Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,6
in a few of the photos, and I know you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
I swallow my retort. There’s no point arguing. Besides, she’s only voicing what everyone else thinks anyway. I’ve seen the comments. It’s my secret indulgence: scrolling through the cesspool when I fall into a particularly dark haze. The pain feeds on itself, craves more evidence to reinforce its vile truths. It feels good to let it thrive and seep into my pores. To feel something. My therapist calls it a downward spiral. Lately, I’ve been calling it my lunchbreak.
“Oh, honey, don’t look so glum. You know I think you’re beautiful. I’m not saying you need to change anything. I just want people to see the real you. And after the Burlington incident—”
“Corinne,” my father interrupts with a subtle shake of his head.
Mom sips her water and shifts in her chair. “Well, anyway. What’s done is done.” She flags a server. “Pinot grigio, Genny? You deserve a treat.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter. “And don’t call me that.”
“Really, Genevieve. Your attitude.” Her brows sink in disapproval as the server approaches. She puts in an order for the table without even asking us what we want. A cucumber plate without the aioli, BLT avocado toast without the toast. Also, can we get it with extra tomato and no bacon jam? A few other things, none of which sound appetizing right now. I rarely feel like eating when they’re around.
“Those children were just darling, weren’t they?” she continues. “Selena said they’ll be covering the event on all the hockey outlets too. Great exposure. A whole new audience for you, Genevieve. Although, it would have been better without that hockey player in the way.”
I glare over at her, patience running thin. “That ‘hockey player’? It was his turf. If anything, I was in his way.”
She waves her hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. The least they could’ve done was pair you with a bigger name. What about that Lyle Sorenson?”
“Kyle Sorenson. And he retired two years ago.”
She shrugs. “Well, whatever. I’m just saying, who’s ever even heard of Oliver whatever? He’s just a kid himself. A nobody.”
“Uh, he’s my age and he pretty much carried the team to the Stanley Cup finals last year. He was a finalist for the Vezina trophy as a rookie.”
Her eyes widen at my heated response, and I suck in a breath to soothe the burn.
Do not engage. Do not engage.
“Sweetie, no need to get upset. I’m sure he’s a nice boy. I’m just saying it should’ve been someone who could work a camera at least. Really, the way he tripped over himself and couldn’t get back up? Do you have any idea how silly it looked for you to be helping him? You really shouldn’t have done that. He must have people for that.”
I slam my napkin on the table. “That’s enough!”
“Genevieve…”
“No, I’m so sick of this. He didn’t trip, Mother. He had his knee shattered just a few weeks ago and bent down to help that kid anyway because guess what—he actually cares. He wasn’t worried about how it might look or if it would hurt him. What you saw was a person who wasn’t concerned about appearances and didn’t make something about him. Did it ever occur to you that not everything needs to be about me either?”
She presses a fist to her chest, staring at me in horror. My father studies his empty plate like it might absorb his essence if he wishes hard enough. “Come now, I was only concerned for your safety. What if he’d brought you down with him? Can you imagine?”
“Oh save it. It had nothing to do with my safety. It never has anything to do with what’s good for me. It’s about what’s good for you! I’m going to the bathroom.”
I push up from the table and do my best to maintain a calm pace as I move toward the back of the restaurant. My features remain schooled, my gate casual with each trained step. Plenty of heads turn, but no one sees. I won’t let them. They’ll never know my insides are splintering. That beneath this painted façade is a fractured girl who can never break. No one will ever know what silent tears sound like in the safety of a locked bathroom stall.
CHAPTER 2
Fail me not like I fail you
In that place where shadows breed light
Bleed light
Feed light
Need light to burn bright until blinded eyes will look away