Who Knew: A Liam Payne Fan Fiction

Chapter Nine

        The four of us settle into the living room, my parents each taking their respective armchairs whereas Carson and I race each other to the sofa. Or at least, he makes a half-hearted attempt until fixing himself underneath our mother’s disapproving gaze. Instead of giving him a hard time, I settle on one side while he sits up strait on the other. I observe the stark contrast between the three of them and myself. Both my parents look like they’re sitting in on an important business meeting, with my brother attempting to imitate, but not quite there. I on the other hand, have pulled my feet beneath me, snuggling into the fluffy pillow like any other college student. I ignore my mother’s look of annoyance. Business talk is exchanged between my father and Carson as my mother and I look on, me pretending to listen whereas I’m sure my mother is analyzing every word being uttered. Unfortunately, it isn’t long until my mother directs the conversation to me.

            “So Addison, how are your classes going? Still undecided I presume?” I fight off the need to roll my eyes, digging my fingers into my pockets. Here we go again. Not even a few hours home and she has to ask me the one question she knows I avoid at all costs. For a mother, she seems to lack any sympathy or empathy for her child. I feel the sour taste rise up my throat as I gather the courage to respond as calmly as possible.

            “They’re just fine, I’m still thinking about becoming an art major. It’s the only thing I really enjoy there.” At my words her eyes narrow into impossibly thin slits, and her eyebrows threaten to blend in with her hairline. She slowly exhales through her nose in a wretched sound before responding. 

            “Honestly Addison, I don’t see why your father and I even pay for you to go to school when all you do is spend your time doodling in that notebook of yours.” Here we go again, the same old argument we run over, line by line, every time I come home.

            “I’m not ‘doodling,’ Mother. It’s called comic book art and believe it or not, I’m pretty darn good at it.”

            “I don’t care how good at it you are, it’s not going to get you a job. You go to college to find a job, not a hobby.”

            “I can get a job drawing, and I will. I don’t care if you and Dad cut me off, I’m not changing my mind. This is not a hobby, it’s my passion. Just because you’ve lost the meaning of passion, doesn’t mean I have. I’m not you.” Those last phrases had never been uttered aloud to her, at least not until now. I thought for sure that would have sparked some emotion from her. Pain maybe, or anger. But she doesn’t flinch, instead she remains just like a perfect piece of ice. We stand there in silence until my father finally realizes what I’ve said.

            “Alright, that’s it Addison, you don’t speak to your mother like that.” Unable to bring myself to look at him, I turn and take the stairs two at a time, retreating faster and faster into my room. I stay there, door locked, scribbling furiously away in my sketchbook in an attempt to escape back to Boston. My father knocks on the door a few times, first sternly, trying to force me out. Then his words turn into a softer tone, nearly pleading. I know he only wants his wife and daughter to get along, but I can’t seem to soothe the fury that builds in me every time I think of her. Pity threatens to overcome any other emotion, pity for him at the least. But just like the ink in my pen, black, permanent words push out the pity when my thoughts remind me of all the times he has taken her side.

            It’s nearly six when I reemerge from my room, knowing my parents are out at some dinner, Carson more than likely with them. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I rummage the fridge before settling on fixing myself a ham sandwich. I sit at the center island, looking out over the cul-du-sac we live on. From the view of someone walking down the street, it would seem as if no one were home. But at the sound of music and glasses being clinked, one only has to look over the backyard fence to realize not a house on the block is unoccupied. Footsteps startle me, until I realize it’s only Carson. He stops in the doorway, just as surprised as I am. Shaking his head, he saunters over to pull up a stool across from me.