As Told By Paramours

chapter sixteen

josie

"I'M GONNA HUNT HER DOWN MYSELF AND TELL HER TO LEAVE YOU ALONE, I SWEAR," Khushi declares for the sixth time in the last two minutes (I counted).

"Don't swear," I say, then sniffle pathetically.

It's been three days since everything, and I feel really insane because at this point, I think I care almost the same that Elijah saw me that way as I do the call that caused it. He hasn't left me any notes, and I know it's because he wants to give me space to reach out to him because hes a stupid freaking good person and that's how good people work.

Khushi rubs my back in slow circles, hugging me to her, kissing the top of my head every now and then.

"God I'm so sick of this," I say into her shirt.

"I know."

"No, I'm sick of caring. I'm sick of everything. I wish I could forget this ever happened. I wish--"

"I know," she says. "I'm here."

"I can't believe Elijah saw me like that. The first time he sees me I'm a mess. Maybe I should just drop off the face of the earth; I'd leave less of an impression, then."

"Isn't he your friend?"

I back away from her and give her a look, although I'm not sure how strong it is because my face is so puffy I can barely open my eyes. "Yes. Point in case?"

"You aren't scared to show that side to me, and we're friends."

I lick my lips. "What if when we met I was sobbing and all gross and snot-covered?"

"Okay, point taken."

I hit her. "You're supposed to say 'no, I'd love you no matter how you looked when we met'."

She laughs and pulls my head back into her chest, and sighs. "You're going to have to cross that bridge soon. Both of them, actually."

"I know. I don't want to, though. I'm not sure which is worse."

"I think the cheating dad is worse."

"You're definitely right."

● ● ●

Growing up, I knew my parents relationship was what I wanted mine to be in the future someday.

Of course they argued; all couples did, and marriage wasn't easy. But my dad would always lean in to my mom with that loving smile, and he'd say "kiss?" and she'd give him that fond smile and peck his cheek once. And my sisters and I would go ewww because kissing was gross when you were a kid, but that didn't mean you'd never someday maybe perhaps want to do it.

That was the image of them I grew up with: kisses, small arguments I'd play doll through, and loving parents.

So months later when I was curled up comfortably on the dining room chair, and my parents sat Raquelle and I down and told us we had a (half) sister because my dad couldn't keep it in his pants not even three years into their marriage, it was a surprise (understatement).

My mother was always the strong one. She had frizzy brown hair and wore circular black-rimmed glasses and had a show-stopping smile. But not that day.

She was sitting across from me, beside my father who seemed to only age faster, cracking her knuckles, a sour expression on her face, and told me calmly: You have a half sister.

Dad: I didn't want you guys to find out another way, err, something.

Raquelle (calmly): So, Dad, who was it with?