get Garrick Dempsey off my mind.
Chapter Five
By six thirty on Saturday night I’m running late for work. I’m about to open the front door when the phone rings. I drop my backpack and stomp to the kitchen. As soon as I answer, I know who it is. My mother flatly refuses to call my cellphone.
“Robyn,” she says in that stiff voice.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did I interrupt anything?”
“I was leaving for work, but I have a few minutes.”
She goes quiet, and I hear her take a deep breath. She needs to recover from the four-letter word she considers as vile as an F-bomb: work. More specifically, my work.
“Marisela wants to see you,” she says.
My little sister knows what I do for a living and whenever my mother feels generous, she grants me visitation rights for my sister’s sake, but always under heavy supervision. I also suspect that deep down, although my mother is still angry at me after all these years, she still needs to know I’m okay. I accept these sporadic, usually tense interludes with my mother because it’s better than no contact at all. So I always make the best of my time with Marisela . . . managing to slip her a stack of ones. It’s an ongoing joke between us. She’s seventeen going on thirty in front of me, and seventeen going on twelve in front of our mom.
“How’s Sunday afternoon?” I ask.
“Won’t work,” she answers curtly.
“Monday between classes?”
“Robyn . . .” I cringe. “The world doesn’t revolve around your schedule. You can come over for dinner next Thursday.”
I sigh. She knows I can’t miss work. “I work on Thursday, Mom.”
Another painful pause.
“Why do you always make everything so difficult?” she asks.
I try to hold in my anger. I can’t. “Why do you always invite me over when you know I have to work?” The line goes dead.
My weekly quota of Mom harassment has been met. I hang the phone up and fight to hold back the tears already stinging my eyes. I’ll never understand why she continues to hold a grudge against me. Kicking me out of the house was the ultimate punishment. Living with the fact that she believed her brother over me, and never even questioned him about the abuse, still kills me inside. It shouldn’t. I’ve had ample time to deal with it. Instead of seeking counseling or joining a support group, I keep my emotions bottled up inside. I’m too ashamed to reveal my past. Macey knows, but she’s the older sister I always wanted. Anyone else—I’d choose a painful death first. That’s what you get when you have a disjointed, judgmental family that cares more about appearances than love. Accomplishment over compassion, respectability over reality.
I go in the half bath off the kitchen and flip the light on. My black eyeliner and mascara are perfect. I turn off the light, pick up my backpack, and head to my car.
I walk through the main entrance of the Devil’s Den and immediately see Craig sitting at the hostess booth. Something tells me he’s waiting for me. I give him a half-smile and start for the dressing room around the corner.
“Robyn,” he barks.
I stop. His angry voice raises gooseflesh on my arms—I’ve been the victim of his temper before. I hear him stomp around the desk; he’s headed my way. The dressing room is only a few feet away. Maybe if I run . . . He takes me by the elbow.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m late, Craig,” I protest. “Can we do this later?”
“No.” He drags me to the small storage room next to the dressing room, kicks open the door, pulls me inside, and slams the door shut.
“What the fuck?” he asks.
I look at him like he has two ugly heads. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“You’ve earned it,” he says. “Why’d you leave with Garrick last night? Are you fucking him?”
“Maybe,” I shoot back. “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, I think it is.” He grabs my arm and gives me a shake.
Craig is easily six foot five and nearly 260 pounds of gladiator
Chapter Five
By six thirty on Saturday night I’m running late for work. I’m about to open the front door when the phone rings. I drop my backpack and stomp to the kitchen. As soon as I answer, I know who it is. My mother flatly refuses to call my cellphone.
“Robyn,” she says in that stiff voice.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did I interrupt anything?”
“I was leaving for work, but I have a few minutes.”
She goes quiet, and I hear her take a deep breath. She needs to recover from the four-letter word she considers as vile as an F-bomb: work. More specifically, my work.
“Marisela wants to see you,” she says.
My little sister knows what I do for a living and whenever my mother feels generous, she grants me visitation rights for my sister’s sake, but always under heavy supervision. I also suspect that deep down, although my mother is still angry at me after all these years, she still needs to know I’m okay. I accept these sporadic, usually tense interludes with my mother because it’s better than no contact at all. So I always make the best of my time with Marisela . . . managing to slip her a stack of ones. It’s an ongoing joke between us. She’s seventeen going on thirty in front of me, and seventeen going on twelve in front of our mom.
“How’s Sunday afternoon?” I ask.
“Won’t work,” she answers curtly.
“Monday between classes?”
“Robyn . . .” I cringe. “The world doesn’t revolve around your schedule. You can come over for dinner next Thursday.”
I sigh. She knows I can’t miss work. “I work on Thursday, Mom.”
Another painful pause.
“Why do you always make everything so difficult?” she asks.
I try to hold in my anger. I can’t. “Why do you always invite me over when you know I have to work?” The line goes dead.
My weekly quota of Mom harassment has been met. I hang the phone up and fight to hold back the tears already stinging my eyes. I’ll never understand why she continues to hold a grudge against me. Kicking me out of the house was the ultimate punishment. Living with the fact that she believed her brother over me, and never even questioned him about the abuse, still kills me inside. It shouldn’t. I’ve had ample time to deal with it. Instead of seeking counseling or joining a support group, I keep my emotions bottled up inside. I’m too ashamed to reveal my past. Macey knows, but she’s the older sister I always wanted. Anyone else—I’d choose a painful death first. That’s what you get when you have a disjointed, judgmental family that cares more about appearances than love. Accomplishment over compassion, respectability over reality.
I go in the half bath off the kitchen and flip the light on. My black eyeliner and mascara are perfect. I turn off the light, pick up my backpack, and head to my car.
I walk through the main entrance of the Devil’s Den and immediately see Craig sitting at the hostess booth. Something tells me he’s waiting for me. I give him a half-smile and start for the dressing room around the corner.
“Robyn,” he barks.
I stop. His angry voice raises gooseflesh on my arms—I’ve been the victim of his temper before. I hear him stomp around the desk; he’s headed my way. The dressing room is only a few feet away. Maybe if I run . . . He takes me by the elbow.
“We need to talk.”
“I’m late, Craig,” I protest. “Can we do this later?”
“No.” He drags me to the small storage room next to the dressing room, kicks open the door, pulls me inside, and slams the door shut.
“What the fuck?” he asks.
I look at him like he has two ugly heads. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“You’ve earned it,” he says. “Why’d you leave with Garrick last night? Are you fucking him?”
“Maybe,” I shoot back. “It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, I think it is.” He grabs my arm and gives me a shake.
Craig is easily six foot five and nearly 260 pounds of gladiator
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