Page 8 of The Attack Zone

“We arenotdoing that, Mitchell!” she yells.

“For the love of God, call me Mitch!” I yell back.

“What would your mother think of you shortening the name she gave you to something so boring?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t know. We don’t talk,” I say before I can stop myself.

Shit.

Why on earth did I say that?

“Oh,” she says after a long pause.

I say nothing because I’ve already said enough. No. More than enough. I never talk about my relationship (or lack thereof) with my parents. I have no idea what possessed me to start today, especially with Stacey.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she continues.

I clear my throat and search for words. But they don’t come and all I hear is my father’s voice in my head, saying “What iswrongwith you, Mitchell? Just spit it out!i”But the words don’t come because I’m flustered and scared and stuck. It’s like my brain is a record, stuck on a scratch, just screeching over and over again. No actual words in sight.

I take a deep breath and attempt to banish my father to the deep part of myself where he usually stays put alongside my mother. I don’t talk to them for a reason, and this is a prime example.

Breathe in.

“It’s fine, forget I said anything,” I say after far too long of a pause. Please,pleaseforget. I might not be able to, but she should.

Breathe out.

She gives me a long, thoughtful look before nodding and saying, “Okay,” in the kindest tone I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth in my direction.

“Anyway,” I say with far too much emphasis, but I need this conversation to shift before I completely lose it.

“Anyway,” she repeats quietly.

I try to focus back to what we were talking (arguing) about.

Right.

Dogs.

“I just think actually having dogs there will help hit the message home, and maybe we can even get a few adopted in the process,” I say.

“I really don’t think the hotel will let us bring a bunch of potentially untrained rescues into their very nice ballroom, Mitch,” she says.

I know she’s probably right and I also know that she just used my nickname. The relief that washes over me when I hear it is actually nice—relaxing even. If only it wasn’t because she feels bad for me.

“But I’ll ask,” she continues. She has a soft smile on her face now and I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life. It actually knocks the wind out of me a little bit.

“On to wedding planning?” she asks.

“You mean I’m allowed to help?” I say with a bit of snark because she’s being too nice to me, and I don’t know how to handle it.

She laughs again and my brain cuts out for a second.

When I’m able to see past the fact that she has the most wonderful laugh I’ve ever heard, I realize I’m staring at her.

“You good?” she asks.

I gulp and say, “Yup.” Maybe she didn’t notice.