THE MIDDLE OF the week has never been a favorite of mine. Tuesday through until Thursday is just an irritating stretch of time that keeps the next weekend at bay. And, surprise, surprise, this week may go down as one of the worst.

I'm careful to slam the door gently when I get home. The bones of the house tend to rattle if I take out all of my irritation on the old door. I'm barely inside before my mother is calling, and I wince.

"Peyton? Can you come here please?"

I toe off my Keds and kick them into a corner before following her voice to the kitchen. It smells like Yaya's cooking, and my angry stomach grumbles, making my cramps feel even worse. Stupid PMS.

"How was work?" Mom asks when I pull out a chair and collapse into it. She's cleaning the counter with a bemused smile.

I'm not bemused. "Everyone was loud, and I would like to rip my ovaries out," I reply. "Did Yaya leave leftovers?"

As if on cue, the microwave beeps and Mom pulls out a plate full of delicious smelling food. "She said she was sorry you couldn't make it, and hopes you enjoy this," she tells me, setting the plate down in front of me and taking a seat across from me with her cup of tea.

I dig in, stabbing a piece of chicken with a fork rather aggressively.

Hunter had been teasing me about my "cranky" attitude all day. But he'd also brought me a mocha and cookies this morning, and spent the entirety of our lunch break rubbing gentle circles on my lower back. Not to mention he'd put up with my bipolar affection throughout the day. I could've kissed him or killed him all day. But he'd brushed it off, smiled, and reminded me there'd be no more goodies from his mom if I dumped him in a ditch somewhere.

Mom manages to grab my attention away from my late dinner by clearing her throat quietly. She never does that. I look up just in time to see her blank expression.

"Your father called," she says flatly. Metaphorical crickets chirp, and she takes a long sip of her tea.

A muscle in my cheek twitches as I do my best not to grimace. Setting down my fork carefully, I take a deep breath. "And?" I ask calmly.

She looks at me over the lip of her mug. "He's been trying to get ahold of you."

Of course he has. But I wouldn't know, seeing as I'd blocked any and all New York numbers on my phone— starting with my father's. Long distance charges are a bitch, and I have to pay my own phone bill, thank you very much.

Oh yeah, and I don't want to talk to him.

"That's unfortunate," I tell her, pushing my chair back. I get up, making my way to the fridge to look for a drink.

Mom sighs loudly. Apparently she's not as tired of this conversation as I am. "You can't ignore him forever, Peyton. He's your father."

"Nope," I answer easily, pouring the last of the orange juice into a glass. "He's a cheating bastard, and I don't want anything to do with him."

"I'm well aware," she replies sternly, turning in her seat to face me. "But there are rules I have to follow, and it looks bad on me that he's had no contact with one of his children in two months."

"He abandoned us, cut us off," I insist, slamming my palms into the countertop. "He left, Mom. I'm not about to forgive him for that."

She shakes her head sadly. "I needed to get out of that city, Peyton, you know that. But your father could've stopped me from taking you and your brother with me. He has his family name, the money, the image. I wouldn't have stood a chance in court," she explains, setting down her cup and taking a slow breath as if to centre herself. "We both know I've never been the mother I should've been to you two."

I come around the counter to stand beside her. I look down at her with my best no-nonsense expression. "That doesn't matter. You're doing your best now, Mom. That's what counts. Jay and I are both doing well in school, we've got jobs. You've got a good job. You put food on the table for us and pay the utilities on time. You're a good mom."

Mom reaches out and clasps my hand tightly in her's. Either it's a trick of the light, or there are actually tears welling up in her eyes. I haven't really seen my mother cry since Pappou died. She smiles slightly, wiping at her eyes. "Please," she says, a pleading note in her voice. "Just give him a call, baby."

I don't remember the last time my mom called me baby. Probably because I was under six. But I can tell she's honestly concerned about what my father might do if I keep ignoring him.

And that fact makes me want to slap him in the face.

With a heavy sigh, I return her gesture with one of my own, squeezing her hand. "Fine," I concede. "I'll call him. But I'm not promising I'll be nice about it."

Her smile grows. "Thank you, Peyton."

I roll my eyes in my best attempt to brush off her mushy expression. "Yeah, yeah."

She stand up, giving me a hug and letting me know she's heading to bed early tonight. She takes her mug of now cold tea and heads out of the kitchen. Just as she starts to climb the stairs, I pop my head out of the doorway and call after her.

"Are collect calls still a thing?"

I wait until the next morning to call my sperm donor— I mean, father. And to give myself an excuse to keep the call brief, I do it while Hunter is driving me to school, giving me a ten minute window after I explain to my boyfriend why I might be yelling at my phone.

I pick at the muffin he brought me while I explain the situation to him. These baked goods are going to make me gain ten pounds if he keeps spoiling me every morning.

