Living With the Boy Who Hated Me

Aya's POV

How many times have you packed up your entire life and moved across the country in a single year? I’m willing to wager my savings that your track record doesn’t even come close to what my family managed to achieve. 

Honestly, I used to love the upheaval. For me, changing zip codes wasn’t a chore; it was a shot of adrenaline. Every fresh destination carried the weight of a quiet expectation. It was a blank slate—a brand-new opportunity for things to finally fall into place and for my family to rediscover what genuine happiness felt like. 

It certainly helped that my entire household was a beautifully chaotic circus. Our caravan consisted of the ultimate cool dad, a classic varsity athlete, a brilliant academic prodigy, a stereotypical cheerleader, and then there was me. I was the wild card, the one still floating around trying to figure out exactly where my pieces belonged on the board. 

Venturing into unfamiliar territory, whether it was an unknown town or a completely different state, always devolved into an absolute trainwreck of an experience. But it was a magnificent, entertaining trainwreck. 

The soundtrack to our travels was invariably my father, who would single-handedly terrorize his own vocal cords—and our eardrums—by howling completely out of tune to whatever static-heavy track happened to be playing on the radio. He’d keep at it, relentless and shameless, until the rest of us finally surrendered and joined in just to make him happy. 

Then there was my oldest brother, who specialized in delivering entirely unfunny punchlines, laughing up a storm at his own wit while the rest of the car sat in dead silence. 

Right next to me, my sister would spend hours rattling on about the latest fashion trends of the season, or detailing the intricate makeup techniques and hairstyle tutorials she’d mastered on YouTube. She’d weave these rants into unsolicited lectures directed at me, offering step-by-step instructions on how I could manage to look and act like a proper, civilized girl. 

And, of course, saving the most eccentric for last, my younger brother spent the entire journey with his face practically embedded in the pages of whatever thick volume was currently glued to his fingers. Every few miles, he would casually announce bizarre, occasionally stomach-turning trivia to absolutely no one in particular. 

As for my role in this traveling theater production? I mostly preferred to play the quiet observer. I liked lingering on the periphery of their noise, just absorbing the moment and feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I belonged to them. That was our dynamic. It was messy, it was loud, and I adored it. 

So, if you ever wondered why I never complained about our transient lifestyle, that’s your answer. For me, the concept of home wasn’t a fixed address. It was simply wherever those five lunatics happened to be standing. 

Once upon a time, though, we actually possessed a permanent roof over our heads. It was the house where my parents had first set up their lives together after getting married. It was the place where Alastair and I drew our first breaths—figuratively speaking, of course, but you know what I mean. It was the sanctuary where Tina and Jamey felt entirely insulated from the rest of the harsh world. 

We stayed anchored there for as long as Mom was with us. But when she passed away, the loss fractured our family in ways that felt completely beyond repair. She had been the central pillar holding the entire structural integrity of our lives together. The moment she vanished, we simply disintegrated. Each of us began falling apart in our own isolated, destructive ways. 

In the immediate aftermath of her death, a profound, heavy misery settled over us for months. But eventually, a house cannot run on grief alone; someone had to swallow their own pain and start sweeping up the shattered glass so that some semblance of recovery could begin. 

That responsibility somehow fell on my shoulders. It was an agonizing battle to keep from weeping when I found a moment of privacy, but keeping a straight face in front of my siblings was a whole different level of torture. Watching the people you love lose their grip on reality while force-feeding yourself a look of total composure is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. 

It took well over a year for Dad to emerge from the dark, foggy abyss he’d trapped himself in after Mom left. By the time his mind finally cleared, his employment had completely vanished. We were essentially scraping by on fumes, surviving off whatever meager savings were left and the cash Alastair managed to bring home from odd, under-the-table jobs he picked up, despite being only thirteen years old. 

And yet, the real storm hadn't even hit us yet. 

I blinked rapidly, fighting back the sudden sting of tears, and forced a heavy breath into my lungs as I stared out at the rolling green landscapes flying past my window. The open country fields looked radiant basking under the brilliant midday sun. At the very least, nature seemed entirely unbothered by our drama. 

This particular relocation was different, though. I despised it with every fiber of my being. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to go. There was no terrible, off-key car singing this time around. No awful dad-jokes echoed through the cabin, and no one was lecturing me on how to present myself to the world. 

The reality was simple: I didn't want to leave my father behind. None of us did. But the choice had been completely taken out of our hands. Just letting my mind drift to the concept of surviving without him made me feel as though someone had reached directly into my chest, ripped out the fragile, reassembled pieces of my heart, and crushed them beneath their heel without a second thought. 

I can still vividly recall the expression on his face that afternoon. His dark eyes had begun to well up with moisture, his thick, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a tight line as he looked out at all of us simultaneously—a specific expression that only he could pull off. 

"Gather round, kids," he had called out, his voice thick with an unfamiliar gravity.  

"Pumpkin, peaches, and you little smart-asses, get over here." 

We had closed ranks around him immediately, our anxiety spiking because we had absolutely no baseline for why he was acting so incredibly sentimental. For a terrifying split second, I genuinely assumed he was about to deliver some awful news regarding Mom. But my instincts were completely off base. 

"I need you all to pay close attention to what I’m about to say, because I have zero intention of getting this emotional with you guys again," he started, attempting to lighten the heavy air. "We’ve had a seriously chaotic couple of years, haven’t we?" 

A small, involuntary smirk broke across my face at his words, but Alastair immediately nudged my ribs to make me cut it out. We were supposed to be presenting a united front of anger and resistance, so I quickly wiped the amusement from my expression and locked my best poker face back into position. 

"You all mean the absolute world to me," Dad continued, taking a slow, deliberate breath. "But ever since your mother passed, things have been incredibly difficult for me—for all of us. You see it every single day with this constant moving around, never knowing if we’re going to have enough to put together a decent dinner. But," he paused, his eyes scanning our faces, "all of that financial stress is about to evaporate. I’ve been offered a position up in Wisconsin. It’s a massive step up for us, an actual lifeline. The company is practically begging for my specific background, and honestly, they want me more than I need them. It’s an opportunity I simply cannot afford to pass up." 

A few days prior, Dad had received an unexpected phone call explaining that his professional track record was a perfect match for a new corporate project. They were eager to bring him on board immediately. At the time, I hadn't even considered the possibility that he would take the offer seriously, given that the job was located over a thousand miles away from where we were staying. 

Jamey crossed his thin arms tightly over his chest, immediately uncrossed them to shove his thick spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, and then defensively locked his arms right back across his chest. He let out a quiet, frustrated mutter. "Why can't we just pack up the car and come with you like we always do?" 

Dad let out a long, exhausted sigh, shifting his gaze directly to my younger brother. "You just hit the nail right on the head, buddy. The truth is, I’ve been incredibly selfish by dragging you all along down my own path of professional failures. Before everything fell apart, you kids had a real life. You had a permanent home, a stable school routine, and actual friendships. You don't have any of that anymore, and it breaks my heart. I never wanted this transient life for you. This is me finally putting a stop to the cycle." 

I understood exactly what he was trying to achieve, and I knew right then that no one in the room would argue with his logic. The silence that followed proved me entirely correct. 

Seeing that he had won our silent compliance, he pressed forward. "We are only talking about a six-month window, kids. If I perform well during this trial period, they’ll transition me to a permanent executive role, and then I can easily request a local transfer back to this region. The compensation package is significant, and by the time the contract wraps up, Alastair will have his high school diploma in hand." 

A fragile, genuine smile broke through his solemn expression, though the moisture in his eyes threatened to spill over again.