topic. And it’s over with Abby, because I chose Hayden.
“Tory,” my mom comes to life again in time to scold me.
I stand up and cup my ears as I glare at her.
“Oh, no. You do not get to judge me,” I say, only to have Hayden take over my point.
“Handle your own problems, Mom. Handle this—us! This is your mess. You and Dad, you’re in a marriage. Tory and I are fucking eighteen and dating and figuring out who we are. You should have gotten all of your mistakes out of your system by now.”
“Yeah,” I agree, pausing at the word mistake. I lower myself to my seat and fade into the background, letting the chaos move forward without me. I glance over to the doctor while my family’s shouting silences in my own head. She’s listening, but she isn’t writing down a damn word. It’s the expression buried underneath the professional façade that really piques my interest. She’s getting us to do just what she wants, what we need to do more of. She’s getting us to talk. To listen.
For an hour, we yell over one another, Hayden doing most of the talking to the point that his voice is ragged by the time our session is done. My parents leave in their separate cars, my dad driving back to the city and my mom to our home. I still feel confident my dad’s albums will leave the house soon. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a resolution to their marriage in any of this, but maybe there’s one for us as a family. Maybe there will be a way for things to be civil, and for Hayden and I to quit carrying the weight.
Hayden and I leave the office after my parents are gone, walking quietly to my car. I turn it on and maneuver the aux cord while my brother buckles up so I can shuffle to his personal playlist for the ride back. One of his favorite Motown songs comes on and he turns to face me with a suspicious line on his mouth.
“You pick this on purpose?” he asks.
I hold up my phone and show him the playlist labeled HAYDEN’S SHIT. He laughs, taking my phone and scrolling through the songs.
“You’re missing some good ones,” he says.
I grab my phone back and smirk.
“I’ve got like fifty. Let me learn to like all of these first and then we’ll talk about you adding some.”
I shift into reverse and check my mirrors.
“Maybe you make me a playlist of your shit,” he says.
“Can do, only my stuff isn’t shit. Just your stuff,” I tease.
“Ahhh, you like my shit and you know it. I’ve seen you singing Wilson Pickett.” He crosses his arms, confident that he’s right.
“June likes Wilson Pickett, and she made me listen to it,” I reply.
I pull us out onto the main road and we get a mile or so down the road before I finally throw him a bone.
“All right, fine. The Wilson Pickett stuff is pretty good.”
“See? I knew it!” He rocks in his seat, mouthing the words to whatever song this is now. Something about loving somebody’s baby. I’m sure after a month of driving back and forth from Dad’s with this playlist, I’ll know the words, too.
“You know, Dad’s cool with you coming out, too. We could go the same weekend sometimes, or . . . separate. If you want some one-on-one time, I get it.” I glance at him while I drive, gauging his reaction. The best I can gather is that it’s thoughtful, his tight lips not frowning but not quite smiling, either.
“Maybe,” he finally answers.
“I hope so,” I say, and I mean it.
We make it the rest of the way with nothing but HAYDEN’S SHIT serenading us, and the more songs that play, the more I soften to his favorite sounds. We pull in the driveway and sit with my car running just so the current song can finish out. I kill the engine just as it ends, and we let the mood we’ve built embrace us for a little while longer.
“Why her?” I finally ask. I think that’s my speed bump. It’s definitely the question I’ve been asking myself when I can’t sleep at night, when I shower, when I drive, when I should be learning in class. I think, given Dr. Majestic’s definition, that equates to an emotional speed bump. It’s too high for me to get over on my own.