Hunter gives me an amused smile as I Google the number to make a collect call.

"You're actually going to make your dad pay to talk to you?" He chuckles, turning out of our driveway.

"Yes," I say simply, copying the number into my phone and pressing the call button. "It's the least he can do."

"You kill me, Skirt."

I follow the instructions of the computer generated voice on the other end of the phone, and type in my father's cellphone number when it prompts me to. A moment later, the other end begins to ring.

It rings, and rings. I'm nearly ready to hang up, not bothering with leaving a message, when the line clicks and my father's voice comes through.

"Jonathon Church," he states as a greeting.

I roll my eyes. I'm on speakerphone, probably in his car. "Hello to you too, daddy," I reply, letting as much venom as possible lace into my voice.

"Peyton, it's nice to finally hear from you. It's been long enough."

I snort a laugh and Hunter snickers beside me. "Yeah, I mean, I have been ignoring you, so."

My father scoffs and I can picture his disapproving expression perfectly. "Peyton Alexandra. Your mother and I raised you better than to disrespect your elders."

"No, you didn't," I corrected him. "And you should be thanking Mom that I'm even talking to you. She's the only reason I called. Now, I'm on my way to school so I only have a few minutes. What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to my daughter," he states matter-of-factly. "Is that so wrong?"

I hear the accusation in his voice, and raise him one of my own. "Maybe you should've asked yourself that question before you up and left us."

My father sighs. Obviously arguing with his teenage daughter is exasperating. Who'd have thought? "Are you finished, Peyton? I'm not interested in fighting with you."

I nod, even knowing he can't see me. Wordlessly, Hunter wraps his hand around mine. "Yes. Because I'm almost at school."

"I've been calling because I would like to spend some time with you. I haven't seen you since you left New York."

"What?" I scoff. I can't help it. "You're going to fly down to Arkansas for a quick visit?"

I can tell he arrives at the office when I hear the secretary quietly greet him. "No, I'd like you to come to New York for the weekend. This weekend, actually."

"I'm just supposed to buy a plane ticket and fly to New York in three days?" I ask, bewildered. I hadn't expected that. "I don't have money for that."

"Of course not, Peyton. I'll send you my credit card number and you can buy yourself whatever ticket suits you best."

I'm half tempted to take the number and use it for other things, just to spite him. But I think colleges frown upon credit card fraud.

"What about Jay?" I ask. "Does he know about this plan of yours?"

"Of course," he says easily. I don't want to believe him. "Your brother's already agreed to come and visit. But he'll be come down in a few weeks."

A pang of hurt stabs through me. I didn't know Jayden was talking to Dad, let alone that he'd already agreed to a visit. Without me. Then again, we hardly spoke anymore.

I set aside my hurt for a minute, telling myself I need to sit down talk to my brother later. Weighing my options in my head— the legal ones, anyhow— I quickly come up with one that makes the most of this unfortunate predicament.

"Fine, I'll come see you," I huff, and Hunter raises an intrigued eyebrow. "But I have conditions."

"Of course you do," my father says. He doesn't sound entirely surprised by my response. "I'd really expect nothing less from you, Peyton."

There's an underlying insult in his comment, like he's telling me I'm difficult or something. I mean, he's not wrong, I'm as stubborn as a bull at a rodeo. But, I'm a Church. It's in my blood.

Dear Lord, even my analogies are becoming more country.

I tell him my terms. "I want to bring a couple of my friends with me. They've been good to me since we moved, and I would like to repay them."

I can imagine my father's face hardening. He'd had a lot of influence over who my friends were growing up. If their parents were clients of his, they were beneath me, and I should treat them as such. Associates children were encouraged, as were the odd child of someone higher ranking on the social ladder.

A couple of kids from backwoods Arkansas are not my father's idea of friends. They're the kind of people he'd scoff at and cross the road to avoid.

I guess it's a good thing I'm not daddy's little girl anymore.

Sure enough, his displeasure is evident. "I don't think that's a good idea, Peyton. Your friends would probably find the fast pace to be too much of a culture shock, I'm sure." He tries to make it sound like he's being considerate, but he's not. "Besides, I would like to spend some time with you."

"And you will," I inform him, "I promise we'll have one brunch and one dinner together. My friends can take care of themselves for two meals." I'm glad he can't see me wince over the phone. "It'll be just you and me."

"And Andrea, of course."

It's like my father majored in ruining moments. Or at least in riling me up. "Is that the name of whatever harlot you're shacking up with now, Dad?"

"Andrea and I are living together, yes. But, to soothe your concerns, she's thirty-five and has a very comfortable job at the Metropolitan. It's not whatever you might think it is, Peyton."

