Coach Evans is my dad. No matter how many times I remind myself, it doesn’t make it any easier to comprehend. I’ve spent over three months both fearing and trying to impress my own father. Every decent part of the miserable life I’ve lived has been a lie. I fucking hate my mom and what she did to me. And I fucking hate gymnastics. It’s dead to me. The both of them.
I’m not sure how long I sit on the filthy ground before I drag my tired body back inside the car.
I can barely see out my swollen eyes, but I drive toward school, unsure of what to do next. I can’t get into my dorm over break and I have no money. The little bit I have won’t feed me let alone be enough to afford a place to stay.
There’s absolutely no way I want my mom’s money, but I stop at the next bank anyway to use the ATM. Withdrawing enough money to stay at a hotel for a few days, I don’t even feel guilty. It’s the least she can do after the bomb they dropped on me. I’ll consider it a parting gift. An I wish I was never your daughter gift.
As I finish tucking the cash into my pocket, my phone chimes again. I’m surprised I have five waiting texts from Kipton and only one from my mom. Her’s doesn’t beg me to return—instead encouraging me to be safe wherever I end up. Like she gives a shit. I finish reading her text as another comes through. One last attempt to convince me how sorry she is. So am I, mom. I’m sorry I was ever born.
I respond quickly to Kipton, never letting him know I’m in the middle of a crisis. Instead, I tell him I made it safely and plan on spending the rest of the night with my mom. Refusing to ruin his time off with my shitty home life, it’s the only way I can justify the lie. He deserves so much better than me.
The first hotel I find is too expensive, but I eventually come across one about an hour away from school that fits my budget. I wanted to drive further south before having to stop, but I’m too tired. It’s dark and I’ve already spent most of the day on the road.
Once I check in, the first thing I do is raid the vending machine. I only have enough quarters and ones to buy some water, two packs of crackers, and a pack of candy. It’ll have to hold me awhile, not that I have much of an appetite anyway.
Going through the motions of a shower, I rest under the hot spray of water. Each drop that hits me washes away a little of the hope I’ve been gathering the past few weeks. Hope that my life was finally headed in the right direction, to a place that would bring me happiness in a world I didn’t fear at every turn.
I’m cold when I pull the shower curtain open and stare at my pale skin in the mirror. From the outside I look like every other girl on campus—normal. But inside, that’s where the hatred resides. Glancing at the toilet, I want to give in again, but there’s nothing left to give.
Caged in by my thoughts, I turn on the TV, the noise helping the silence from being too overwhelming. The pajamas I dig out are wrinkled and thin, the blankets are scratchy, and the bed a little lumpy. But at least I have a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head.
I try to rest, but their confessions replay over and over in my mind. The weight of the truth is more powerful than any lie they’ve told me over the years. Not wanting to spiral completely out of control, I rifle through my suitcase for my journal. As fast as the words come to me, I jot them down.
I’m nothing. Lies. All lies. He never loved me. I’m not his. She lied. Cheaters. Lies. I’m a mistake. They never wanted me. Lies. He’s not my father. They didn’t want me. They don’t want me. They never wanted me. He knows I’m his. He doesn’t want me.
Tears begin mixing with the black ink leaving blotches on the pages. After writing the same variations of words over and over, I don’t feel any better. Instead of continuing, I launch the pen at the wall, followed shortly after by the journal. I curse my therapist for her worthless advice. It’s the first time my emotions have been too strong to finish an entry and it scares me.
Frantically chewing on my thumbnail, the world closes in around me. Experiencing a full blown panic attack, my tunnel vision competes with my rapidly beating heart. I try counting out loud to keep from passing out, even smacking my cheeks to stay present. Nothing works. Instead, I lie in the center of my bed, face down until my body stops shaking. It could be minutes, although it seems more like hours until I settle down. Teeth still chattering, I stretch my arms and legs, releasing the locked muscles. My body as equally exhausted as my mind, I fall into a restless sleep, waking often. Each time I open my eyes I pray I’m in Kipton’s bed, safe and sound. But I’m disappointed when the grungy hotel walls taunt me instead.
I’ll survive today, but I don’t want to do this again tomorrow.
Alone.
DAY TWO WAS MUCH LIKE the first with an overwhelming sense of loss for a family I’ve never had continually gnawing at my heart. My anxiety is at an all-time high, my mind in a constant state of confusion. It’s enough of a struggle to stay present in the moment let alone imagine a life without the only parent I’ve ever loved.
Instead of driving further south, I stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. There’s no money left for a decent meal and my stomach has stopped begging to be fed.
Kipton’s tried to call, but I always respond by text knowing I won’t be strong enough to hide the truth from him otherwise. He doesn’t need to be drawn into my pathetic existence. Not until I get things figured out and have a solid plan.
Since I can’t afford to spend a third day in this hotel, I have to check out before they kick me out. Finally showered, I don’t bother drying my hair. Instead, I toss into a messy bun, change into clean clothing, and turn my key in to the front desk.
Stuffing my bag back into the trunk of my car, I realize it’s the only home I have—the only thing that belongs to me besides the clothing in my bags.
The cars only running for a few minutes before the gas gauge lights up. “No.” Banging my palm against the steering wheel, I say goodbye to the little money I have left. My stomach is silent yet desperate for food. My thirst dying to be quenched. The vending machine snacks have run out and I’d do anything for one more Cheeto.
Desperate enough to try mom’s ATM card before leaving the gas station, I’m expecting it to willingly spit out a twenty. I’m shocked when the account has been closed. Him, he did this. I’m so angry I leave the card sticking out of the machine, hoping someone can make it work and drain the account. Asshole.
Slamming my car door, I kick up the dirt in the parking lot when I pull out. A cloud of dust that’s eerily similar to my mood follows me as I speed down the road. Each turn and mile blend into the next—my drive completed by muscle memory.
An hour later, I make it back to campus with nowhere to go. It’s only Wednesday and I’m not due at Kipton’s until Friday. He would want me to run to him, but I’m hesitant. As much as my wounded heart needs him, my pride is too ashamed to go to him. He has it all, and I have nothing. Eventually, I worry he’ll get tired of loving someone who’s unfixable; someone that holds him back from the happiness he deserves.
But as I sit here wondering where to go, I know Kipton and Cara are my only answers. Against my better judgment, I reluctantly dial Kipton’s number when I can’t come up with any other solution. Without money, my options are limited.