Sweet Spot

SOFT SPOT - EXCERPT

"I'm coming."

Context. You need context. I guarantee it's not what you think.

See, those are usually good words to hear. The best, right? In fact, nine out of ten times it's exactly the kind of thing you want someone to tell you. And I wish I could say this is one of those times because I guarantee that would be way more interesting than the shit-fest I'm in the middle of.

"We're both coming."

Oh, God. Even better. I may look like a prude but I'll never deny that two is always better than one. The only time it isn't is when you're being chased by a murderer. Also, as long as we're on the topic, I'm pretty sure I'd prefer the murderer right now.

"Ah," I fight the maniacal laughter clawing up my throat. "Coming...why?"

Yeah. There's no justification for that one. Unless the person you're with is either very confused or on a completely different page than you. Then it's just illegal.

"Why," Mom repeats with a scoff. "What kind of child asks why their parents are visiting? If you were brought up in China like me, you'd never have the gall..."

This is where I fade out, like always. Not on purpose. I'm pretty sure it's a defence mechanism at this point. I'm always getting shat on for growing up too westernized and apparently having a white father is no excuse either. I've heard it all anyways. How I'm so lucky I grew up in America and all opportunities were put in my lap. How this country made me spoiled. How I had all the potential in the world to become something and still took it for granted.

"...take it for granted," Mom finishes irritably. Am I good or what?

"I didn't mean it like that," I backtrack tiredly.

You know that bone that keeps you upright and not bent over at the hip? A spine? Great little asset, that one. Too bad I lack it entirely when it comes to my mother. I might as well plaster my horizontally bent body to a blackboard and teach kids math. Hey guys, we call this a right angle! Geometry!

"I don't see how else you could have meant it." I hear scraping noises in the background, like pen to a paper. Of course she's working. Her and dad are always working. I'm no different but because I'm not a lawyer like them, my parents like to believe I don't do any work at all. "Really, Harper, you didn't even learn to lie decently when you were in law school?"

Ouch. I clench my fists tightly at the familiar rush of panic. I know exactly where this is going. First it's about what a disappointment I am, then me giving up being a lawyer, and next will be the questions of why I love fetching lattes and printing schedules for a living.

Disclaimer: my boss doesn't even drink coffee (is it any wonder we call him Satan?) and nobody prints anything anymore. The robots have very obviously taken over.

"Dad's coming too?" I ask, trying to make a mental note of exactly how shitty my life is about to get. My guess is shittier than a newborn or an untrained animal. Whichever is worse.

Mom sighs. "Yes, Harper. Our plans haven't changed in the last thirty seconds."

Oh, God. That means arguments and belittling to my face instead of over the phone. I suck at arguing in person. I burst out crying the second I try to get one word out so let's face it; I had zero shot at being a lawyer. The judge would have barely said "all rise" before I curled up on the floor sobbing and pleading guilty.

"Okay. Sure. Great." I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear, rummaging through my drawer for my notebook. It takes three tries to get hold of it since my hands are shaking better than my ass ever could. "When do you get here and for how long?"