Kiss and Tell 3 (7 page)

“Is it true, Kirby?”

“Tell me this is some type of joke.”

“Did what London said happened
really
happen?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”

“You and Mr. Swift?”

“Please tell me London made it up.”

“He’s in his 50s!”

“Please tell me London is crazy.”

“You didn’t really
do
anything with him, did you?”

“Tell me I’m drunk.”

“Why would London say something like that if it isn’t true?”

“Tell me I’m dreaming.”

“Did you guys have a fight? Did he make this up to get back at you?”

“This is too much. I can’t take it.”

If you’ll notice, none of these statements are paired up with a speaker. That’s because they all—along with others—came at me so quickly that I couldn’t identify who said what or when they said it. The above is a mix of what Mom, Dad, and I said after London left out house, but it’s only a small sample of our entire conversation. There were so many other questions, comments, observations, and accusations tossed around that, believe you me, there’s no way I could have ever kept account of it.

I was bombarded by everything that Mom and Dad had to say, but I was still in shock over something else… Why did London do what he did? Why did he tell my parents? He had nothing to gain from it, and actually stood to lose. Why would he do harm us both like this?

As Mom and Dad kept talking, asking, and yelling, I felt both sickened and saddened by the ugliness around me, and I realized that maybe
that
was why London ratted me out. Maybe he wanted someone else to experience the ugliness that he felt in his own life. They say that misery loves company, and some people are just prone to dragging others down with them.

Whatever London’s excuse was, it sucked, and I could never forgive him for it. But, at the moment, he was beside the point. I had bigger fish to fry in this kitchen. Mom and Dad were starting to ask more questions. They weren’t just trying to confirm London’s story now; they were trying to get details, and they were moving on to making harsh statements.

“Are you dating?”

“Did he try to pay you?”

“That fucking pervert.”

“How many times did it happen?”

“What were you thinking?”

“You can’t keep seeing him.”

“Did you use protection?”

“This can’t go any further.”

“Does anybody else know about this?”

“Enough is enough, Kirby.”

Again, who said what and when they said it was lost on me. It all came at me in a torrent. All I know is that I barely spoke this round, and didn’t speak it all over the next few minutes.

During those next few minutes, Mom and Dad did something akin to conferring over a game plan, or coming up with a method of damage control. They brainstormed back and forth for a bit, discussing how I should end things, if I hadn’t already; how we should explain things to anyone who may have heard any “rumors,” if they’d already started to spread; and what should be done to make sure that I didn’t spiral out of control, if it wasn’t already too late to stop that from happening.

I felt like one of the high-priced paintings on the wall. I was being talked about, not too, and what was going on in my own mind didn’t seem to matter. So much chatter. So much plotting.

“Stop!” I finally shouted. I shouted it so loudly that I think my voice resonated off of a pot or pan somewhere. Mom and Dad both fell silent and looked at me.

“I’m 22 years old,” I said, firmly. I was still talking loudly, but was no longer shouting. “You want to know if what London said about me and Mr. Swift—about me and
Anthony
—is true? I’ll tell you… Yes. Yes, it is. I don’t know
exactly
what London told you, but, whatever it was, the bottom line is true. Anthony and I have been seeing each other—and, yes, we’ve been intimate.

“We’ve had sex. And, we’ll probably do it again. I don’t know if we’re in love, or if we’re dating—or what’s going on—but, I do know that there’s something between us, and we both want to explore it. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you getting in my way. But, now that you know, you know, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. You’re either cool with it, or you’re not… I’m not going to stop seeing him.”

Mom and Dad both had stunned expressions on their faces. I’d never stood up to either of them before, so they were probably shocked by that alone, and what I said probably really sealed the deal for them. I’d certainly said more than a mouthful.

Mom looked at Dad, then looked back to me. Her messy eyelids pooled with tears.

“Get out,” she said. “If you can’t live by our rules, you can’t live in our house. As long as you date that man, you’re not welcome here.”

“Alright then,” I said. I threw my keyring on the table, surrendering my keys to the house and to my car, I turned, and I walked out the door. Like a good girl, I did as my mother had instructed. I got out.

So, that’s it. That’s my story. That’s
Kirby Miller’s Adventure
… or at least that’s how the more dramatic parts of it played out.

The night that my parents kicked me out was eight months ago—and, since then, a lot has happened. I’m sure you’re wondering what, and, don’t worry, I’ll tell you. But, first, let me tell you something else. Let me share with you a great wisdom I’ve learned.

I’ve said it before… Life’s full of surprises. Some of them are really good, and some of them are really bad—and all of them are unexpected, just like the outcome of
my
story.

