Page 53 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

She pushes out of her chair, charging upward, her finger pointing down at me the way it did when I was a child.

“You will never be as good as I was.” Her voice is fierce, eyes clouding with angry tears.

“You're ungrateful and spoiled. You’ve never had to work for it and after all I’ve done for you, you embarrass me like this.

” Her accent is thick, jumbling the words.

“All you’ve done for me? I think you're confusing yourself with Robert, or Tony. Maybe Gary? Oh, and now Ken, of course!” Fire burns my throat, my fury a thick fog that has me forgetting about the prying eyes surrounding us.

“You little bitch,” she seethes, any trace of maternal instinct gone.

“Aurélie! Sit!” Ken commands firmly and, like she’s just noticing, she looks around at all the eyes now trained on where she’s standing.

Hot tears stream down my face as my mother’s gaze shoots daggers at me.

“Go,” she says, nodding toward the hallway to my room. “You don’t need the calories.” Her eyes are narrowed and I push back my chair.

The walk to my room is quick. I throw on some workout gear, not bothering to wash the smeared mascara from my face.

I grab a pair of headphones and make my way to Ken's home gym. The need to get the anger still radiating out of me, without shattering the nearest glass object, becomes more necessary by the second. I enter the state of the art gym and settle on the mirrored wall to the far left. My mother always gets a bar installed when she moves into a new home—it’s the one thing I’ve come to count on with the constant bouncing from house to house.

I used to think it was to make me feel more at home but I’ve realized that every nice thing my mother does is entwined with her need for me to be better, thinner, more focused on my career as a dancer.

I sit in front of the mirror, trying to stretch out and yet, I feel frozen.

The relentless need to cry is like a barrier, not allowing my limbs to go through the motions of warming up.

I pick up my phone, trying to find a song that matches my mood.

There's about fifty missed texts in our new group chat but I don’t have the energy to read through them.

Instead, I lay on my back and begin looking through old conversations with Grant.

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this.

It’s actually become sort of a safety net for me.

Knowing that there is an artifact of what we were.

Proof that I meant something to him. An ache pinches at the base of my heart as I get to the bottom and see my name over and over again.

Multiple unanswered texts begging for a response or at least acknowledgement.

Even a thumbs up emoji would keep me from the constant downward spiral that just hearing his name sends me into.

I begin to type, like I’ve done for the past few weeks.

Usually it’s a passage about my day or some insane story Jean told me.

I always delete them. It helps though. To just let it out. Pretend like we are still a we.

Have I told you lately how much I hate going home? Thanksgiving should be canceled. Christmas too. Honestly at this point I don’t even know what I’m looking forward to.

I sigh. Staring at the letters before hitting the back button.

I miss you.

Tears fill my eyes and my throat aches. I move my thumb to hit the back button and just as I’m about to click it a weight drops on the other side of the room, the loud thump causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

I sit up shutting my eyes, trying to steady myself, and when I glance back at my phone, my stomach drops.

Delivered

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He’s going to think I’m a stalker. He’s going to think that I’m a pathetic loser who can’t move on.

I can see him getting the text, wondering if he should respond, just to be nice, before sliding his phone back in his pocket, ultimately deciding that the nicest thing to do would be to let this die quietly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could time travel, wishing I never had come home for this stupid holiday.

Wishing I never left Grant, never went to Will .

My phone buzzes, my eyes springing open. I type in my password wrong twice before finally getting the phone unlocked, my pulse rapid, dread and excitement pulsing through me with each uneven beat of my heart.

Grant

I miss you too.

Something blooms inside me, through all the ugliness of the past few hours, a sliver of hope forcing its way to the front of the wreckage.

I contemplate not responding. What if it ruins it?

What if this is it and he never responds again?

I need to have this moment stay exactly as it is.

Not responding would be an act of self preservation, but…

what if he does respond? What if he wants to talk?

Really?

Stupid . Why would that be the message I send? I should have said nothing.

Still there’s some weird need for him to confirm. Like what if he is being nice? What if he doesn’t mean it?

My phone buzzes and I almost don’t want to look at his response, but then it buzzes again…and again. I look down, Grant’s name flashing across my caller ID. My thumb hovers over the green button, and I suck in a breath before accepting the call.

“Hey.” His voice is warm and my posture instantly relaxes just hearing it. It's shocking how much I missed the sound of him. Just his steady breathing on the other line fills a wound in me I didn’t even know was there.

“Hi,” I say, my voice a rough whisper.

He sucks in a loud breath and I wonder if he regrets calling, if he only picked up the phone to tell me to stop bothering him.

“So—Thanksgiving sucks,” he chuckles softly and tears prick my eyes, my face breaking into a wobbly smile.

“It really does.” I sniff using the back of my hand to brush off a rogue tear.

“My dad asked about you,” he says quietly and I can sense the sadness in his voice.

The desire to be near him is overwhelming.

“He was disappointed that it's over between us...” It feels like someone knocked the air out of me.

Like someone took the very fabric of my world and cut it in half.

The pieces of it become more fragmented with each cut.

“Is it?” I can’t hide the desperation in my tone, the need for him to say no. My face and eyes feel raw and I wish I never answered the phone.

He sucks in a shaky breath of his own, I can practically see him running a hand over his face, not wanting to say the truth out loud.

“I don’t know, Gen. Look I’m sorry I called.

I just—” He stops himself and gets quiet for a minute.

“I should go.” My lips ache as I push them together, begging myself not to cry, not to let him hear how much of an effect he has on me.

I nod, even though I know he can’t see me.

Disappointment cuts away any semblance of hope I may have still been carrying.

“Gen..?” His voice is a whisper now and I wish I could lose myself in it.

“Yes,” I manage to choke out.

“I meant it. What I said. I don’t think I’ll ever not mean it. I don’t think I’ve stopped missing you since the moment I met you.”

I cover my mouth, my body shaking with the force of my cries as the line clicks off and the silence of the room swallows me.