Blame It On the Beach

Chapter Eleven

I wake up before my alarm goes off the next morning, despite having been so tired last night. I walk over to my closet and put on my white Finn's Ice Cream Joint t-shirt and a pair of jean shorts, and walk to the bathroom. I pause, listening for a moment, before realizing that the noise I hear is Quinn's light snoring. I chuckle to myself, washing my face and quickly putting on some mascara before going downstairs.

My mom sits alone at the counter, drinking coffee and looking at her computer. She looks up when I come in, and smiles at me.

"Morning, Em," she says. "Don't you still have an hour until work?  Why don't you get some more sleep?"

I shrug, grabbing an apple out of the fridge. "Not tired anymore." I join her at the counter. "Did you and Dad fight last night?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, not wanting to upset her.

She looks surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"I didn't want to say anything with Quinn there, but... You seemed like you'd been crying, and he didn't come out at all, so..." I trail off.

Mom doesn't respond right away. She looks down at her manicured hands, hands that I have always envied, for the delicate fingers and perfect fingernails, while mine have jagged edges from me biting them.

She looks back up at me, her green eyes meeting my hazel ones. "Yes, we had a bit of an argument. Nothing you need to worry about."

"What was it about?" I ask.

"That's not important."

I nod, focusing my attention on my apple, not wanting to push it and end up upsetting her.

Disclaimer: my parents fight. A lot. Ok, maybe not a lot, but more than your average married couple would.

I hate it when they fight. Not that any kid would enjoy watching their parents going at it, but my dad turns into a different person when he's angry. He's normally a pretty placid guy, doesn't really talk that much. Keeps to himself a lot. But when he and my mom are fighting... He yells. He curses. He knows how to hit her where it hurts.

Mom clears her throat. "You still enjoying work?" she asks.

I nod. "It's repetitive, but I suppose it pays the bills."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "And which bills exactly do you pay?"

I'm about to respond when my dad walks in. You could say he's a good-looking guy; he's tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a vibrant set of hazel eyes, which I inherited from him.

"Morning," he says, walking over and ruffling my hair, which he knows I hate (I've told him I'm not a dog countless times) but does it anyway. I restrain the urge to duck away from his hand.

"Morning," Mom replies brightly-- she's always extra cheerful after a fight.

"So, Em," Dad says, as he pours himself a cup of coffee. "You know I'm going back to the city next week."

I frown. "You are?"

He nods. "Yeah, work gives me practically no time off." He takes a sip, before wincing and blowing on the coffee. "But I can get more time off towards the end of July again."

I nod, giving him a smile, but secretly I don't really care that he's leaving. And then I hate myself a little for that.

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Around 1:15, we get back from work to an empty house. My mom left a note-- she and my dad went out for lunch with some of their friends.