Chapter 7- Our First Fight

As I finished the scrambled eggs, a scream rang out from upstairs. I quickly turned off the stove and raced up the back stairs. At my bedroom door, Pam stared at me with a scared look, surrounded by the girls who’d invaded our room. Daria appeared behind me in the hallway.   “See, I told you girls I could distract her; all I had to do was steal a few pieces of bacon,” she said with a grin.   “That one poked me in the butt, I don’t know what with, but she touched me,” Pam said, pointing at Sydney.   “Gross, you’re tainted, she touched you,” I giggled.   “So, you both were naked. What were you doing last night?” Demi said, grinning.   “Yeah, tell us, we were downstairs and didn’t hear anything,” Tori added.   “You got a quiet one, Pammy,” Demi chimed in.   “Unless I put it in her butt,” Pam said, fueling their fire.   I looked at Demi. “I was doing the same thing with Pam, you do with Matt,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.   “Yeah, but at least I make noise, we didn’t hear anything from you girls,” Demi replied, amused.   Just then, the smoke detector blared.   “Oh shit, the biscuits are still in the oven,” I yelped, bolting downstairs. Luckily, they weren’t burnt—just a bit dark. I finished the eggs and put everything on the counter.   Pam came down the steps; I shot her a glare for the earlier comment.   “Oh, come on, babe, it was a joke,” she said.   I set out plates and tableware. “Girl, have at it. I’d best hurry before Daria eats all the bacon,” I said, reheating my cold coffee.   After breakfast, I cleared up the kitchen.   Later, in the living room, I overheard Tori: “Pam, why is she so shy? She seems like a prude. She does know that’s how babies are made, right?”   “Babies aren’t made from butt sex. Can we please not talk about sex lives?” I said, walking in. The talk stopped. Tori looked both ashamed and amused.   “You ladies showed up knowing you’re all leaving together. I won’t get to see Pam for 3 weeks; this was our last weekend together before she leaves,” I said, tearing up, then left the room, slamming the bedroom door.   I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Pam’s packed luggage. A knock sounded.   “Britt, can we talk?” Demi asked.   “Just go away and leave me alone, please,” I said softly. She left.   I curled up on Pam’s bed, wrapping a blanket around me and finally letting go of all my feelings about her leaving. The bed shifted—Pam sat beside me.   “You have to talk to me. You can’t function like this.”   “Then stay. Why does it have to be you who goes for 3 weeks? Why not someone else?” I tried to pull away, but she held me.   “This is my job, something I’ve dreamt of since I was 11. I didn’t attend last year due to my shoulder injury, and I had already made this decision before speaking with you. The time will go fast,” she said softly.   “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, because you’ll go anyway. You’ll miss the first part of our daughter’s softball season, her 15th birthday, and our 8-month anniversary. I know this is your career, but sometimes it feels like our opinions don’t matter,” I said, finally voicing my thoughts.

“This is new for me, too. I didn’t plan to fall in love with you or the girls, but please don’t make me choose between you and my career. I must leave tonight, or this will upset both of us even more. I’ll call you later, and we can talk,” she said, leaving the room.   Soon after, I heard the front door shut and Pam’s jeep pull away.   I got up and turned on the shower, where I finally broke down. After half an hour, I dressed and saw no messages from Pam. That night, I found Instagram photos—she was already at the bar with the girls. My heart broke. I sent her an “I love you, good night” text—no response. I messaged Demi, hurt and angry.   “Can you ask Pam to come get her stuff?”   “I’m not with Pam; I’m with Matt tonight.”   “Odd, you’re in the bar photos. Never mind, I’ll leave her stuff on her porch.”   Just then, Pam called. I ignored it and texted, “Don’t bother with excuses,” tearing up.   Twenty minutes later, I arrived at Pam’s, where her mom was waiting.   “Pam called and asked me to take her stuff. You must cut her some slack—it’s hard for her too. She’s only had one other relationship, and they shared the same career. Go home, cool down, and call her tomorrow; don’t ruin your little family. She loves you and those girls. Don’t let her leave without talking. This is hard on her, too. Give my grandgirls a hug and tell them Gigi loves them,” she said, hugging me.