Not Looking for Love: Episode 4 Read Online Free
Author: Lena Bourne
just make sure you study for it this time."
I nod, assuring him that I will, and push my way from the classroom through the throng of people already entering for his next class.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, going over my notes. The last thing I need is to flunk out of school. It's the only thing I have left.
When I return home by eight, there's a note from Phillipa saying she's spending the night at Holly's, but we can do something tomorrow.
I text her, telling her I'm going home for the weekend. Which I am, because I can't face the empty house tonight. It matches my empty heart too closely, and I'm not entirely sure I'm even still alive.
"Gail, is that you?" Dad calls from the living room as I enter the house. He's slurring his words and the house smells like a dive bar, cigarette smoke mixing with booze in the air.
"Yeah," I call back.
He's standing in the hallway, his shirt unbuttoned all the way.
"You should've called, I'd've made dinner," he slurs, walking up to me on shaky legs.
I'm listening to the silence, hoping to hear my mom's raspy breathing, just as I used to every time I came home for the past year. Only I hear nothing, because she's dead and buried.
"I ate before I came," I lie and walk past him to the living room, opening the French windows wide.
He sits down on the couch with a grunt and lights another cigarette.
"Should you be smoking so much?" I ask, unable to stop myself.
He shrugs and takes a long pull, blowing the smoke out slowly. "I only have one or two in the evenings."
The ashtray on the coffee table is overflowing and the pack next to it is nearly empty.
I get a tumbler from the bar and pour myself a whiskey.
He leans back on the sofa, watching me. "I'm thinking of selling the house. If you agree, that is?"
My breath hitches in my throat. "Sell? Why?"
"It's too big for me," he says. "But we could just close it up and then you can do whatever you want with it, later. I'm moving to the city, to be closer to work."
I take a sip of my drink and let the silence drag. It's almost ten. Back when I was in high school and still lived here, I might be watching a movie with my mom right now, eating popcorn. Sometimes Dad would join us. Or, if I went out, the two of them would be watching TV right now.
It's like Mom's in the room with us now. But she's just sitting there, silent and still, not laughing or talking. Because she didn't want to leave this house any more than either of us wanted her too.
The cold seeping in through the open windows is chilling me to the bone.
"So, what do you think?" Dad asks.
"I'd like to keep the house," I say and see my mom smile. But it's a faint smile, because she knows as well as I do that this house will never be the same without her, never be my home again. "At least for now."
"As you wish," Dad says and then we just sit there, each drinking our whiskey, sharing grief in silence.
It's almost midnight by the time I finally find the courage to go upstairs to my room. The door to my mom's bedroom is shut, and for a moment on the stairs, I'm sure I hear her cough. It racks through me like an earthquake, and I run to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.
I drank too much, and the room is spinning in wide circles as I lie on the bed. And even though Scott's never been here, I imagine him lying beside me, staring up at the ceiling too, sleepless just like I am. I came here to be closer to him, I know now, and the realization turns my entire chest into a pool of cool water, longing and homesickness filling it like melting snow swells a stream.
Sleep won't come, even after the room stops spinning and I've been lying on my bed motionless for hours. The silence is pressing at me, taking my air, making me feel like I'm the one buried six feet deep underground and not my mom. I'm listening for the sound of her raspy breaths, her grating coughs, so intently that every creak and crack of the house settling is
I nod, assuring him that I will, and push my way from the classroom through the throng of people already entering for his next class.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, going over my notes. The last thing I need is to flunk out of school. It's the only thing I have left.
When I return home by eight, there's a note from Phillipa saying she's spending the night at Holly's, but we can do something tomorrow.
I text her, telling her I'm going home for the weekend. Which I am, because I can't face the empty house tonight. It matches my empty heart too closely, and I'm not entirely sure I'm even still alive.
"Gail, is that you?" Dad calls from the living room as I enter the house. He's slurring his words and the house smells like a dive bar, cigarette smoke mixing with booze in the air.
"Yeah," I call back.
He's standing in the hallway, his shirt unbuttoned all the way.
"You should've called, I'd've made dinner," he slurs, walking up to me on shaky legs.
I'm listening to the silence, hoping to hear my mom's raspy breathing, just as I used to every time I came home for the past year. Only I hear nothing, because she's dead and buried.
"I ate before I came," I lie and walk past him to the living room, opening the French windows wide.
He sits down on the couch with a grunt and lights another cigarette.
"Should you be smoking so much?" I ask, unable to stop myself.
He shrugs and takes a long pull, blowing the smoke out slowly. "I only have one or two in the evenings."
The ashtray on the coffee table is overflowing and the pack next to it is nearly empty.
I get a tumbler from the bar and pour myself a whiskey.
He leans back on the sofa, watching me. "I'm thinking of selling the house. If you agree, that is?"
My breath hitches in my throat. "Sell? Why?"
"It's too big for me," he says. "But we could just close it up and then you can do whatever you want with it, later. I'm moving to the city, to be closer to work."
I take a sip of my drink and let the silence drag. It's almost ten. Back when I was in high school and still lived here, I might be watching a movie with my mom right now, eating popcorn. Sometimes Dad would join us. Or, if I went out, the two of them would be watching TV right now.
It's like Mom's in the room with us now. But she's just sitting there, silent and still, not laughing or talking. Because she didn't want to leave this house any more than either of us wanted her too.
The cold seeping in through the open windows is chilling me to the bone.
"So, what do you think?" Dad asks.
"I'd like to keep the house," I say and see my mom smile. But it's a faint smile, because she knows as well as I do that this house will never be the same without her, never be my home again. "At least for now."
"As you wish," Dad says and then we just sit there, each drinking our whiskey, sharing grief in silence.
It's almost midnight by the time I finally find the courage to go upstairs to my room. The door to my mom's bedroom is shut, and for a moment on the stairs, I'm sure I hear her cough. It racks through me like an earthquake, and I run to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.
I drank too much, and the room is spinning in wide circles as I lie on the bed. And even though Scott's never been here, I imagine him lying beside me, staring up at the ceiling too, sleepless just like I am. I came here to be closer to him, I know now, and the realization turns my entire chest into a pool of cool water, longing and homesickness filling it like melting snow swells a stream.
Sleep won't come, even after the room stops spinning and I've been lying on my bed motionless for hours. The silence is pressing at me, taking my air, making me feel like I'm the one buried six feet deep underground and not my mom. I'm listening for the sound of her raspy breaths, her grating coughs, so intently that every creak and crack of the house settling is
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