Putting Life on Hold

I like to tell myself that my downfall didn't happen entirely of my own accord, but even I know that it’s a lie. I had never been one to take the blame for things, even if I knew that I was the only one capable of causing such things to happen. My father was the same, never taking responsibility for his actions unless his actions were something to be praised for. I like to think that the day I decided to start taking responsibility for my own doings—whether they be good or bad—, that I did it because I knew it was the right thing to do. In the back of my mind I know I really only did it because I feared becoming like my father.

My father was not a man with many friends, merely a man with many people who feared him too much to stray away from him. He had that effect on many, but never my sister. She had always known what she wanted to do, and she had never let my father get in the way. She wanted to leave our big empty house and pursue her dreams; she wanted to go to Paris and New York and Italy and study fashion and art and anything else she felt the need to. She wanted to be free from his overbearing attitude and his controlling tendencies. She wanted to live life her own way.

She never did get very far without him. She never went to Paris or New York or Italy, and the only thing she studied lately were the insides of red cups as she downed the last of whatever alcoholic beverages she felt the need to drink. My sister had wanted to be free to make her own decisions, but she always ended up in the same place, at home, with nothing to show for the months that she had run off again but the stench of weed and liquor and occasionally a tattoo.

I had often wondered when my own demise would come, if it would come at all, and I suppose I should’ve known the day my sister knocked on my bedroom door, a confused look on her face and a cigarette held to her lips.

“Are you having people over today?” she asked, taking a drag of her cigarette before blowing the smoke out into my room. I crinkled my nose at the sight, disgust bubbling up in my stomach as I shook my head. It was a Sunday, and Sundays had always been my get away days. It was the only day I could do whatever I wanted, although it was spent the same way every time-- sitting on my window seat in an oversized t-shirt and spandex shorts with a book in my lap and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on the bridge of my nose. Sundays were the only days my father wasn't pestering me about something, because he always seemed to be on my case about one thing or another. Sundays were not days I took for granted, and therefore days I usually spent alone.

My sisters brow furrowed in even more confusion before her face went blank, shrugging her shoulders and turning to walk away before saying, “Oh, because there’s a car in the driveway.” She knew that giving me that little piece of information would send my thoughts reeling, would cause numerous questions to fill my mind before I finally got up to inspect for myself. I sighed as I pushed the book aside, pushing myself up from my comfortable spot and pulling down my shorts as much as possible before finally giving up. I cursed myself for wearing the shortest pair of shorts I own as I walked down the hall, the stench of cigarette smoke filling my nostrils. I silently wondered how many my sister had smoked already today, but thought best to leave it alone as I descended the stairs.

I looked out the window just beside the front door, pulling away the curtain to get a better view. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes widened three times their original size, I was sure. After all, what was he doing here at three o’clock on a Sunday afternoon? I pulled the door open with a sigh, stepping out onto the doorstep with my arms crossed. I knew I looked a mess, my hair was thrown haphazardly into a bun atop my head and my navy blue t-shirt had orange paint splattered on it. I looked like a scrub and my appearance in no way deserved the wide smile that Eric sent me as he climbed out of his car and made his way over.

It had been a week since the party my sister had left me at, a week since he drove me home and told me to call him sometime, a week that I went without so much as even asking my sister for his number. He was older, more mature; surely he didn't really want to hang out with some seventeen-year-old.

We stood awkwardly in front of each other for a few moments, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans while mine still remained across my chest. I was waiting for him to speak; he must have had something important to say if he drove all the way here.

“Most girls call a guy when they ask them to, ya know?” was the first thing from his mouth, and I couldn’t help but let a little laugh escape my lips. I shrugged my shoulders in reply, lifting a hand to tuck stray pieces of hair behind my ear as I looked up at him.

“Well, I'm not most girls, Eric,” I told him. It was the most straight-forward thing I had ever said to a boy, not that I frequently talked to many, however, I had no idea where the newfound confidence had come from. Eric sparked something in me that I had never felt before, and that alone should have been warning enough to stay away. I was always bad at reading signs.

He chuckled a bit, nodding his head at my words and sweeping his head to the side to flip his fringe out of his eyes. I had never understood when males did that, after all, if they didn't like their hair in their eyes, why didn't they just cut it?

“I figured that out on my own after the second day of not hearing my phone ring.” I didn't know how to reply, instead diverting my gaze to the ground. The nail polish on my toes was chipping; I would have to re-do them soon. “So, I figured since you weren’t going to call me, I would just stop by.”

“But it’s Sunday,” I said without even realizing it. Eric didn't know anything about me, let alone the importance that this one day of the week held for me. Another laugh escaped his thin lips as I looked up at him from under my lashes, trying to decipher what he could’ve possibly found to be so funny.

“What does it matter what day of the week it is?” he questioned, and I sighed. To any normal person, it wouldn’t have held any importance, but I had realized a long time ago that I wasn't any normal person.

“I don’t usually go anywhere on Sundays,” I told him quietly, a light blush infiltrating my cheeks while a shy smile consumed my mouth. His face held an expression of confusion before it flickered to one of nonchalance, a shrug taking over his shoulders before he replied,

“Well then we’ll just have to hang out here.”