1st January

Nathan kisses like he knows what he's doing. Of course he does, he's kissed half of this town's population. Still, he has me replaying that kiss over and over again in my head and we hadn't even used tongue.

I lay in bed, my mouth tingling at the memory of his little bite, soft but sensual. My stomach does a flip flop and I exhale, glad that Lydia got out of bed before I woke up because I feel restless as I reach over to the bottom drawer of the side table and shuffle around for the bullet.

He's literally the worst, he makes nasty comments and walks around like he has a fight to pick with whoever is closest. He definitely pisses me off which is why I'm so somber about my hand slipping under my pants while I think about how his kiss felt.

I would rather die than admit it's that kiss that has the bullet pressed against my centre, the pressure building quickly, the way my legs draw up and I bite down on a moan. Soft whimpers escape before I can stop them, my entire core tightening as the pressure gets stronger and stronger and his stupid arrogant face floods my thoughts.

His strong thighs and shoulders. The way he sits with his legs spread, as if his lap is the perfect seat. His sex appeal is too much, it's too tempting and as release washes over me in violent waves, I feel his name on my tongue.

Panting, I pull the bullet out from between my legs and then shame floods me. Did I really just get off to the thought of my best friends brother? Nathan? Nathan? I never for one moment imagined I would masturbate to the thought of Nathan.

I slap a hand over my mouth, disbelief searing me, like someone could find out about this. Not that I'll breathe a word of it to a single soul.

I can't stand Nathan. He's a busy body. What is wrong with me?

Post orgasm clarity is the worst.

After a shower, in which I scrubbed hard enough that I hoped I could wash off my searing shame, I head out to the kitchen in a big hoodie, leggings and slippers. Mom and Lydia are sitting at the breakfast table, my little girl looks upset.

"What's the matter?"

Momma graces me with her curt, accusatory glance. The one I get for daring to be out late last night. I wish she wouldn't say yes if she's going to throw it back at me later.

Lydia stirs her breakfast with a spoon. Oats. Plain oats. Not even sweetened with brown sugar.

"She doesn't want to finish her breakfast."

Lydia looks at me. "I don't like it," she whispers.

"That's breakfast," momma tells her, tapping something out on her phone. "We don't waste food. Eat up."

"Did you ask her if she wanted that?" I sit down across from my daughter and feel my chest tightening at her dropped lip.

This sort of thing isn't new to me. Growing up, I ate what I was given, if I was full, it didn't matter, I ate until I felt sick. If I didn't like it, too bad, I shouldn't be so fussy.

"She said she was hungry."

"Mom," I bite. "I got her the cereal she likes. She doesn't like oats. Why the hell would I force her to eat a bowl of something she doesn't like?"

"It's good for her."

"So? She doesn't like it."

"Kids have to learn to like food sometimes," she sets her phone down and folds her arms. She's gearing up for fight and I'm not backing the fuck down on this one.

"Or," I lean forward. "You just give them food that they do like instead of setting them up to fail by serving them something they didn't ask for. I don't force food down her throat, mom. We don't roll like that."

"You're too soft—"

"Why?!" I shout, cutting her off. "Because I respect her as a person and don't treat her like some little doll that has to like and do whatever I tell her to? No, I'm not going to create an unhealthy relationship with food for her. She loves fruit and vegetables, she eats well. If she doesn't like something, that's fine. She doesn't have to eat it."

Momma's look could kill, but I don't care. She is not Lydia's mother.

"Go ahead and eat a plate of fried eggs momma," I say.

She doesn't respond, the kitchen falls quiet. But I'm not done.

"No?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Is that because you don't like them? You don't eat stuff you don't like, right?"

"If I was served it as a guest, I would eat it," she seethes.

"Is that what Lydia is? Some guest in your house?"

Momma looks at Lydia, my little girl looks like she's on the verge of tears. Not even Josh and I fought like this in front of her. In fact, we didn't fight at all. We just didn't talk and sometimes I think that might've been worse.

"Go wash up, babe," I tell her and she doesn't hesitate to slip off the chair and leave the kitchen, her slippered feet squelching on the linoleum.

"You disresp—"

"Me?" I cut her off again. "You don't get to force her to do something and think you overrule me as her mother. You don't. Kids will eat when they're hungry and they'll eat what they like. If you have a problem with my parenting, keep it to yourself. Because I didn't fucking ask."

Getting up from the table, I leave the kitchen and head back to my bedroom where Lydia is searching through her suitcase for a fresh set of clothes. I close the door and fall into the bed.

Momma might not have understood what her forceful eating rules did to me. I'm not even sure I understood them for a long time. But eating became something I used as a control tactic when everything else was out of my hands. When I was upset or angry? I didn't eat. Anxious, I couldn't stomach a damn thing. If I felt too big, I'd starve. When I wanted to drink and still look cute, I starved.

