Family is hard. Everyone hates theirs. Everyone thinks that there's something their parents did wrong - I mean when they're an adult, because when we're kids, our parents are everything. The sun, the moon, the stars, they all revolve around the schedule of our mom's 9-5. And I mean a normal mom's 9-5, because mine never had one.
I suppose the question on everyone's mind - i.e. the King family, is what the hell is wrong with my family. Everytime anyone even remotely leans in that direction, Erik has the cross between a conniption and stroke. By the third helping of dinner, people realized not to say a word about where I grew up.
That doesn't stop them from wondering though; and I'm sure in their minds they've created some sort of story for me. Maybe it's nice and normal and I just didn't get along with my parents and we're taking a break. Maybe my mom's narcissistic and made my whole childhood about her. Maybe my dad's an alcoholic and I hate men that drink.
All of them are plausible, none are the truth.
The truth is hard and sometimes uglier than we expect. Unlike in a picture book sold in stores, there are no true villains or heroes; everyone has the potential to be good or bad depending on the way you're holding the paper.
I'm sure to some people I may be a villain; someone that doesn't realize just how lucky they are. The thing about luck? It always runs out. And I am neither delusional nor on anti-psychotics, so I don't need to tell you that I'm not an exception. I am the rule. And the rule is that the other shoe will always drop.
"You getting ready for bed soon?" Erik wonders, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my head. If he keeps doing that, I'm gonna start charging him a holding fee. And I don't mean some bullshit one that the library charges to punish the reckless that request a book and never pick it up. I'm talking some serious reserved a table at some fancy ass restaurant and never showed up.
Do they charge a holding fee? I don't know. I don't frequent those places. But you get the point.
"Yeah." I answer, ripping my eye sockets away from where they've been practically piercing a picture of the King family at their summer house. Or one of their summer houses. Everyone is seriously ripped or bodacious and it makes me wonder where the hell I would fit into that picture? The flat pancaked one? Oh yeah, that's Erik's girl.
Doesn't exactly roll of the tongue, you know?
"What's on your mind?" Erik asks me, taking a turn away from generic romance novel stereotypes and being the one that wonders too much; worries too much? Then again, I do both as well. Maybe cares too much is the right term? Usually it's the woman fawning and falling all over for the man - not the other way around.
"Nothing." I answer, because as we've previously discussed, the truth is hard. "Just tired." And that, my imaginary friends, is a bold-faced lie. I did wake up at 4:00am this morning - and stay in bed an extra hour due to some serious shenanigans brought to you by the King himself. But I am about as tired as a college student that just downed five energy drinks: suppressing it and in denial.
"Okay." He accepts? Agrees? One of those. He disappeared about half an hour ago to take a shower - at least, I think that's what he did because currently his wet hair is dripping all over me. Has this man ever heard of a hair dryer? Or even towel dry? "Want one of my shirts?" He asks, releasing me from his grip and striding over to his suitcase.
Which is, let me just tell you, disorganized as fuck. I am a planner and packer; whereas he is the type to throw whatever bursts out of his laundry bag at the right time. I mean, the only thing I think he checked for in there was toothpaste and condoms. Why? I'm not sure.
It's not like we're gonna be doing anything while those tiny humans are next door. I can hear their childlike imagination practically bursting through the walls; the restlessness of imagination that used to keep us all up at night. The same one that only persists now in worries and concerns of if we let the dog back in.
"No, it's okay." I answer, finally putting down the frame that I've been clutching in my sweaty palms and retreating to normalcy. Whatever normalcy exists when we're staying with his family. Thank god we're only here for today and tomorrow; catching a late afternoon flight after spending time with his family.
It's nothing against them; they seem perfectly nice. It's just, I'm jealous as fuck and also homesick as hell. See what I did there? I don't either. The point is that I'm used to being in my own bed (which has now become Erik's bed - which is really Kayden's guest bed). And the last thing I want to be doing with my time off (as if I have anything else to do) is spend it with strangers.
I guess I'm a little jealous. Jealous of Erik and his Brady Bunch family. I wish I were fortunate enough to have the same. Meanwhile, the only thing I have is concern over how awkward I look 24 hours out of the day. Or if I'm supposed to give someone a handshake or hug; or make acknowledging eye contact with the other person on the sidewalk as they pass by, or just ignore them? That's part of the reason I always wear sunglasses.
