Knuckle under

I used to believe awkwardness was bound by the people emitting it, not necessarily the situation or place they were in.

I still believe it.

But this house, this keeper of all things awkward is making me believe both options. That a room can be awkward in its essence, in its claustrophobic hold on those within its four walls.

I saw Paula and Glen on this couch earlier today. Their conversation strained, Paula fishing for answers, Glen resisting the bait.

Even Paula noticed the tension.

There were actions of hers that spoke loudly of unease, how her body kept shifting position, how she intentionally let her hair fall into her face so that she could brush it away to keep her hands occupied.

Glen was stoic.

When Paula shut the television off, he no longer had any reason to stare passively at the screen but still chose to engage in that activity instead of listening to Paula's nagging queries.

I observed secretly from a place on the stairs, hidden from the oblivious glance but evident for the searching stare.

I felt safe enough.

That safeness from the stairs is no longer with me though, as I am the person in Glen's suddenly vacant place. It's no longer warm from his touch, Glen having left the house an hour ago to hit the gym.

Not so much as throwing a glance in my direction.

I wish he had asked me to come with him, asked me to go anywhere but this situation and this company that I'm surrounded by. He didn't though, and that's why I'm surrounded by a family I'm not sure how to act around.

Still.

Paula has been making more and more effort lately, she's no longer working ungodly hours, she's no longer exhausted and tired when she comes home from work. Our little bonding time at the mall a week ago has not been forgotten, has not been ignored.

"Arthur, you should have seen all the gorgeous clothes that would've been perfect for Ashley here...!"

He's watching her warmly from behind the kitchen counter, his fingers continuing their task at hand and I'm just waiting for a disaster, waiting for a cut to happen. Paula's arm is touching my shoulder, gently rocking me back and forth in a show of parental affection, but I'm not feeling it.

All I'm feeling is the girl to my right, the girl on another couch, in another world.

She's spacing out on us and it makes me relieved, it makes me not as guilty for the attention I'm robbing her off.

"She looked so pretty in this one dress I made her try out, you should have seen her Arthur, she was quite the looker. Too bad she didn't let me buy it for her."

Her hand is still upon my shoulder, the touch heated in the wrong way, in the humid way.

He is still watching her while continuing to cut up the vegetables that were small enough ages ago, and I'm envious. I'm envious that he can do so, that he can watch her in broad daylight as well as in twilight, that he can stare at her in public as well as in private. That he can do this so thoughtlessly, so naturally.

So perfectly allowed.

"We should do something together sometime, the whole family, wouldn't that be nice? Hmm, girls?"

I don't think she's noticed, I don't think Spencer's aware of a question being thrown into the room, but I can't know for sure. Because I haven't as much as briefly sent her a glance. I haven't as much as tipped my feet into the burning heat of danger that my eyes on her throw me into.

Eerie silence fills the walls, presses them outwards and makes this room seem bigger, seem more open and vulnerable.

Like we're in a once burning building, only the foundation wall and this worn out interior left of what once was.

I choose to break it, choose to catch the question before it's been too long, too far for us to answer it comfortably, naturally.

"Yeah, that's be nice."

It's nowhere near nice, it's so far from it that I'm questioning its existence, but how could I answer any different? How could I ever voice what my head is screaming?

It's a lie, but it's only hurting myself.

That's why I don't feel bad, don't feel that sting of regret that usually punishes me when I've been unfaithful to the truth.

"What about you, Spencer?"

My head twitches in Spencer's direction, an awkward action that is barely physical but hugely fundamental to the warmth that spreads through my cheeks when Paula looks at me strangely.

I cannot look at her, even when it's allowed.

Because I don't think I'm ever allowed.

"Why?"

"Why what, honey?"

"Why do we have to do something together?"

It's so cold, the sentence, so laced with contempt that I'm regretting my previous
lie, that I'm regretting not telling the truth about how much I don't want to do
something together. Because hearing it voiced from her lips seems to make it hurt more than I ever could.

"Spencer, don't be so hostile, I'm just trying to do something nice for us all. You used to love family time when you were younger..!"

"Well, times change."

The hand that has been grabbing my shoulder tightens, tenses simultaneously with the rest of Paula's body, her jaw clenching in obvious restrain.

She's anything but happy.

"Spencer, you haven't been anything but hostile and mean ever since-..."

"Since what? Since Ashley came into the house? That's what you were gonna say, right?"

"Spencer!"

"What? She's not some child that can't handle the truth, she's seventeen mom, seventeen! But you obviously haven't noticed that, have you?"

"Don't-..."

"Don't what, mom? Don't talk like this when she's in the room?"

I'm no longer avoiding her gaze, I'm not longer acting uninterested, timid. How
can I do so when the conversation taking place before me shocks me, frightens me, leaves my eyes to stare openly between the two women before me?

"You obviously don't have any problems talking about her when she's not present!"

"Sp-.."

"You know what mom, just forget it."

My eyes don't follow her as she stomps out of the room, they're rooted to the spot she previously occupied. The words from earlier lingers around me, pushes into me, chills me.

"I'm so sorry, Ashley, I don't know what's gotten into her lately."

Her hand brushes lightly through my curls, opening up my face for her to watch me more closely. I can no longer hide what I feel because I don't know what to hide. I don't know what I feel. The moisture in my eyes aren't exactly tears, they're more a show of exasperation, of not knowing what to do with myself.

And Paula's not the only one I notice, as my eyes travel their own path towards the stairs, somehow leading me in a direction I'm not sure I want to take.

Because I can see her on the steps, I can see her in a spot I not long ago inhabited myself and the posture of her frame tells me more than her eyes does. Because they're closed, hidden from my glare although she knows I'm watching her, knows I'm seeing more than I should.

Because her body is telling me things, it's telling me a story I'm not sure how to read yet, but it's telling me something.

It's finally telling me something.