How It's Said

Chapter One

Chapter One

　

The day I met Eric was both the best day and the worst day of my life. The best day because I met the guy I am supposed to spend the rest of my life with. The worst day because I met the most conceited jerk that ever lived. He was annoying, self centered, and obnoxious. He was conceited, and mine. We were meant for each other, but we didn’t know it yet.

So how is it that the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with I started out by hating? Well… it started out like this.

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“Annabelle! Get your lazy ass out of bed!” Dad yells. I groan, rolling over onto my side and pinching my eyes shut. I don’t want to get out of bed. I sigh, planting my feet on the ground as stumbling to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and comb out my hair. I want a shower but because I slept in late I only have a half our before I have to leave for school.

I throw my hair up into a ponytail, deciding that that’s the best I’ll get and head back into my room. I duck into my closet and pull on a pair of grey skinny jeans, tall black, lace-up boots and a white tank top. I add a layered necklace for effect.

I add the barest of makeup with just a swipe of mascara and a hint of lip gloss before jogging downstairs. I’m surprised to see Dad standing at the stove, a flowered apron tied around his waist and a spatula in his hand. He usually leaves when David gets up for his classes at the local campus.

“Morning, honey.” Dad says without turning around. I grin. He’s always called Melissa and I that, even now that we’re sixteen and eighteen years old.

I sit on a barstool next to Melissa.

“What are you still doing home?” I ask Dad as I look Melissa over. Ever since she broke up with her boyfriend nearly two weeks ago he’s been spreading rumors that he got what he wanted and that she’s a slut. Now it’s all around school and every guy (and some girls) want to sleep with her because they think she’s easy. Dad hates it because he can’t afford to have her change schools or even home school her. Mom died when Melissa was six months old. She barely remembers her, but what she does remember, she cherishes.

Since Mom died Dad’s had to work two and three jobs at a time to pay bills and build up some sort of college fund for us.

“I decided that I should make breakfast for my children.” I give him a look. “What? I can’t make breakfast for my kids?” I give him a pointed look. “Fine, scheduling mix up, I don’t work until later.” He grumbles, returning his attention to the stove.

I grin, Dad is forty-one and doesn’t look it at all. He has shaggy dark brown hair and shares golden brown eyes with David, which he insists the ladies call “smoldering”. He always has at least a day’s worth of stubble on his chin but otherwise stays clean shaven. He works out when he can so he some muscle on his arms and chest.

　

I glance at Melissa as Dad places plates of eggs and toast in front of us. She grabs a fork and starts to push the food around her plate. My heart breaks every day for her. Since she became the “school slut” she’s worn loose, baggy clothes like sweatpants, jackets and bulky sweaters. She used to wear tank tops and skirts all the time and now she worries about guys pulling up her shirt or pulling down her skirt.

I hate that she suffers. I want to take her pain away, to suffer in her steed, but I can’t, I know I can’t, and it kills me.

I scrap the last of the eggs off the plate and suck them off the fork.