The other? I can stare at people without having them know.
Now I just sound like a creep. Am I? Maybe?
"You gonna sleep naked?" He asks, half-jokingly but also a little hopeful - clearly by the way his ears perk up like he's a dog that just got told he's going for a W.A.L.K. His grin is nothing but bashful and I know that's only made true by the fact that he's spent a fair amount of time looking for a place telling me about how he'll be sleeping naked once we're living on our own.
I usually laugh it off but if he's serious then I'm gonna be in serious trouble.
"No." I laugh, swatting him playfully but also not so playfully on the shoulder. Sleeping naked at his parents house, in his childhood bedroom? Yeah. That sounds like an idea for that retired show "a thousand ways to die". For embarrassment tacked onto the end.
I don't even know how I would begin to explain that one; or why I look like that girl from thirteen going on thirty - sans the puberty hit. Also, wasn't see banging the bones of a professional hockey player? The adult version of her, I mean. If so, you go girl. But also, can I have your boobs?
"I'm not wearing one of your t-shirts around your family." I tell Erik, feeling like I'm explaining how to breathe when he gives me a confused look. Like gee, I do wonder why it's not a good idea to strut around wearing something that not only makes me half naked (not that there would be anything to see) and dawning something that society has known to be a sign that I had sex last night.
The only thing more obvious would be blasting the actual song "I just had sex" at 3am. Though, let's be honest, we usually do it at like 10. What? I have the bedtime schedule of a grandma. Except when Erik's on the road. Then that menace keeps me up into all hours of the night wanting to talk; and I, being the fool that's in love with him, do nothing but accommodate.
It's the main reason why I think I'll have permanent bags under my eyes. That, and the fact that I spent most of my life having a hard time falling asleep. Yeah. Anxiety is definitely a bitch; and not the furry kind. More like the kind that would spill coffee all over the front of your white shirt before an important job interview and then say "ops".
"They won't care." Erik rebuttals, clearly living in Emma Stone's La La Land. It's sad that he never invited me - but then again, I can't sing for shit. Is La La Land a musical? I don't know; never saw it. All I know is that Ryan Gosling is hot as fuck and even he can't get my engine reeved up the way Erik does. Which is a serious problem; one I think that I'll need to go to rehab for if we ever break up. "Plus, you always wear my stuff to bed." He adds, pawing me with his massive hands and encompassing me around his arms.
He seems to also be delusional. "Erik." I laugh, because not only is laughter the best medicine (so they say) but it's also the only way I can react when someone's being completely ridiculous. More ridiculous than a kid being upset they can't someone else's cake when it's not their birthday. Someone actually asked me that one time when I was a kid - back when my parents actually had friends. To cut my cake. Even ten year old me couldn't stand that bitch.
I don't think ten year old me swore as much though; but it's all here nor there. I also don't know what that terms means so there's a 90% chance I'm using it wrong. Let me paraphrase: I don't give a fuck.
"Erik." I laugh again, looking into his eyes like I'm checking for if he has a concussion. Yeah. That's definitely the reason; and not because his brown eyes are so captivating that they make all my internal organs part like the red sea for my vagina. My vagina juices? You get the point.
Like a kid that wants the last cupcake that's already sitting in the esophagus of someone else, he seems stuck on the idea. "What?" He laughs, but I can tell he's a little bothered by it - which is strange, because he's never bothered by anything. "We'll get changed before we go down and see anyone else. And you always wear my stuff to bed."
Why does it matter so much? Is he secretly one of those boyfriends that will try and start dictating what I wear? Because if so, pack your fucking bags, this is going to be a short read.
"Why are you trying to tell me how to dress?" I ask, feeling the irritated Rosie come out and breath fire. If there's one thing every personality test in the world has told me, it's that I hate being told what to do. Even if the Pope asked nicely, I still would have my eye twitch.
Nobody's told me what to do since before I even moved out of the house and I don't plan on changing that now just because I have a boyfriend. And I certainly don't intend to be with someone that's trying to tell me how to dress. I can already feel all the Reddit posts of controlling boyfriends flooding through my memory.