Winning With Him by Lauren Blakely
Grant
Eight Years Ago
Age fourteen
When my friends say it was awkward and embarrassing to endure The Sex Talk from their parents they have no idea what “so awkward I wanted to die” really feels like.
Like right now as my parents screwed late on a Friday night. As soon as the moans started, I grabbed my earphones and turned on a movie on my computer. It was a strategy I’d learned from years of them screwing and fighting.
It was all they did.
They had no filter. They went from yelling at each other about who last cleaned the dishes or did the laundry, to how good it felt to be pounded over the bathroom sink.
“Yes, bend me over. Spank me,” my mom begged.
I cringed and pressed my earphones tighter to my head.
Normally, I’d leave the house—take off for the park, hit some balls at the cages. Or I could have escaped to my grandparents’ place, but they were on an RV trip in Yosemite. My sister was staying at her best friend’s house, and I was stuck in our tiny, cramped house with the paper-thin walls.
I jacked up the volume as the moans and groans picked up speed. I’d heard it all before and estimated they’d be done in fifteen minutes.
Twenty-five minutes later, when Reese texted me to check out a new song, I figured it would be safe to pause National Treasure—one of my grandpa’s favorite flicks—and switch over to my phone.
As I wrote back to Reese, my mother’s voice cut across from the other room. “Yes, I’m on the pill, asshole. I told you that.”
“Like that means anything,” my father sneered. “That’s what you told me back in high school, and look where that led.”
“I did not say that,” she shouted. “I told you to use a condom, but gee, someone couldn’t do that right.”
“It’s not my fault the condom broke,” he said.
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing they’d just shut up.
“It’s certainly not my fault you knocked me up,” she fired back at him.
It was a knife jammed between my ribs, but more of a butter knife by now. Not like the serrated edge of the first time I’d heard them talk about not wanting me.
About how I was a mistake. Same with my sister, two years younger.
“You should have had an abortion like I told you to,” my father spit out.
I froze—even my blood stopped moving.
But my ears still rang with this new accusation, a barb he’d never flung at her before.
I couldn’t go back to the computer now. I didn’t care about the movie, only about the horror I was overhearing.
“Don’t blame me,” she yelled. “I would have, but Mom wouldn’t let me.”
“Well, just remember who was going to take you to the clinic. And you better not be lying about being on the pill now.”
A wave of nausea rose up inside me, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop listening.
“Get out,” my mother seethed at my dad. “I’m sick of you.”
“Why do you fuck me, then?”
“That’s all you’re good for.”
“If you’re pregnant again, you’ll get rid of it this time.”
It.
Get rid of it.
I needed to get away from my parents. Did they know I was here? Did they even care?
“Get the fuck out,” she screamed at him.
And that was enough.
No more for me.
I didn’t want her to come in here and cry with me, vent to me, complain to me. That was her favorite thing to do—sob with her kids over her shitty husband.
Not tonight, Mom.
I left my laptop on the bed, yanked open the window and climbed out, sprinting across my yard, then the neighbors’, all the way to Reese’s place a few houses down.
Her mom let me in. I must have looked awful, because she asked if I was okay, and when I told her I needed to see Reese, she squeezed my shoulder and walked me to her daughter’s bedroom.
With the door closed, I told my closest friend everything. I tried so damn hard not to cry. But it didn’t work.
“Shh. Someday . . . someday it will be different,” she whispered as she hugged me and I hugged her back. “At least you have your grandparents.”
She was right. My grandma and grandpa were all I needed. With them, I had more than enough, and I knew, deep down, I’d be okay.
As long as I was careful to never give a piece of my heart to someone who would throw it away.
