>>chapter eight: a complex dilemma<<

↠Thursday, November 28; Thanksgiving Day, Morning

Beckett Lynch

"Mom?" I called out softly, gently pushing the bathroom door open. My mother was standing in front of the sink, eyes slightly red as she applied makeup to her face.

"Beckett, hello dear," my mother said, promptly turning away from me and beginning to dig through her makeup bag. But I knew it was only an act. She didn't want me to see her face.

Her makeup wasn't on yet, after all. 

I didn't comment.

"Dad's been calling for you," I said instead. It felt sour on my tongue and I felt sick, but it would be too suspicious to say anything else. 

Everything is just peachy, right?

My mother only responded with "Thank you, please tell him I'll be down in just a moment."

I turned and left, not able to look at my mother anymore.  I made my way begrudgingly down the stairs.

"Mom will be down in just a minute," I said, barely poking my head into the living room.

I saw the look that appeared on his face, and I wondered how I didn't realize it sooner. I turned away, went back up the stairs, on fell onto my bed with a distressed sigh.

Dinner tonight was going to be hell.

Acting like everything was fine, pretending like I had no idea what was going on? It was bad enough when I had to do it on the odds-and-ends times when I talked to my parents, but to have to constantly pretend for a meal?

My family rarely sat down and ate meals together, if you couldn't guess. My mother cooked, and then Chris would slip into his room with his plate and a six pack of beer and I wouldn't see him for the rest of the night. And thank God for that.

But Thanksgiving was a different story.

While the holidays that we celebrated were far and few, there was a few days out of every year where we all sat around the table and ate dinner all together like the happy family that we weren't. 

I let out a heavy sigh, rolling over and grabbing my phone off my nightstand. I figured I could waste the next couple hours before entering the hell-storm that would be the dining room.

I saw that I had a text message from Spencer, which really did not surprise me at all. I had pretty much guessed that Spencer was the kind of person who texted you every somewhat-major holiday just to wish you a good one.

Who was I to complain?

Goldilocks: "Hey, Beckett! How is your Thanksgiving going?"
 10:46 AM

you: "eh, just like any other thanksgiving so far"
you: "how is yours?"
10:52 AM

That was probably the only thing I could say while (a) being honest and (b) not making him worry about me anymore than he already did.

Goldilocks: "Oh, I see. That's pretty much how it's been for me too."
Goldilocks: "I don't really like Thanksgiving all that much..."
10:54 AM

you: "well, that's one thing we have in common for sure"
10:55 AM

Goldilocks: "Oh? Why don't you like Thanksgiving?"
10:57 AM

you: "i think most people just use it as an excuse to pig out"
you: "it barely has any real value left :///"
11:04 AM

Couldn't I just go through one damn conversation without ly--

Goldilocks: "Yeah, I guess I kind of know what you mean."
11:06 AM

you: "well? aren't you supposed to tell me why you don't like thanksgiving now?"
11:08 AM

Goldilocks: "It boils down to money, if I'm being honest. My family doesn't really have a lot of money and Thanksgiving is so expensive :("
Goldilocks: "Oh, I have to go help my mom with something. Talk to you later?"
11:11 AM

you: "no problem, Spencer"
11:12 AM

Well, that definitely didn't help me get my mind off of anything. So now, alongside my dread, I felt flooded with guilt. He had been honest, and I had done nothing but lie through my teeth. By this point, it felt like I was lying more than I was being honest.

It really wasn't a matter of if he was going to find out the truth; it was a matter of when. And how mad he would be.

So then why even lie in the first place? If I knew he would eventually unravel the ever-growing tangle of lies, why even add to it?

That was a complicated question... with a very simple answer. There was a problem, and I knew the solution, but...

I was scared.

They always say that the first step on the road to recovery is admitting that you have a problem, so there. There's the problem. Right there.

It's just that... there hadn't been someone who was so determined to be my friend in a long time. Yeah, others had definitely tried, but they always backed off once I grew distant. That's always what happened. Make a friend for a month, grow cold, they stop talking to me.

It was a sad cycle, but it was stable nonetheless. I never expected anything different to happen. I was destined to be alone forever because I couldn't open up to anyone. That's honest-to-God what I told myself every single day. That's what I thought.

Apparently, I had thought wrong. Spencer was not going to give in so easily.

But--

"Beckett! Come downstairs!" I suddenly heard my mother's voice coming from what I guessed was the kitchen.

Spencer would have to wait--probably for at least a couple years, but I didn't want to limit myself or anything like that.

I didn't want to hesitate in the fear that I would never go downstairs. I walked down the stairs, and passed through the living room into the kitchen without speaking a word to Chris--who was seated on the sofa.

"Dinner is almost ready, I just need you to watch this for a moment," she said, motioning to the stove.

I nodded to her. There was no way I could say no. My mother left, hurrying through the living room at a pace several times faster than usual. I could only guess where she was going--the bathroom. My guess was that some of her makeup had smudged or something.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I was seated at the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen.

Glancing back and forth between my parents, my entire appetite just... disappeared. Not wanting to answer any questions, I filled up a plate and ate anyways. I knew perfectly well that I would end up sick later, but that was later and this was now.

"So, Beckett," my mother spontaneously said, breaking the awful silence. "--you mentioned that you had made a new friend at school recently, but you haven't told me anything about them."

I had known that the question was coming.

"Oh, yeah," I said nonchalantly, "Spencer and I share a couple classes. He's... cool."

My mother was leaning on the table, almost completely rapt in what I was saying. Chris, on the other hand, hadn't even looked up from his plate. I was not surprised.

"How did you two get become friends, then? You never mentioned him before..." 

"We actually got partnered up for a project back about a month ago, and kind of hit it off from there."

I was certain that Spencer would not appreciate it if I had told the truth. But I realize now that the reason I gave was cliché as hell, and sounded like something straight out of a cheesy high school romance movie. Ugh.

My mother expressed her approval for me making friends yet again before we fell into an awkward silence. But, considering the next topic that came up, I would've preferred we ate in silence.

"You need to cut your hair."

Great. It wasn't like I hadn't had this conversation with him several times already, always ending in a fight worse than the last.

"This is how I like my hair, Dad," I said, straining to keep my voice calm.

"It's almost past your shoulders...!" he hissed, "People are going to start mistaking you for a girl! And you being scrawnier than a stick doesn't help!"

"Highly doubt it, but that's my choice. Thanks for your input."

He glared at me angrily, seeming to pick up that I wasn't going to argue with him. 

Next, he was grabbing onto a knife and digging into viciously digging it into the tower of food onto his plate. My guess was that he was pretending it was my hair.

Maybe it wasn't going to end in a fight. That was a good thing. For all parties.

My mother hadn't said anything, taking a long sip from a glass of water the entire time instead. I couldn't blame her. He was already angry at me; I saw no reason for her to get involved.

No one was eating anymore.

Chris suddenly pushed his chair out from the table with a low growl. He stood on his feet, grabbed his plate, and left. 

My mother's face was pale. She quickly shook her head. She stood as well.

"You can go, too, dear," she said suddenly, pushing her chair back in.

"You're sure you don't want any help?" I hesitantly climbed to my feet, looking at my mother.

"No, no. Go on." She waved her hands at me, ushering me out of the kitchen. I returned to my Fortress of Solitude with a dense sigh. Slouching, I felt a heavy sense of disappointment.

Well, damn if that wasn't the worst Thanksgiving yet.

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