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5
EMMA
The sun sets low over the city, creating a hexagonal pattern of miniature sunbeams across my bare leg. Sitting on the steps leading up to my apartment, I mull over the strange change in Finn while keeping one eye on my Uber. The driver is ten minutes away, and then it’s time to spend a few agonizing hours with my parents.
But in class…What was that? Finn ignores every single flirting attempt I make, only to have me read out the dirtiest passage to the entire class and then offer his help like it’s nothing. Did he mean it? Or did he really think I needed help with the assignment?
It’s probably wishful thinking that he was actually trying to flirt with me. Now, instead of wooing that sex-on-legs man, he probably thinks I’m dumb and about to flunk out of his course. I’d sent my woes to my group chat with Ana and Meghan, but neither of them had come back with any meaningful advice. Meghan, as always, advised me to find someone my own age while Ana suggested I turn up to class naked.
I think even if I was naked and spread out on his desk, he still wouldn’t be able to see past my class grade.
Sighing deeply, I scuff my heels on the ground and watch my Uber driver weave closer and closer through the little pixel town on my phone. I need to put Finn—and Caspian—out of my mind if I’m going to survive dinner with my parents. I could have driven there myself, but it’s impossible to get through a meal with my family without one or two glasses of wine. I recite the usual answers in my mind, squinting as the sun drops low enough to blind me as it peers through the gaps between the buildings on the other side of the street.
Yes, college is fine. No, I’m not dating. Yes, the car is fine. No, I don’t have a job lined up.
A light honk of a horn and my Uber pulls up against the curb. An older woman with square spectacles attached to a golden chain waves eagerly at me through the window, and the sight of her brings a smile to my face. If all else fails, maybe I can have a nice chat with her on the way there.
As expected, my Uber driver was lovely. She talked my ear off about her children and her first grandchild all the way to my parent's house and even insisted on booking me for the return trip so she could ensure I got home safely. She was surprisingly affectionate, which was lovely, but it left my guard down, and my mother was on me the moment I walked through the door.
“Your hair!” she cried, grasping me by the arm. “When will you stop doing those awful things to your hair?”
It was a blue streak today to match the cornflower sweater and black jeans I wore to dinner. I’ve yearned to dye my hair ever since I was a teen, but my mother’s reactions keep that at bay. Keeping the peace is much more important these days.
“And look at you!” She plucks at my sweater as I set the table for her. “You know, if you lost a little weight, I could take this in for you. It really is your color.”
An insult wrapped up in a compliment, as all her comments are. I smile and nod, then gratefully accept a large glass of red wine from my father as we sit down to eat.
“Really, Terence,” my mother scoffs as she serves a roast chicken dinner that surely took her all day to cook. “Haven’t you anything to say about your daughter’s hair?”
My father glances up from the newspaper folded next to his plate. His gray, bushy brows pull low over his thick, brown glasses, and his mustache quivers for a few seconds before he speaks.
“Berry, you should know better. Hair like that won’t get you far in the professional environment.”
“Yes, Dad,” I answer vaguely, stabbing at a few green beans on my plate while curling inwardly at my old nickname. “But you’d be surprised what’s acceptable these days.”
Dad mutters under his breath. I drown him out by chewing and savoring the sweet burst of flavor across my tongue. There are many painful things about returning to this house and following an obligation I can never escape from, but the food is a highlight. I miss the days when I would run around my mom trying to get her to teach me how to cook. She always refused and told me that if I knew how to cook, I would never come back home.
Back then, I thought she was joking. Now I know she meant it.
My mother sits and the silence is broken only by the gentle clatter of cutlery against plates and the odd clink of glass each time someone’s wine glass misses the coaster. It’s nice to sit and eat, and despite my shortcomings about being here, I miss them. I watch Ana’s mother fuss over her or listen to Meghan telling her father every detail of her life, and I yearn for the same.
For my parents to show an interest in me and what I want, rather than what they think I should have.
“So.” In between small bites of roast chicken, my father speaks. “How is school?”
“It’s good. The same old.” I stab at a roasted potato, keeping my eyes down. I already know what comes next.
“Same old isn’t an answer,” he says. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I lift my head and do exactly that while reaching for my glass of wine. “It’s the only answer I have.”
My mother focuses on cutting up her food but rarely takes a bite. “Well, you never tell us anything so how are we supposed to know what that means?”
“Are you flunking out? Is that it?” Dad asks.
“Why would you assume that?” I reply, frowning.
“You used to skip school. You don’t take care of yourself, and you’re dressing yourself up like a clown,” Dad says sharply. “I have no confidence in your ability to stick with something serious.”
