Writing the Rules: A Fake Dating Standalone by Mariah Dietz (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’ve always been so patient and respectful to others. You could teach kids or even college.”

“Like being a professor?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can I teach a class about why boys are such a pain in the butt?”

“I’d pay to learn why.” She unlatches the top of the cupcake container and grabs two plates from the cupboard. I watch as she places one of the messy globe-topped cupcakes on each plate. She licks her thumb as she passes me one, and I collect two forks.

“Sorry. They’re a little messy.”

“Messy isn’t bad. Sometimes the best things in life are messy.”

I dig my fork into my cupcake.

“Is this about Mike?” she asks.

“No, but he certainly contributed to the problem.”

She winces. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I’m kind of actively avoiding it all right now.”

Mom offers a tight smile. “Fair enough.”

“Why’d you invite them over for Thanksgiving?”

Mom holds her fork, her lips in a sideways purse like she has to think about the answer. “I know how sad you were when he left and how close you guys were. I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes everything I know about boundaries and allowing people to make their own decisions sometimes takes a backseat to being a mom. I just want you to be happy, and I thought maybe you guys spending some time together again would help you realize if he was what you wanted.”

“I hope it won’t impact your relationship with his mom, but I don’t have feelings for Mike. I don’t want to be anything but friends, and I’m not even sure about that right now.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you about it first. I wasn’t trying to trick you, I just wanted to help, but I can see now that I wasn’t helping at all.”

“Good intentions,” I tell her, taking a bite of my cupcake.

“I’m here for you. Always.”

My throat tightens and I nod. “That’s all I need.”

We finish our cupcakes, and when Dad and Dylan get back, we order pizza. I can feel the slight hiccups that reveal I’m changing their routine and schedule that has been modified since I moved out, but no one seems to mind those differences.

I spend the night in my childhood room for the second time this week. These walls don’t seem nearly as confining, yet the moment I close my eyes, my memories reach straight toward that place in my brain I’ve been trying to avoid all day. Tears leak down my cheeks until sleep finally takes pity on me.

Mom’s still home when I make my way downstairs, still wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday.

“You’re here late,” I say. Yesterday I had been the first one up and left right away.

“I work from home in the morning now so I can be here before Dylan goes to school.”

I feel relieved to hear this as I open the fridge and grab a yogurt.

“I wish I’d thought to do it a decade ago. Sometimes when I think back, I realize how many things I missed with you. You always made it so easy on us. I was thinking about our conversation about Mike last night, and I really regret inviting them over. I violated your trust, and that wasn’t right. But I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. I want you to feel comfortable telling me what you want and what you need. You don’t have to always be my brave and independent girl, taking care of yourself all of the time.”

I take a seat at the island bar as my emotions, which are already frayed and stretched, climb into my throat. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and offer her some assurance since I can’t find words.

She kisses the side of my head. “I’m going to check on your brother.”

I take several deep breaths to dry my eyes and check the clock above the stove. It’s nearly seven. I wonder what Pax is doing. If he’s awake. If he’s feeling excited for their game tomorrow. If he misses me.

I feed Sampson, thinking about how I’m going to spend the weekend so I don’t focus on the landslide of feelings that keep threatening to bury me. The weather is cold, the sky a dark gray that is reflective of my mood. I consider skipping class again like I had yesterday and spending the day baking more cupcakes or getting all of my Christmas shopping done. I could go find a tree or hang lights—something that will keep me busy.

I rinse out my empty yogurt cup and toss it into the recycling bin and catch sight of the pizza boxes waiting to be taken to the compost/yard waste bin outside. It’s ridiculous that pizza makes me think of Paxton, but most things do now. He’s woven himself into nearly every part of my life.

Mom and Dylan arrive downstairs, and we make small talk about the weather and how we’re glad it’s Friday, but the time slips away too quickly, and when Mom says she’s driving Dylan to school, my list of excuses to stay runs out. I drive home to my apartment to shower and change. A note is taped to our door, saying there’s a package waiting for me at the main office. I have no doubt it’s a Christmas gift from my grandparents. Likely pajamas like they get me every year.

I unlock the door and toss the note on our kitchen table to pick up later. I’ve never felt so conflicted. My shoulders sag as the silence of the space fills me, reminding me where Pax and Rae are—where I was supposed to be.

I head to my room, straight into the closet where I flip on the lights and sit in the tiny space, surrounded by clothes, books, and a full shelf of my journals—my memories.

I’ve been recording my life since I was seven. A heavy stream of consciousness, questions, thoughts, details that I’ve kept and recorded in