Suffer Love by Ashley Herring Blake Page A

both of my parents usually started their mornings this way, easing into the day the way one would start a long-distance run.
    â€œHell if I know, Had.” He scratched his chin and stared out the window for a few seconds, eyes glazing on the coloring leaves outside. He looked so lost, I almost reached out to squeeze his hand the way I would’ve done just a few months ago. A leftover reflex from a different life.
    â€œI’m going to work a little early,” he said while I cemented myself in place. “Have a good day, honey. Maybe we can watch a movie tonight?”
    I said nothing and he seemed to settle for my one-shouldered shrug. Without another glance at Mom, he picked up his work bag and left through the garage. As soon as Dad was gone, Mom stood and glided over to the vacuum. She flicked the power switch, filling the room with a ringing silence. I watched her slide a piece of bread into the toaster, presumably for me, and then go about cleaning up crumbs and drops of spilled almond milk.
    â€œMom?”
    â€œMm?”
    â€œWhat was that about?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe vacuum? Dad?”
    â€œOh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing.” She wiped up a sprinkle of coffee grounds from the counter. “I might be late tonight.”
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œA new client needs some coddling.” Buttering my toast, she flicked her gaze up to mine and back down. “Why? Do you need me at home?”
    Her question sounded benign enough, but impatience edged her voice, like my potential
need
was an inconvenience. Over the past few months, she felt more and more like a housemate than a mom. Just someone who occasionally joined us for meals and helped out around the house from time to time, but who had very little interest in my comings and goings. It bothered me how much I wanted her to
want
to be at home, even though I could barely stand to be here myself.
    â€œNo,” I said. “No, it’s fine.”
    â€œHadley . . .” We stared at each other, and her mouth twitched, as if it was full of words that wanted out but were trapped somehow. Finally, she settled for a weak smile and a “Have a good day” before gathering her things and heading off to work.
    By the time I choked down my breakfast and got my stuff together, I was still so flustered by the whole morning that I was running late. At school, the late bell rang right as I walked inside, and I picked up my pace. I passed Sam Bennett laughing into his phone, but he didn’t see me and I didn’t slow down. I hated being late, and now the knot in my stomach that started with the vacuum had turned into a colossal tangle of worry and anger and irritation.
    When I rounded the corner into the hall where my locker was located, I stopped abruptly. My boots squeaked on the shiny floor and I heard myself gasp. In front of my locker, Sloane Waters sparked a lighter and dipped it into a tall, glassed-in candle. I looked around for a teacher, anyone, but the hall was empty. She fiddled with some things on the ground that I couldn’t make out, a satisfied grin on her face. Then she rose and took off down the hall, red hair flapping behind her.
    As I walked to my locker, all I could do was stare at that candle’s little orange flame. Tears welled up and spilled over on my cheeks before I could stop them.
    Then Sam was there, looking at me with this horrified expression on his face, and all I wanted to do was dissolve into the floor and disappear.
    Â 
    Now, as I slide into Sam’s car, embarrassment still warms my cheeks. I flip down the sun visor and inspect myself in the tiny mirror. I clean off the smeared mascara while Sam throws the trash bag into his back seat. His car is a mess. Empty soda bottles and books and balled-up papers cover the floor, mixed in with at least five baseballs, two gloves, and a mesh bag full of cleats and jerseys.
    â€œSo, I didn’t have