The Girl Who Wrote The Dating Manual

chapter eight

Shortly after my mom and dad split up, my mother got herself a new boyfriend.

            His name was Darin, and I have a feeling that, in hindsight, my mother was just looking for a sort of replacement-boyfriend to fill the hole in her life that my father had left when he walked out.

            He was a lot like my dad, actually. The same sandy-blonde hair and chocolate eyes. The same charming personality and surfer-boy persona. He walked around in flip-flops and board shorts, and he spoke with a sultry sort of Californian accent reserved for surfers. He was your stereotypical surfer dude, complete with a vocabulary that consisted of words like ‘gnarly.’

           

            Just like my dad.

           

            My mother instantly fell in love with Darin, and they went strong for six months. By that point I had begun to believe maybe true love did exist, but sometimes you just didn’t find it on the first try. But if you kept your head up and persevered, love and happiness awaited you in the future. Even if Darin had his flaws—like temper problems and a deep-seated passion for whiskey—he still loved my mother and made her happy, and that’s what counted.

            Until he walked out with a girl half my mom’s age, leaving behind no trace he’d ever even existed.

            Including a bunch of bills my mother, who was already struggling to put food on the table, was forced to pay for. Phone bills, water, electricity, utilities and rent… You name it, and Douchebag Darin left it behind for my mother to pay. As long as he had that bleached-blond bimbo attached to his arm, he had no care for the world, or my mother. She was heartbroken, and that’s when I knew that really, if you leave yourself open for heartbreak, that sort of fate is what awaits you. A life full of heartbreak, crying and helplessness. And that’s why independence reigned supreme, in my opinion.

            By the time I’d changed into my swimsuit in the bathroom and made my way downstairs, only Ava was there, speaking on her phone.

“Hey, babe,” she said, checking the strap on her red bikini absentmindedly as she spoke to who I assumed was Rose. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail, and a pair of shorts over her bikini bottoms. On display was the tattoo on the lower part of her back and her navel ring, which thankfully her family seemed to be okay with.

She giggled at something Rose had said. “Yeah, we got here okay.” Another pause. “I know.” A laugh. “Me, too. I miss you, Ro.” A few more giggles. “I gotta go, though. My family’s coming. I’ll call you tonight before bed.” Silence. “Yeah, me too. I love you, too. Okay, bye.”

She hung up, and I entered the room to see Ava beginning to rub sun lotion onto her exposed body. “Not wearing the sexy black bikini I bought you for your birthday?” Ava asked, cocking an eyebrow at my modest black one-piece.

I giggled. “You know I don’t do bikinis, Ave. Not my thing.”

Ava and I were dressed similarly, a pair of denim shorts also adorning my legs and a pair of red sunglasses perched on top of my head. My hair was in a French braid on the side, with small, curly wisps of blonde hair falling out either side of my face.