Page 12 of The Inn Dilemma (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker)

Chapter Seven

M om and Dad are fighting again. It seems like that’s all they ever do anymore.

I curl up on my window seat and cover my ears, clenching my eyes closed.

Even though they’re in the kitchen and I’m up in my room, their voices carry through the whole house.

I feel like I’ll never escape their terrible marriage.

They used to try and hide it around me. Now it’s like they think I’m old enough to see the truth—that they don’t like each other. I overheard Mom tell someone she’s sticking around just for me and Christian. Is it bad to wish she wouldn’t?

There’s silence for a few seconds, and I slowly open my eyes.

Footsteps thump outside my door, but they pass quickly, and I can tell it’s Mom running to her room.

Then I hear her pacing around, her cries muffled through the wall.

I want to go over and comfort her, but it’d be no use.

The last time I tried, she shooed me away and told me not to worry about her.

Her cries grow stronger, and Dad’s footsteps thump up the stairs. I can hear a knock against Mom’s door before Dad asks if he can come in. Mom tells him no.

“Amanda. I’m so tired of this. You’re acting worse than a child! Why are you crying?”

Mom’s door squeaks as it opens.

“You know why I’m crying! It’s your fault.”

“If you’d just listen to me and act like an adult for once instead of flying off the rails and storming away from a hard situation?—”

“Our entire marriage is a hard situation. You can’t tell me you’re happy with this.”

“I have an image to uphold. You signed up for that image when you married me.”

“Signing that prenup was the second biggest mistake of my life.”

“Oh yeah?” Dad raises his voice. “And what’s the first?”

“Marrying you!” she screams before slamming the door.

My lips turn down and my chest fills with a heaviness I can’t shake. If Mom regrets marrying Dad, that means she regrets me. That she regrets Christian. Her life would be better without me.

Dad’s door slams closed next.

My throat grows tight, and I fight down the pain, forcing myself to go numb. I find a book of fairy tales on my shelf and sit in my window seat in a way to try and distract myself. When Mom and Dad fight, these make-believe worlds are a way to escape.

I’ve read one chapter when a flicker of light outside pulls my attention away from my book.

Christian and Holt are out back building a fire next to their tent. I could keep reading, but their laughter carries up to my window. I want to laugh too, so I pull on a hoodie and sweatpants and head to the kitchen for snacks and drinks.

After getting everything together and putting them on a tray, I slide open the glass door and balance everything in my arms. My shadow crosses in front of them.

Chris turns and sees me before I can say anything.

I set the tray on the porch table so I can close the door behind me.

Then I pick the tray back up and head toward my brother and his best friend.

As Chris’s face comes into view, he looks at me with pity, not irritation. He already knows why I’m out here. It’s probably the same reason he and Holt are sleeping outside on the cold, hard ground and not in his room.

Chris pats the spot in the grass next to him, and I set the tray on the grass before plopping down.

“They were really going at it tonight.” Chris opens the bag of marshmallows and stabs through one with a stick before hovering it over the fire.

“Yeah,” I say sadly, rubbing my nose to try and stop the tingling there. The last thing I want to do right now is cry. “I know it’s not cool to hang out with me, but I really don’t want to listen to Mom’s sniffles all night.”

“I get it,” Chris says, turning his marshmallow as it browns. Chris turns to Holt. “Do you mind if she hangs out here with us?”

Holt shrugs. “It’s all right.”

We sit in silence as we brown our marshmallows. Every so often one of us will point out a constellation we found.

Holt takes a swig out of his soda with his free hand, and I wrinkle my nose.

“What?” he asks .

“How do you drink that?” I point to his can.

Holt lifts it up and turns it side to side. “What? Soda?”

“Yeah. Sweet tea is way better.” As if to prove my point, I pick up one of the glasses I brought out and take a sip, being careful not to drop my marshmallow into the fire.

“If you say so, SuperNova.” Holt takes another swig.

“SuperNova?” Christian asks.

Holt shrugs. “Her name is Nova. She’s obsessed with that movie.”

I can’t help but giggle at that.

“Whatever,” Chris says, taking two graham crackers and placing a chunk of chocolate on one side and setting the warm marshmallow on top. Using the second graham cracker, he slides the gooey sugar off the stick and makes a s’more.

Holt and I both follow suit. The three of us sit in silence, making and eating my favorite dessert. Holt drains his can of soda and eyes the other two glasses of iced tea.

“Want one?” I ask, lifting one up and handing it to him.

“Sure.” He takes it and swallows down half the glass. When he pulls it back, he sputters. “That’s strong!”

I sit up proudly. “I know. That’s how I like it.”

Holt chugs the rest. “I can see why.”

Chris drapes his arms over his knees and leans forward. Resting my head on my brother’s shoulder, I take comfort in his presence and warmth.

Holt gets up and grabs a log from the large stack by the trees and throws it on the fire. He holds his hands out, warming them against the flames.

“You’re getting better at making fires,” I say to Holt.

“Thanks. Uncle Walt recently taught me.”

“Is he still taking us fishing this weekend?” Chris asks him.

“He told me as long as we’re up before six. Otherwise, he’s going without us.”

In the fire’s light, I see Chris roll his eyes. “Whatever. Grandad actually appreciates his sleep but can’t take us this weekend.”

Holt laughs. “Just because you need more sleep than a newborn baby doesn’t mean the rest of us have to wait for you.”

“It’s more normal than you running a mile before the sun is even up!” Chris shoots back.

“You can’t start training too early.”

“Training for what?” I ask.

Holt sits up straighter. “The Navy SEALs.”

My mouth pops open. “That’s what you want to be when you grow up?”

“More than anything.”

“They’re like practically impossible to get into though,” Chris says, and Holt’s shoulders slump. Chris quickly adds, “But if anyone can make it, it’s you.” He pats Holt firmly on the back and he perks up.

Once Chris and Holt call it a night, I head back into the house and tiptoe up the stairs. Thankfully, Mom and Dad both seem to be asleep. I can hear Dad snoring through the walls, and there’s no crying or sounds of pacing coming from Mom’s room.

I crawl under my covers and stare up at my ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars, pretending that I’m outside falling asleep under the real ones and not slowly suffocating in this bedroom beneath plastic ones.