Not So Bad After All (BWWM)(EDITING)

Chapter One

      Not So Bad After All

Book One

Chapter One

ROSE'S POV
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"Rose, are you up? You better not be late for school! Again..." My mom's voice rang out from downstairs.

"Right here!" I called back, bounding down the stairs two at a time. I rushed into the kitchen, where she stood leaning against the island, sipping her morning coffee.

"Need a ride?" She asked, tossing me an apple with practiced ease.

"No thanks. I'll catch the bus. I might head to Sky's house after school, though," I replied, tucking the apple into my bag. "Where's Dad?"

"Already at work," she said, taking another sip.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Oh, okay. Bye, Mom. Love you."

"Love you too—and don't miss that bus!" She called after me as I headed for the door.

For some reason, I missed the bus a lot. Honestly, I think the driver just doesn't like me. Spill a mango smoothie on a guy one time, and suddenly you're public enemy number one.

The bus screeched to a stop in front of me, and as the doors hissed open, our chubby, bald-headed driver fixed me with his usual glare.

"You know, if your face stays like that too long, it might get stuck," I said as I climbed aboard. "Actually... it probably already is."

He didn't crack a smile. Not even a twitch. Like I said—definitely stuck.

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JAYDEN'S POV
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"Morning," I greeted my mom as I came downstairs, my bag slung over one shoulder.

"Morning," she replied with a faint smile, her hand curled around a mug that I was sure contained something stronger than coffee. "Sit."

"Actually, I gotta catch—"

"Sit down, Jayden," she said, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, I dropped into the chair at the kitchen table across from my father. As usual, his face was hidden behind a newspaper.

"There you go. A nice bowl of oatmeal for my boys," Mom said, setting three bowls on the table. One for me, one for Dad, and one for herself.

"Anything good in the paper today?" I asked, hoping to spark some kind of conversation.

"Eh, the usual," he muttered without looking up, flipping the page.

And that was that. Conversations with my father rarely went beyond two words.

"Why don't you put the paper down and have breakfast with your family?" Mom asked, her voice edged with hope.

"Shut up and eat your food," he replied, cold and dismissive.

Her smile faltered, replaced by a deep frown. She didn't touch her oatmeal after that. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and sipped from her mug. I didn't have to guess what was in it. I already knew.

The sight was depressingly familiar. She didn't work. She didn't have friends. That's exactly how my father wanted it. So she spent her days with her drink, fading into the background of her own life.

I wolfed down my oatmeal, placed the bowl in the sink, and grabbed my bag. Time to escape.

"Do you need a ride, honey?" Mom called after me, her voice small but hopeful.