"Whatever," I grumble. When I look out the window, I notice my glower in the side mirror. I'm going to get premature wrinkles if I keep talking to my father much longer. Heaving a sigh, I lean my head back and concede to dinner with the woman who may just become my future step-monster. "I'll buy the tickets. Just text me the number or something. I'm at school though, so I have to go."

"I have a meeting to get to. I'll have my secretary forward you the number. Call me before you leave on Friday."

I agree, begrudgingly, and end the call before he has the chance to say anything else. There's a scream of frustration bubbling up in my lungs, and it takes everything in me not to let it loose. In the quiet cab of Hunter's truck, I might just end up shattering the windshield or blowing out his eardrums.

"Well, that face says it all," Hunter comments, breaking the silence. We're at school, parked in the parking lot behind the building. Thankfully, we're not late.

I look over at him pitifully. The urge to tell him to put the keys back in the ignition and drive us far away is incredible. I don't want to think about going back to New York, where I know Hell might very well be waiting to devour me whole. I want to get lost, even for an hour, and Hunter's touch is the perfect distraction.

Because it's not just returning to my former home and all the people I left behind that's daunting.

My voice is uncharacteristically quiet. "I have to meet the woman who ruined my mom's life this weekend. I have to sit there, at a fancy dining table, and pretend I don't want to rip her extensions out of her head and strangle her with them."

His hand is warm around mine, and I revel in it. "That's dark," he says, pulling me across the bench seat until he can wrap his arm around me, still holding my hand. "You sure you're up for the trip?"

I let out a long breath. "I always planned on going back. I mean, I'm going to college there. I guess I just didn't realize I'd have to face my dad so soon. I've been blissfully ignorant," I confess.

Hunter kisses the side of my head. "Look, if my dad cheated on my mom, I'd probably punch him in the face. I mean, he's a dick, but thankfully he's not that kind of a dick."

"Be glad," I mumble bitterly.

"Anyways, nobody can expect you to go back to the way things were with him. He broke your trust. Now make him earn it back."

My head rests against his shoulder. The bell is going to ring any minute now to signal the start of homeroom, but neither of us makes any sign of rushing.

"So who are you bringing with you?"

A welcome smile blooms on my face as he changes the subject to my devious plan. "Addy and Liza, if they can. Hell, I'd invite the whole class, just to be spiteful." I look up at Hunter through my lashes. "Maybe my boyfriend, too, if he's interested."

He considers it. "Geez, last time I was out of state was the summer after sophomore year when Cam and I took the truck and drove down to Baylor for a college tour."

I raise a curious eyebrow. "You were thinking of Baylor?"

"Nah," he waves me off. "Cam was. But his mom wouldn't let her take his car, so he dragged me along."

My lips curve into a knowing grin and I look up at him through my lashes. "You just wanted to check out college girls."

His wry smile says it all. "I was an innocent sixteen year old, Skirt," he chuckled at the memory. "Besides, we didn't get to spend more than an hour in the campus bar. We had to rescue this guy we met from the wrath of Clary. He called her 'Ginger Bitch' and she went nuts."

I snickered, filing that one away for future use. Hunter's arm tightens around me, like he's getting ready to let go, and I sigh. We're definitely late by now, the parking lot is deserted and the clock on my phone tells me we've already missed first and second bell.

"I'll ask my mom if I can join you," he says finally, and I smile. "As long as I don't mention it to my dad, I can pass it off as a college tour."

"And you're meeting my dad. That'll be a blast," I add, and I watch him wince. "I'll tell the others at lunch, see who else can convince their parents. It's on my dad's dime, so they're all welcome to come."

Hunter looks at me pointedly. "Speaking of lunch..." he trails off and I snuggle closer into his chest at the suggestion in his voice. Any motivation I had for school when I woke up vanished the second I hung up the phone.

It takes a minute, but Hunter disentangles himself from me and convinces me that if he has any hope of coming with me this weekend, he can't skip class.

Its annoying when he's right, but I can't fault his argument. So, begrudgingly, I agree, and haul my ass out of the truck.

We congregate at our usual table when the lunch bell rings, and I extend invitations to everyone there while I pick at the sandwich I halfheartedly threw together this morning. Nobody jumps at the offer, but after some heckling and promises to make up for their lack of a true spring break experience— like, ever— they agree to ask their parents.

To make things even more interesting, we get stuck with a pop quiz in English class, right after lunch. While I pride myself in my ability to summarize, in detail, some of the best works of English literature, the novels we've been assigned in this class are beyond ridiculous. Give me Brontë or Austen, Dickens or Fitzgerald, Lee or Atwood, and I'm good to go. But, Lord of the Flies and Of Mice and Men?

Poor Piggy.

Of course, I'd neglected last night's assigned readings, so when Ms. Dixon picked up the chalk and asked us to describe how the themes of alienation and isolation affected the three main characters, with examples from the text, I absolutely blanked.

