dancing recreationally instead of participating in competitions.

You control everything—where I am, who I talk to, what I do. ”

“Do you think we wanted to take you away from your old friends, Merit? Do you think we wanted to make you reassess your career path? Everything we do is to keep you safe. And rightfully so, because you clearly don’t give a damn about your health.”

Are they serious right now? They always think they know what’s best for me, but they don’t even bother to ask me what I want. Just because I’m alive doesn’t mean I’m living. And fuck, I’d rather be six feet underground and free than walking the earth in shackles.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to live my life in fear.”

Deep-rooted disappointment tarnishes my father’s wrinkled face, the grizzle of his whiskers bending when his second frown of the morning debuts.

“Do you realize how scary it was to see you collapse on that stage? How about waiting in the hospital while they rushed you back to the ER? Because your mother and I both thought that you were going to die. You’ll never understand a parent’s fear.

These rules we enact aren’t to punish you—they’re to protect you,” he explains, and for the first time, I hear the age in his voice.

Years of parrying fearmongering worry for their only child; years of making me hate them because a resentful daughter is an alive one.

“But I’m fine! The incident was a one-time thing. It’s not going to happen again,” I argue, tears sizzling on my lower lashes as a searing sensation inflames my sinuses.

I wish I had been born normal. I wish I didn’t have a fucking scar on my heart. I wish it didn’t impact every facet of my life.

“You don’t know that, honey,” my mother chimes in, remorse sullying her words and yanking on my thinly stretched heartstrings.

“You’re lucky we’re still letting you dance.

You heard what the doctor said about continuous strenuous activity.

Unmonitored, it can increase your risk of heart complications down the road. ”

“Oh, thank you, Mom. Truly. Thank you for letting me dance,” I snip sardonically, my scattershot emotions now crowning inside me, reaching a boiling point that encumbers my lashes with salty droplets. I don’t blink, not even when betrayal begins to burn like charred tinder against my eyes.

“Thank you for letting me enjoy my passion before I fucking die.”

“Don’t use that tone with us,” my dad growls, spittle flying from his lower lip. He slams his hand down on the table so forcefully that the whole room seems to shake. “Don’t weaponize your heart condition against us.”

“You’re right. You guys have been doing that plenty fine for me. Am I even a person to you anymore? Because it seems like all I am to you is a problem you need to fix.”

“That’s not true, and I won’t stand here while you put words in our mouths.”

My mom cuts in. “This attitude is unacceptable. We didn’t raise you to be a liar, Merit, so why don’t you start telling us the truth?”

I don’t want to be here right now. If I could, I’d run out the door and never stop. This place is a prison—a prison designed with window decals to give me a false sense of freedom.

My heart trips in the cradle of my ribs, and emotional warfare is to blame for its persistent rebirth of pain.

Why do I have to jeopardize my relationship with my parents when I just want to renegotiate their ridiculous terms?

It’s like whatever I decide to do, I’ll either hurt them or myself in the process.

I’m so tired of hurting. I’m so tired of fighting.

I pretend to play dumb, a low-lying mist warping my vision and preparing my limbic system for a monsoon of guilty tears. “Wha?—”

Wrong choice.

“We have your location on your phone. Last I checked, frat row doesn’t hold ‘small kickbacks.’”

God, it feels like I’m going through every stage of grief in a matter of seconds. I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m in denial.

My tone is sharp and double-edged, the truth crash-landing with no parachute to soften its fall. “Fine! Yes, I was at a frat party with Irelyn last night because that’s what normal college kids do on the weekend. I didn’t think I needed your permission to hang out with my best friend,” I hiss.

I was also with Crew Calloway, Dad’s star player! That’s right. I’m sick and tired of you guys always controlling who I can and cannot hang out with. So what if he’s on the hockey team? You don’t own him, and you certainly don’t own me .

My mother doesn’t address any of the points I brought up. “How much did you have to drink?”

“A few shots.”

Another barefaced lie that stirs the acid in my empty stomach. There’s a lot of saliva in my mouth. Too much. I feel like throwing up again.

My mom, with her hawk-eyed stare and unwavering expression, looks over the rumpled state of my appearance, which pretty much screams hangover.

“Seems like a few too many,” she says.

My father can barely meet my eyes, as if he’s disgusted with me. “I can’t believe this. What else do we need to do to scare you into taking care of your body? Is death not already scary enough for you?”

They mean well. They’re just afraid, and fear makes people say hurtful things. They’re trying to help.

But they’re not. And if they really did care, they’d let me determine my limits. I know my body best, not them.

When I was at Rutgers, I danced competitively, which demanded a lot of physicality and long hours.

The stress wasn’t great either, and the combination of those two started a riot.

I’m in a much better place health-wise now, but it seems like no amount of convincing will ever appease my parents’ concerns.

“I have a sixty percent chance of living to thirty-five. Why can’t you focus on the good in that?”

“Sweetheart, there is no good in that. No parent wants to hear that their child’s well-being is dependent on some percentage. It shouldn’t be that way. You shouldn’t?—”