Food became a weapon because that's how it'd been served to me.

I very quickly decided that's not how I would raise my girl.

"Mommy?" Lydia says, climbing up onto the small bed beside me. We lay next to each other. "When are we going home?"

I can't keep putting this conversation off. It hasn't been long since Josh left, but Lydia has never gone this long without talking to him. He told Drayton he was done, he cut me off from his account, we're over. I need to start rebuilding our lives and I can't do that if she doesn't know we aren't going home.

Rolling onto my side, I take her hand and give it a kiss, holding her little fingers in mine.

"I need to talk to you about something."

She blinks. "Okay."

My heart is pounding and my throat feels thick. "Daddy— daddy isn't well."

I've thought about how this conversation will go. What I'll tell her to ease the pain. Telling her that Josh left simply because he wanted more than we had to offer was not an option. I wouldn't break her heart like that. I'd had to come up with a half truth, as close to the real story as I could get without making her feel at fault.

Lydia asks, "Is he sick?"

"Sort of," I say, squeezing her hand. "Remember when we had that conversation a while ago and I told you that some people get unwell minds and they need to take a really important break for themselves in order to help."

She thinks for a moment. "Depression?"

"Sort of like that, baby. Daddy has an unwell mind. It's not . . . depression. It's just similar."

"Why?" Lydia's concern grows and it winds me. It takes all of me not to fall apart. It takes all of me not to find that prick and make him miserable.

"I'm not sure, Lyd. He just isn't well and he has to go and get better. He knows that he can't be a good daddy if his mind isn't well and so he's going to get help. But we don't know how long that will take."

Her face starts to crumple. "So we don't get to see him?"

"Not for a while. But when he's better, he'll come back."

It's all I can offer her that isn't devoid of hope. It's open ended and if he decides he wants to be her father again, she'll forgive him because he isn't the villain in her life. However, I'll never forgive him, especially not when Lydia's eyes glisten over with tears and her lip quivers.

"I hope he gets better soon," Lydia cries, quiet little sobs and I'm shattered. I'm fucking broken.

"Me too," my nose sounds stuffed and it stings with the onset of my own tears. "We have to stay in Castle Rock for a while though. Mommy can't afford to look after our house in Denver. Is that okay?"

"I don't want to live with Grandma," she curls herself into my chest and sounds ashamed of herself.

"It's okay, baby," I kiss her head. "I'll figure it out. I promise."

I don't know if her reluctance to stay here is because of what just happened in the kitchen, or if she generally doesn't want to live with my mom. She loves her grandma, I know she does. But if she's like me, she can only handle her in small doses and I won't hold that against her.

Getting a job and finding a school for Lydia shoots to the top of my list. I need to make her as comfortable as I can. Especially after finding out she won't see her father for a while.

For hours, she sobs into my hoodie and I hold her, kissing her head, doing my best to assure her that her dad will get better. I never use the word soon. I can't promise her that, as much as I wish I could.

For the next two days, momma and I tip toe around each other. She's her usual demanding self but she doesn't make conversation unless it's necessary. With Lydia, she's nice and doting but she doesn't see her a whole lot while she's at work.

Dallas and Drayton went back to California yesterday, I miss them both already but they promise to see us soon. Lydia loves California, I decide I'll start saving for a vacation when I start working. Drayton would fund our flights but I don't want to be that friend that puts her hand out all the time.

I search for jobs, online and in town. As much as I didn't want to do hospo, I put in my resume at a few cafe's and restaurants. Bars are a no go, I can't work night shift with Lydia. As soon as the school break is over, I plan on popping into the elementary school near Archwood High. Castle Rock Elementary. Or CRE.

Dallas and I went there as kids and we loved it. The principal is new and so are a few of the teachers but from the website, it looks like it still upholds the same values and rules.

Moving out of momma's is essential. If we live together for too long, it'll ruin our relationship. Moving out requires a job though and so far, I've had no luck finding something that suits the hours between nine and two. I'm not sure I can afford after school care, even on a full time wage. Not when I have to cover rent, groceries and utilities. Momma works until five, so she can't help either.

                  On Sunday, I leave Lydia with momma and go to an interview for a cleaning job. It's a private listing online and the woman who listed it wanted to meet as soon as possible. Her text told me not to think of it as an interview, but a chat instead.

Her house is beautiful. It's in the same area as Drayton's parents, on a street of beautifully designed mansions with a regal feel to them. The homes are surrounded by trees, modern, but enchanting with peaked roofs, big windows and wrap around porches.

I reach out of the car window and buzz on the gate, waiting for a response. It's cold, snow sits in the gutters and melts, recently plowed to keep the road clear. My car idles on the drive, window down and the heater blasting.

"Gabby?" A voice comes from the box.