Ten minutes pass, the scratching of a dozen pens and pencils echoing against the walls of the small prison cell, and my page is still blank. I can't even think of anything to title it— Ms. Dixon docks marks if we simply title something "English Essay" or use the title of the novel. "Embrace your creativity," she always says. "Catch the reader's interest before they even get to the thesis."

I succumb to my inner feeling of failure, tapping the end of my pencil as I wait for the next ten minutes to tick by so I can hand her my blank page and accept my zero mark with dignity. I mean, it's not like this is worth half my grade. It won't make any more difference than if I hadn't even shown up to class.

My thoughts begin to wander to the pending weekend. I have a couple of days to prepare myself, mentally, to see my dad again.

It's hard to process that just a couple of months ago, I was so sure that he hadn't abandoned us, no matter how much my mom and Jayden insisted he had. Now here I am, stressing and digging in my four inch heels at the thought of spending a mere two days in the city I adore.

I feel the gentle nudge of a cheap pen lid against my ribs. I startle, my attention flying over to Hunter who looks over at me with a raised eyebrow. He looks down at my paper, still blank aside from my name in the corner, and back up at me. He doesn't speak, but I see the question in his eyes. I lift my shoulder in a half assed shrug.

I'm fine, I mouth.

Slacker, he mouths back with a grin.

My eyes dart to his paper where there's a quarter of a page full of his tight, messy scrawl. I resist the urge to wince at both the sloppiness of it, and the sheer fact that Hunter did the reading and I did not.

Quickly, I jot down a quick paragraph of utter bullshit. I pull from the two things I remember from the back of the book— one of the characters had a mental disability and they're working on a ranch during the Great Depression. I can only manage a couple vague references to the first couple of chapters that I did read— or at least, skimmed— but I finish a nice half page paragraph just as the timer on Ms. Dixon's desk buzzes.

We pass our papers forward, and as she collects them she instructs us to form small groups to discuss the last three chapters of the novel. Hunter turns to face me across the aisle between our desks as Addison and Ethan push their desks closer behind us.

"You good, Skirt?" Hunter asks, playfully smacking my knee with the tattered book he pulls from his bag.

A stray lock of hair had escaped from my bun, and I blow it out of eyes. "I'm fine, just a little stressed. That's all."

Addison peeps up quietly from behind me. "Liza would say you're one split end away from a meltdown. Are you worried about seeing your dad?"

I whirl one the girl behind me, my eyebrows raised in absolute shock. "Yes, Eliza would. She would also tell me I have daddy issues."

Addy flushes a bright shade of scarlet but says nothing.

Hunter appears to be visibly restraining a laugh. "I mean, you do, Skirt," he admits, but he quickly back-pedals and adds, "But we kinda all do, eh?"

My eyes flick back to Addison, who's busied herself scribbling notes in a notebook, and vaguely recall that her dad has been stationed in Iraq for the past two years.

"Speak for yourself, man," Ethan scoffs. "But nice cover."

Hunter flicks an eraser at Ethan's head, the two of them going back and fourth for a minute before Ms. Dixon tells them to cut it out. In the meantime, I turn around to face Addy again.

"So," I say, resting my elbow on her desk. "You think your mom will let you come with? We're both off this weekend."

Addison nibbles on her lip. "I don't know, I've never really gone anywhere without her and my siblings."

"Please, Addy," I whine shamelessly, my voice dropping so the people around us can't hear. "I really need you and Eliza there. I— I don't know what it's going to be like when I go back."

And I don't just mean with my dad. Sure, it'll be weird seeing my dad again, especially with this Andrea woman he's shacking up with. But, to be honest, I'm more worried about what it will be like to set foot on the streets of the Upper East Side again. Who will I see? Who will see me? What will they say? What will they do?

And, the more I think about it, do I really want to subject my friends, the first real friends I've ever had, to that kind of thing?

Yes. Because with them by my side, I won't care what other people say. They've taught me how to stand up and be confident in a way that I wasn't before. I see now that you do not need to be the prettiest or most perfect for people to like you. Because if they're really your friends, they'll care more about what's in your heart than the clothes you wear or things you say online.

But, nonetheless, I still feel the littlest bit more confident when Addy says she'll convince her mom to let her come with me.

What's this? An actual update? With actual words? And an actual semi thought out plot line? It's a Christmas miracle! (I finished this chapter around Christmas, so don't @ me.)
Real talk, I'm actually trying to write a bunch of chapters so I can stock pile them and release them once or twice a week until they're done. Because that seemed like a professional, non-frantic thing to do to keep y'all engaged.
Until next time, enjoy this footage of me working on these updates for the past 84 years, as well as the next...

Lots of love,