After my parents kicked me out, of course, I immediately called Anthony. He hopped in his car, sped over, and got me. He took me back to his incredible house, held me in his arms, and promised me that everything would be okay.

I tried calling my parents the next day, but they wouldn’t answer; and it wasn’t until two days later that I received any word from them, when Mom texted to tell me that she’d packed up some of my stuff, and that I should send a courier to retrieve the boxes. That was all she said, and it was enough to let me know that my parents were taking this all
very
seriously.

I stayed on with Anthony for a few days, and, for the most part, despite what was going on with my parents, we had an incredible time together. We shared some mindblowing sexual experiences, and he spoiled me with clothing and gifts. At first, it was to make up for the fact that I’d left so much back at my parents’—but, after a certain point, it was just about the process.

Around the sixth or seventh day at Anthony’s, my phone rang with a vaguely familiar number. I answered the call to hear Michelle Robins’ voice on the other end. She was calling to tell me that her higher-ups at Dessert Oasis had approved of her recommendation, and she offered me a job at the shop.

I was so pleased to hear that I’d been hired—and so pleased to hear
any
good news—that I instantly accept the position and told her to put me on the schedule.

I started working at Dessert Oasis less than a week later. And, I’ve been working there ever since. It’s a pretty decent job. I make a little over minimum wage, plus tips, and I get a huge employee discount, which I probably use a little too often. I end up spending a lot of money on cake and pies, but, rest assured, I always have enough left over to pay the rent.

That’s right, I said “pay the rent,” which means, you guessed it, I have my own apartment. It’s not the best place in the world. It’s just a step or two above a crappy efficiency somewhere, and it’s just cheap enough that I don’t have to have a craigslist roommate. But, hey, it’s mine, and I worked had for it.

Why work so hard when you have a billionaire boyfriend, you might ask. I hate that question! In fact, it’s
because
of that question that I don’t have a billionaire boyfriend anymore.

I started working full-time at Dessert Oasis right away, and Anthony started giving me a hard time about it shortly thereafter. He said I didn’t need to work so much at a blue-collar job, and he urged me to either lighten my load at the shop or pursue a more esteemed profession, such as a career at Parker & Swift.

I told him to mind his own business, but he still tried to influence me. I eventually got to the point where I couldn’t really feel free with him anymore, since it felt like he was trying to control me.

At first, we simply separated. I’d saved up enough money over the past couple months to pay the first month’s rent and deposit on an apartment, and I refused to let Anthony help me pay for it, or anything related to it, in any way. I did let him help me move my stuff there, however. But, that was it.

And, that was it for our relationship, too. As passionate, hot, and irresistible as it once was, it all kinda just fizzled away at some point. I know that’s probably not what you want to hear right now, but it’s the truth—and, it relates to the surprise that you’ll find in my story.

It may seem unfortunate that Anthony and I broke up, and perhaps it is, but that doesn’t mean that my story ends on a sad note. I still got to have my fairy tale love story and my happily-ever-after ending. It just wasn’t with Anthony. It was with me.

This is the story of how I came to love myself. It’s the story of how I finally became independent and found my way out of the mess I was in for most of my life. I had to go through a lot to get to where I am today, but I’m where I’m supposed to be, so it all was worth it.

I’m happy now, and I feel like I have a purpose. I work to support myself, and I’m starting to think about what I’d like to do with the rest of my life. I haven’t come up with all the answers yet, but at least I’m still asking the questions.

Speaking of questions, I’m sure you’re wondering… Whatever happened between me and my parents? Did things ever get better?

A week or two after Anthony and I called it quits, Mom came to Dessert Oasis during my shift. She ordered a pear torte and a daughter, and things picked up from there. At the outset, I made it clear that I didn’t break up with Anthony because of anything they’d said or done, and I tried to act like I didn’t know that they only reason they’d accepted me back was because I was done with him.

After we were back in the familiar familial swing, my parents offered to let me come live with them again, so that I could save money on rent and go at the rest of life with an even larger nest egg. But, I declined their offer. I didn’t need their help anymore, and I didn’t need to backpedal.

Other than that, there really isn’t much more I can say about what happened and changed in my life over the past several months—and, I guess that’s a good thing.

You see, I’ve been there, done that, and am ready to move past it. I’m not so much concerned with what already happened anymore as I am with what’ll happen next, now that I’ve found my independence and feel comfortable in my own skin.

Why look back when you can look forward? This isn’t the end of my adventure… It’s the story of how it started.

~~~

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