Say Yes (Something More) by Tara West Read Free Book Online

Psychology, a class I’ve been putting off since freshman year. Knowing it’s now or never, I heave myself out of bed and stretch my arms to the ceiling.
    I feel like total shit. Every muscle in my body aches, but the tension in my neck and shoulders is almost unbearable. I guess that’s what the stress of finding a dead person will do to you.
    Tantalizing aromas of frying bacon and coffee filter into the bedroom, and even though I’m reluctant to put one foot in front of the other, I make my way to the kitchen. As I pass through our small living room, I check the digital clock on the DVR. Damn. It’s already seven o’clock and class starts at eight-thirty.
    I don’t even make it to the kitchen before Andrés is there, wrapping me in his warm embrace. Though I know I don’t have time for this, I hug him back as he kisses the top of my head.
    “Good morning, mija,” he says against my ear. “Come and eat breakfast.”
    “I can’t. I’ll be late for my test.”
    But Andrés isn’t taking “no” for an answer as he leads me toward our breakfast table at the end of the kitchen. “Eat, and then I’ll drive you to school, so you don’t have to find parking.”
    I look up at him. “You’ll be late to work.”
    He shrugs. “I took the day off. So did you.”
    “Oh, Andrés.” My eyes water, and I choke up. Damn. I cannot cry today. I have to keep it together, at least until after my exam.
    “I know how much you loved her.” He sets a tray of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me and then wipes a stray tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You need your strength for the test.”
    He places a fork in my hand and then goes to the counter and pours two cups of coffee. I pick at my food while staring out the window. Our apartment is bigger than most, a street level unit with a small patch of grass outside the sliding glass door that leads to our kitchen. My friend, and upstairs neighbor, Grace, found this place for me after I had a blowout with my mom. It’s actually not an apartment, but a condo I sublet from a rental agency. It has two spacious bedrooms and ugly shag carpet, a throw back from several decades ago, but it’s cozy and all ours, even if we are only renting it.
    Andrés moved in with me at the start of the semester. There are nights when we curl up in front of the television and download a movie, that I feel like we’re an old married couple. Oddly, that feeling suits me just fine. Every night with him in our shag carpet apartment feels like an extended honeymoon.      
    We eat breakfast wordlessly, but him being here is worth more than a thousand words to me.
     
    * * *
     
    Andrés drops me off right by my lecture hall, so I’m able to make it to class with a few minutes to spare. I use that time to quickly peruse my psychology book. This test is on the many types of personality disorders. My dysfunctional family could have written the book.
    Let’s start with the father who raped me when I was fifteen and then blamed it on me for dressing like a slut. Or there’s my mother, who’s had so much plastic surgery, her face looks like it’s made of plastic wrap and her tits look like airbag torpedoes. Add to that her admission that she listened to my dad rape me and did nothing to stop him. I don’t think either of them would qualify for the Parent of the Year award.
    My dad died of a massive heart attack three years ago, and I’ve cut off all communication with my mother. Then there’s Karri, who at one point was like a sister to me. She grew up in a loving home, but that didn’t stop her from turning into a drug addict and a dead-beat parent. Yeah, I could pin any number of these personality disorders on them, but honestly, I prefer giving them another label.
    They’re assholes.
    Plain and simple, and no textbook is going to make me feel any better about the shit they’ve put me through.       
        As I look around the lecture hall at all the baby-faced freshmen