Seeing Shane Gray ✓

sixteen | ungrateful

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October 17

'Going out with Hashir for dinner. He said he has to talk about something important. How likely is it that he's gonna propose?'

I snort when I read the message attached with Marla's sultry picture. With her curls and red dress that leaves most of her legs and back bare, she looks like a model. She's already beautiful, her dark skin glowing under the lights. She gives credit to the makeup but I'm sure she's so happy she could be dreaming.

'Not very likely,' I type back. 'You're sixteen, for God's sake.'

My phone pings when she replies. 'Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in a few months and then we can have a ton of kids.'

'Ew,' I reply back, laughing. 'Don't get your hopes up too high.'

'Don't ruin my vibes, sis. Kay, I gotta go. So ready for this big night.'

I snicker, shaking my head. I'm happy Marla's trip is going well. After the number of teen romance novels I've read, I'd half expected her to find Hashir living with another girl there before flying back home to have a dramatic crying fit. Thankfully, though, she's not only having a good time but also delighted that her boyfriend isn't a douche like I'd sort of expected.

Clicking on my music playlist and sitting in my room, I begin to hear Mom and Dad's voice downstairs. It catches me off guard and I freeze, slipping my earbuds out of my ears. Putting my phone aside, I try to make out what they're saying.

I can't remember the last time I heard my parents talking to each other.

Picking my laptop off my legs and closing the lid, I slide out of bed and swing my legs over the edge. The thin walls of my room don't allow my parents privacy and I make my way towards the bedroom door. Cracking it open so that the voices become even clearer, I stand and listen.

"I don't mind if Taylor is okay with it," my mom is saying.

I inch closer to the stairs, placing a hand on the cool wooden railing and beginning to descend the steps.

"And you won't move with us?" Dad asks in his usually gentle tone.

"I've been working double shifts at the store and might get promoted to manager soon," Mom's answers. "Asking for a transfer now could ruin my chances of a pay rise."

Dad hums and drifts into silence. I frown, taking one step after the other down the stairs. Although I should be happy my parents are talking again, the undertones of aloofness don't escape my notice. They don't seem like the couple in love I've seen all my life. A man who left his country and family and a woman who gave up her education so they could get married and settle down. The people I hear are two strangers forcing themselves to hold a civil conversation.

"Will you talk to Taylor or do I?" Dad asks.

My frown deepens and lips purse when I note the regret in his voice. I can't help but wonder what it is that he regrets. Is it so hard for him to talk to his own daughter?

"You should talk to her," Mom says, dismissing Dad.

I turn into the kitchen and place a hand against the doorframe to root myself.

"Talk to me about what?" I ask.

Mom and Dad turn to look at me. I notice them standing on each side of the kitchen island as if standing too close to each other will hurt them either physically or emotionally. Their sad eyes and sunken cheeks don't bother me. What bothers me is the comparison image of them in my mind. How did two people who could barely stop laughing and talking transform so drastically into robots going about their businesses because they don't have a choice?