Crack!
The lightning streaks across the window. I place my cheek against the cold glass so I can feel it against my skin. My new home sits tall enough that I can actually see where the storm begins and ends, but no rain falls in between.
I can relate.
I'm the girl who can cry reading a silly romance novel, but remains dry eyed when her mother dies. It was weeks after the funeral took place that I was told she was gone. What's worse was that I wasn't even worried that I'd never heard from her.
Watching the lightning flash across the sky, I close my eyes this time to feel the thunder. It's a stupid idea, but I'm hoping if I feel the thunder, maybe it can shake the dam loose. I'm being childish, I know, but at least if I cried I would feel something. I should feel something, anything.
I don't know why I feel more alone now, because it's not like I even knew her. Between nannies and boarding schools, I hardly ever saw her. Then when I was fourteen, she sent me off to school in France, where I stayed. She said she would visit at some point, but I guess she never got around to it. Not one time in my three years at school there had my mother come to see me, nor did she ask me to come home.
A part of me had been hoping that maybe when I finished school I could come home and try to form a relationship with her. I even applied to a few colleges for pre-law and got in, but with her gone I have no desire to pursue that idea. I was only doing it to try to please her, and now I see how stupid that was. My mother was always going a mile a minute and had time for no one and nothing. Aside from work. That's not a life I wanted for myself. What I do want is to feel connected to another person, to have someone tell me they love me. I think that's what I was hoping for when I applied to law school. I could've gotten her attention; we'd have had things in common to talk about. I could've called her late at night and bitched about courses, and she'd tell me how great I was doing.
How could I long for her attention so badly, but not miss her now that's she's really gone? I actually felt a small weight lift off my shoulders when I thought about not having to go to law school.
Pushing myself away from the window, I feel my stomach growl. I've been hiding in my room since I got here last night. The idea of going out and seeing Bruce, my step-dad, wasn't one that appealed to me. I should've known any man who chose to marry my mother would be as cold as she was. Hell, I didn't even know she was married until I was told that I was being shipped back home to him.
"Step-dad," I say, rolling the words across my tongue. He was nothing like I expected him to be. When I thought of a step-dad, I thought of a man with greyish hair, wrinkles around his eyes. I thought of someone who was at least my mother's age or who looked like some of the fathers who came to visit the other girls in my dorm. No, it looks like my mom liked them young. Bruce looks like he is in his early thirties if I had to guess. He also looks like he stepped out of a magazine, and so did the woman hanging on to him last night.
I thought it was strange he was already hooking up with another woman weeks after my mother's death, but nothing about their marriage seemed normal. I wonder if part of the reason she was too busy to see me was because of him. Maybe she started another family, one that apparently didn't include me.
When he finally untangled himself from the other woman, he showed me around the apartment. First he showed me where my mom's room used to be, and then he showed me his room, and finally my own. They didn't share rooms? This was all getting weirder by the minute, but one thing was clear, Bruce didn't like me.
It showed from the moment the elevator doors slid open and his green eyes landed on mine. As soon as we locked eyes, the playful smile he was giving the woman in his arms dropped away. What made it worse is I felt my whole face warm from blushing. I'm sure it turned my fair skin cherry red with embarrassment. Public displays of affection are not common to me outside of a book, and I'm pretty sure I just caught them about to have sex, if the bulge in his pants was any indication.
Instantly I hated the woman. Her perfectly shiny hair, bronzed skin, and a body I would die for made me so angry, and I'm still not a hundred percent sure why. Was it because he just lost my mom and here he was fucking another woman? Maybe he was always fucking her. Or was it the fact that a sliver of jealousy ran through me at the sight of her wrapped around him? I'd hoped that maybe that man wasn't my step-dad, but maybe his son or a coworker. That hope crashed and burned moments later, leaving me with an uneasy feeling.
I'm jealous that my step-dad has a woman he's about to fuck and probably fucked last night. Fuck, if they came back to his place after, she might be here this morning. The worst part is I don't think I'm angry for my mother, I think I'm jealous for myself.
I'm chalking it up to being lonely. I guess I'm just desperate for attention. Yep, that's it, I think, trying to convince myself that's not a blatant lie. I can't lust after my mother's husband. Nope, I've just been stuck in an all-girls' school for too long. I've been starved of affection. Yes! That's it, I'm envious of the affection that was being shared, not the dumb slut who was hanging onto him.
I clench my teeth, processing the rude thought I had about the woman. Fuck it, she is a dumb slut. I can think it all I want. Grabbing my hair tie off the nightstand, I pull my wild blonde hair into a messy bun on top of my head, and make my way through the condo to the kitchen. If I'm lucky, I won't run into Bruce or his date from last night. The thought puts a knot into my stomach. Would they be in the kitchen playing house together? Her making him breakfast like a happy lovey couple. I long for something like that.
I'm about to walk into the kitchen, when I hear Bruce's deep voice, and I halt my movements.
"No, we can't have dinner again tonight." He pauses for a long moment, and I realize he must be on the phone. "She'll only be here for a few weeks, and I'm getting her out of here as quick as I can. Trust me, I don't need a little girl running around here, you and I both know I don't have time for that."
His words sting more than they should. Why should I care that he doesn't want me here? Story of my life. Fuck him. If he didn't want to have to deal with me then maybe he shouldn't have married my mom.
I stroll into the kitchen, ignoring him, determined to let the insult roll off my back. I hear him take a deep breath, and I can feel his eyes on me, but I pretend he's not standing there, drinking his coffee, with the phone to his ear. I feel a small weight lift off my shoulders when I realize no one else is here. She didn't stay over. Pulling the fridge open, I feel the cold air hit my body, and it's then I realize what I'm wearing, or more accurately, what I'm not wearing. I'm so used to only being around and living with other girls that I didn't think about my attire when I rolled out of bed this morning. I feel my nipples contract against the cold air, the threadbare strappy tank doing nothing to protect them from the chill. Goosebumps break out all over my bare legs.
Fucking shit. How am I going to turn around? I'm standing in front of the fridge in nothing but a small tank top, tiny white panties, and my freaking knee-high socks.
"No, Holly, lunch is fine."
I bite back nausea at the mention of Holly's name.
"Okay, I'll see you then."
I hear his phone hit the granite counter and I cringe at the sound. I'd be surprised if it hasn't cracked.
"Where the fuck are your pants?" Glancing over my shoulder, I see his dark green eyes on my ass. Does he like what he sees? I'm nothing like Holly. In fact, Holly and I are night and day if you compare us, and sadly I have. Where she is toned and firm, I'm curvy and soft, she looks enticing whereas I look boring and couldn't get a tan to save my life. Her legs go on for miles, and the only thing that goes on for miles on me is my hair, and it's pretty uncontrollable.
He looks so mad. If he could he'd spit fire from his nostrils right about now, he would. The fact that I provoked this much emotion in him is exciting.
This is uncharted territory for both of us. I can tell by the look on his face that poking him would be dangerous. But for the first time in weeks, I feel something. I don't ever recall pulling this much emotion from anyone. I was just always there, the girl in the corner. Now I am standing in a kitchen, with a man who looks wildly pissed at me, and I want more. It wouldn't bring the tears I wanted moments ago, but it felt like it could bring so much more.