If I'm Being Honest

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2022 by Kristin Marzullo All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. First paperback edition May 2023 Book design by Charlyn SamsonIllustration by Laurel Holly Edited by Elena Curti ISBN (paperback) 979-8-88896-255-8 ISBN (ebook) 979-8-88896-264-0 www.kristinmarzullo.com Content Warning THIS STORY CONTAINS content that might be troubling to some readers, including, but not limited to, depictions and references to death, suicide, mental illness, anxiety, and PTSD. Please be mindful of these and other triggers, and if needed, please seek assistance. Suicide And Crisis Lifeline: 988 (available 24 hours) Remember to practice self-care before, during, and after reading. To all the creatives who came before me. Keep inspiring the world the way you’ve inspired these pages. Chapter One I stared out the window as the Uber drove past roads and signs I had never seen before. Boston wouldn’t have been my first choice, but then again, none of this was really my choice. I guess it was better than the screaming and the yelling. It would definitely be more enjoyable than the nights I’d spent with my mom, and I’d overhear her howling in pain, crying on the phone, begging him to come home and spend time with us. The calls always ended the same. My mom would throw one last dig at my dad about him not being a man before hanging up and sobbing herself to sleep. My dad wasn’t a bad guy. He put me through college. He offered me a job after I graduated. He took an interest in my future. But my dad wasn’t a good guy either. “Where ya visiting from kid?” the driver grunted, staring at me through the rearview mirror. Kid? I thought to myself. That was the trouble of having graduated college just over a year ago. At the ripe age of 23, most people older than me saw me as a child. Unfortunately, society deemed me an adult long ago. I had been walking that tightrope from a young age anyway. What was it Britney Spears said about not being a girl but not yet a woman? “I’m from Florida originally,” I peeled my head off the window. “Visting from California though.” “Ah a West Coastie. How do ya like it out there?” The Boston accent was thick. “It’s alright,” I shrugged. Truth was it sucked. Living with my dad for only a year had turned out not to be the best decision of my life. But when I came home from college and learned that my childhood home was up for sale, it was either move in with my mom and my grandparents or give LA a shot. I tried and failed at fitting in with the young, rich, and famous. “Hopefully Boston treats you right,” the driver winked at me. I cringed but offered him a weak smile. Treat me right or not, it would have to do for now. I still wasn’t sure why my mom picked it. She was not a city girl. Not that Boston was a very big city. But my mom’s experience with anything outside of small beach towns was limited. But then again, maybe that’s why it was appealing. She was leaving behind everything she ever knew to try and start fresh. As I glanced back out the window, the realization that I was a long way from rolling beaches and late night bonfires with the waves crashing in the background, filled me with a sense of longing. When I was younger I grew to loathe Clearwater, Florida and how little it had going on. However, now, as the brownstones started to blend together in boring shades of rustic reds, I almost kind of missed it. The familiarity of home had forever been washed away. As the Uber came to a stop outside of the brick townhouse, blocked off by a small gate, I sighed before opening the door. I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk of the car before the Uber took off, leaving me to stand alone at the entrance of a house I’d never seen before in person. My mom sent me so many photos and videos out of excitement, in the weeks leading until now. As hard as I tried to feel happy for her fresh start, I couldn’t help but harbor at least a little envy. None of this felt new and exciting for me. It felt forced, unfair, and final. Now that I was standing here, my jet-black hair flapping in the breeze and pushing the few strands of purple I had dyed past my face, I felt myself wilt just a little bit. This was a new chapter in the storyline of Brooklyn, yet it didn’t feel like mine at all, and for that, I was not excited. “Brooklyn!” my mom called as the front door to her new home swung open, and she stood at the entrance with a bright smile and arms open wide. “Hey Mom,” I pulled up the handle to my suitcase and wheeled it to the house. “You sort of have to jiggle the handle,” she said as I approached the gate. I looked down at the fence and then back up at her, noting that she wasn’t going to come to help. I pushed through the entrance and headed towards her. She took a few steps down the stairs of her stoop, her arms still open for a hug. “How was the flight?” she embraced me tightly. “Long,” I said, and she laughed. “I’m sure. Come in, let me show you around.” I stepped into the house wearily. My mom gave me the grand tour, and I