Dare You to Want Me

The first rule was simple: don’t say what I’m really thinking —especially not today. 

Today is about zipping suitcases and smiling like being shipped off to my dad’s house is a normal, casual Saturday plan.

Today is about nodding while Mom talks in soft, careful sentences, pretending her eyes haven’t been red since the school called.

If I said what I was thinking, we’d never make it out of this room.

Mom hovers in the doorway like she’s afraid to cross the line between hallway and disaster zone. My posters are already off the walls, my shelves guttered, my life folded into two overstuffed duffle bags and one borrowed suitcase.

If she notices the empty spaces, she doesn’t say it. She just twists her wedding ring —the one she doesn’t wear around my dad —and asks, “How’s it going, honey?” like I’m packing for summer camp instead of exile.

I hitch one shoulder, like the answer might be hiding there. “Great,” I say. “If I shove any more of my life into this bag, it’s going to file a complaint.”

“Oops,” I mutter under my breath, so low I’m not sure she hears. “Rule number one, broken already.”

Her mouth almost smile, the one that never quite makes it to her eyes anymore.

“You don’t have to joke about everything, Aria.”

If I told her I wasn’t joking —that it hurts to see my entire existence reduced to three pieces of luggage —then we’d be breaking the rule. So, I just jam another T-shirt into the side pocket and aim for neutral. “I’m almost done.”

She steps into the room finally, fingers finding the edges of my desk, like she needs something solid to hold on to.

“You know this is… this is what’s best for all of us,” she says, voice soft and practiced, like she’s tried to sentence out in the mirror already. “Your dad can give you more structure. A fresh start. Somewhere you’re not… defined by one mistake.”

I stare down at the zipper teeth, lining up metal on metal. Best for all of us. Not once does she say best for you.

I force my face into something that isn’t a flinch. “Right. Fresh Start. Love that for me.”

In my head, the words keep spiraling: Fresh start. Best for all of us. Don’t say what you’re really thinking. I’m pretty sure I’m breaking all the rules at once just by standing here and not agreeing hard enough.

She winces at my tone but keeps going, like she’s on a script she can’t step off. “Northbridge is a good school. Your dad’s… he’s worked hard to make a place for you there. New classes, new people, new… options.”

New ways to mess up, she doesn’t say. New adults to read your file before they ever learn your favorite color.

I nod like that’s comforting instead of terrifying. “Sounds… great.” The words taste like cardboard on my tongue.

Mom moves closer, smoothing a wrinkle out of the suitcase that doesn’t need something.

“You’ll see,” she says. “Once you settle in, this won’t feel so… hard. Your dad really wants to help, Aria,”

If he wanted to help, he could’ve called before signing the papers that ship me across the state. He could’ve asked what I wanted instead of being the answer to a question I never got to finish.

Her hand hovers like she wants to touch my shoulder and thinks better of it. “I know this isn’t what you pictured for junior year,” she says quietly. “But after… everything, we’re running out of options.”

There it is. We. As if my panic, my bad decisions, my file, are some group projects we all failed together.

“I’ll survive,” I say, because “I don’t forgive you yet” feels a little too honest for a Saturday morning. “You can stop looking at me like I’m about to shatter the furniture.”

“That’s not —” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together. For a second I think she might finally say what she’s really thinking too, something messy and real that isn’t in the script. Instead, she swallows it down, same as me.

“We should go. Your dad’s driver is already on the way.”

Of course he is. My life, now available by appointment only.

I wrap my fingers tighter around the suitcase handle, just to have something to hold on to.

“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” I say. “He might start charging you by the minute.”

Mom exhales her nose the way she does when she’s trying not to argue. “Can you at least try not to go into this assuming the worst?”

That’s the problem, assuming the worst is the only thing that’s ever prepared me for what happens. But I just bite the inside of my cheek and nod, rule number one clamping down on everything I want to say.

She steps back toward the door, picking up the keys from my desk like they’re heavier than they look.

“Grab your jacket,” she says. “It might be colder there.”

I looked around my half-empty room one last time, like the posters and dent in the carpet might suddenly beg me not to go. They don’t. They just stare back, silent, the way I’m supposed to be.

“Yeah,” I say, tugging my jacket off the chair and sliding my backpack over one shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to break any more rules today.”

Mom doesn’t answer that. She just nods, blinks too fast, and leads the way down the hall toward the front door, like if she keeps moving, maybe this won’t feel like she’s the one daring me to disappear.

The black sedan is already idling at the curb when we step outside, shiny and smug and not from our side of town. A man in a dark suit hurry around the car as soon as he spots us, hand going straight for the handle of my suitcase.

“I’ve got it,” I say, tightening my grip before he can touch it. The words come out sharper than I mean them too, a little too fast. “I can carry my own stuff.”

He blinks, taken aback for half a second, then recovers with a professional smile. “Of course, miss. Just trying to help.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, hauling the suitcase down the steps myself. “That’s what everyone keeps saying.”

I pause with one foot still on the cracked front step, the other already on the clean black floor mat on the sedan. The house looks smaller from out here, like it’s already started shrinking me out of its memory.

“Bye, house,” I mutter under my breath. “Thanks for the trauma.”

It’s stupid and dramatic and no one hears it over the hum of the engine starting, but it makes my chest ache anyway. I duck into the back seat before I can change my mind, pull the door shut, and watch my whole life get smaller in the rear window.

Mom leans down to the open door, fingers curling over the frame like she’s holding on to me instead of the car.

“Text me when you get there,” she says. “And when you meet your dad. And if you need anything. Especially if you need —”

“I’ll be fine,” I cut in, because if she keeps listing things I’ll need, I might need her. “It’s just a school, not another planet.”

Her throat works like she’s swallowing words. “I love you, Aria.’

Rule number one throbs behind my ribs. Then why are you letting me go?

“I know,” I say instead. I lean forward just enough to let her kiss my forehead, quick and careful, like I might break. “Love you too.”

She steps back, arms wrapping around herself as the driver closes my door. I press my palm to the cool glass for half a second, a silent goodbye, and then the car pulls away, taking me toward the father who suddenly wants to help and the boy I’m apparently not allowed to even look at.