"Yes!" I shout over the car. "Yes I'm Gabby Laurel."

"Perfect."

The gate opens in front of me and I wait until I can drive through. Her home is wooden panels, rich brown and square, the roof is flat and windows make up most of the walls. One side of the house has a big deck wrapped in steel railing and trees over hang the outdoor space. I imagine it's like being right among the forest sitting out there.

Jumping out of the car, I tightly wrap my coat around me and run for the front door, which opens before I get there. The warmth of the house touches me as I get to the entrance and a woman in her forties stands waiting for me to toe off my boots.

"Come in, come in," she says with a sing song voice. She's beautiful with long black hair and high cheek bones.

The foyer is bigger than momma's living room, a concrete sculpture stands tall beside the stair case, pink blossoms are painted on the white walls and a small tree is potted in the corner.

"I'm Linn," she tells me, gesturing to follow her.

Her walk is graceful, as if she's floating as we go through into a bright kitchen, pale wood features and marble white appliances. Two small girls sit at a big glass table, colouring.

"Those are my daughters, Grace and Faith. Twins," Linn says. The girls don't spare me much more than a brief glance. They don't look a lot older than Lydia and I wonder if they'll be at the same school.

A lot of the parents around here send their kids to Harmond Private Elementary, an upper class school for the elite families and wealthier tax brackets. Of course, a good number of rich kids end up in the public schools too, simply due to their parents not wanting to breed a future of snobbish bullies who class themselves above all others because of their tax bracket. 

Not all private school kids are awful, at the end of the day, it comes down to personal experience and what a parent feels is best for their children.

"Aw," I smile, hands in front of me, my body still not quite warmed right through. It's so quiet in here. "Cute girls."

"You have a daughter also?"

"Mhmm," I nod. "Lydia. She's five."

She smiles, giving me a quick once over. "So young to have a daughter."

"Uh. Yep."

That's not the first time I've heard that, it won't be the last. So I don't bother commenting on it and instead wait for her to ask me whatever questions she needs to.

"Drink?" She offers, rounding the kitchen island which stretches at least two metres long.

"A water will be fine," I sit on one of the stools.

She fills up a glass of water, drops some ice cubes into it and stands on the other side of the island, smiling at me. Weirdest interview so far. But whatever. If I can leave here with an income, it'll be worth it.

"So the job," she starts and I quietly sigh with relief. "My cleaner has just moved out of town, hence the position. It's quite basic. I require you to be here at nine in the morning, three mornings a week. When you leave depends on how long it takes you to get through the work. However I will not pay for more than four hours as it shouldn't take longer than three."

Well there goes the idea of stretching it out until two in the afternoon.

"You will be responsible for washing and drying the sheets. Vacuuming, dusting, dishes, windows, mopping, laundry, watering the plants once a week, sanitising the dog house, deep cleaning the bathroom and sweeping the garage."

Well shit, the windows alone could take two hours.

"Jobs like the windows can be dedicated to once weekly, which allows you to allocate most of the days hours to them."

Ahh, that makes sense.

"Sounds good." I'm not going to turn down a job that fits in with school hours.

"No one is home during the day," she continues. "But we do have surveillance."

"Of course."

"You have references?"

"It's all in the email I sent," I explain, not sure why she's asking me for something she didn't tell me to bring and instead asked me to email her.

"Ah of course. And you will not be offended if we run a police vetting check?"

"Go ahead."

Her smile is tighter than before and I wonder if I'm not addressing her correctly or sitting straight enough or smiling hard enough.

"You have a beautiful home," I offer, looking around. There's a lot of plants and trees in large concrete pots. I like that. "I'll take good care of it and treat this job with the utmost respect."

That seems to please her.

"I'll look into those references and run the check, providing all goes well, which I'm sure it will, we'll run a trial next week. The rate is twenty nine dollars an hour and there's opportunity for bonuses depending on extra odd jobs that are completed at our request from time to time."

"That works for me," I say enthusiastically and it's not fake enthusiasm because this is a good start. It's not full time but it's something. If I could get another one or two houses to clean, I might earn enough to move out sooner rather than later.

Linn offers to give me a tour of the house so I know where to go and how to get around. The whole house is bright, light tones and earth shades with plants and trees in every room. It's minimalistic, simple but elegant. The shelves are decorated with lanterns, lamps, small sculptures and books.

The little girls bedroom makes me a bit jealous. There's enough room for two queen beds, the cutest pink playhouse, a private patio. It's a dream and it's something I wish I could give Lydia.

Even a bedroom of her own would be a good start.

Driving home, I feel glad for the chance at an income, but I can't help but wonder if I shouldn't move to California. I've never wanted to go that far from momma but Dallas and Drayton would take us in, there would be plenty of room and I could find a cleaning job there too.

No, I can't do that. I'm sick of feeling like a burden as it is.