Apparently, I’m now on the phone with James Huxley.
CHAPTER TWO
Madison
I’ve known James my entire life, but this might be the first time I’ve ever heard his voice over the phone. Our parents were best friends until mine died shortly after my eighth birthday when a freak storm claimed their lives during a camping trip. From then on, Ruth and Martin Huxley kept us safely tucked into their family.
James and my older brother, Noah, grew up more like brothers than friends, and so, by default, we’re friends too. But the kind where he’s four years older than me, so I had a ridiculous crush on him while growing up, and he mostly found me annoying. Had a thing for his younger brother too—but that was different.
My crush went away eventually (out of necessity) and now, as adults, we both enjoy pissing the other one off as much as possible. But in a fun, good-natured sort of way.
I haven’t had much contact with James since I moved to New York, though. We don’t have that kind of friendship. I see him every time I go home to visit because, like I said, he’s close with ourfamily, but we never text or talk once I’m outside of Rome’s city limits. Which is probably why I’m having trouble forming words right now.
“Hello?” he asks again. “You there?”
I pull myself together and attempt to sound less tearful. “Hi. Yes. Hello.”
There’s some sort of rustling in the background of his call. I wonder if he can hear the thumping and grunting in mine.
“Who is this?” he asks carefully.
See.He doesn’t even have my number saved in his phone. Proof that we never talk. Proof that he has no intention of wanting to talk to me either. Embarrassing that I used to hope I’d marry him someday. That desire ended a long time ago, but still.
I try to clear the shake from my voice. “This is the president of the United States. I’m calling to inform you that the old Carhartt hat you wear every day is gross and needs to be thrown out. It’s a matter of state emergency.”
“Madison?”
I smile weakly. “Hi. I’m impressed you recognized my voice.”
“I recognized your humor,” he says, sounding mildly amused. “Why are you calling?”
A longtime participant of the friends-by-default club, he’s as confused to hear me over the phone as I am to hear him.
Unfortunately, his question seems to have tugged my emotions back to the surface. I’m frantically blinking away tears, hoping he won’t notice anything different in my tone. “Oh—yeah . . .”Unintentional sniffle.“I was trying to get ahold of Jack to find Emily, and I accidentally dialed you. Sorry about that. I’ll let you go. Bye.”
I quickly end the call, toss my phone down beside me, and move Sammy’s home to the mattress so I can cry into my hands.I hate it here.I hate the intermittent pounding against my wall, I hatethe horns constantly blaring outside my window, and most of all I hate that I don’t fit in here like I’d hoped.
New York was supposed to bemycity. My own little part of the world where I would thrive with self-discovery. But now that I’ve lived here, all I want is to go home. The sad part is, I’m not sure I’d feel any better there either. Maybe I’m meant to be a nomad, floating from place to place, never taking root.
Not for the first time, I wonder what my mom and dad would think of me and the life I’ve lived so far. Would they be proud? Worried? Something tells me I’d be the daughter they leave off the list when reciting their children’s achievements at their high school reunion.
My phone buzzes on the mattress against my thigh, and my body tenses when I see that it’s James calling me back. I let three vibrations of indecision pass before finally answering.
“Hello?”
“Are you crying?” he asks—right to the point.
“No. . . well . . . sort of. But I’m okay. Crying is a regular occurrence for me.” I wince, wishing I hadn’t said that out loud. It’s not news to James that I’m emotionally messy, but it sucks to confess it to him so intimately on a day like today, because he isnevera mess.
“Madison, what’s wrong? What happened?” There’s worry coloring his tone. And this is so James. He’s always been protective, even more so than my own brother in a lot of ways. Noah takes a “my sisters know what they’re doing” approach to our lives, and James is more of the “I’ll grab the shovel so I have something to bury the body with” kind of guy. It’s not special treatment. It’s how he is with everyone.
“Nothingspecificallyhappened,” I lie. “But I . . .” I pause when I remember who I’m talking to. “God, sorry. No—don’t worry about it. I don’t want to take up your night. You’re probably very busywishing on every star to wake up tomorrow with a higher IQ. I’ll keep trying Emily!” And that joke? It’s not personal either. It’s just how we talk to each other. Always have.
“Don’t you know by now I’m more selfless than that? If there’s a shooting star, I’m wishing for you to finally get a good sense of humor.” I smile into the phone, and before I can say anything else, he adds in a softer, more subdued tone, “I’m not busy, Madison.” But a horse whinnies in the background, indicating he’s in the barn.
“It sounds like you’re working.”
It’s after eightP.M. Sort of late for James to still be doing farm chores. Especially since he rarely even does the barn duties anymore. His farm is ninety percent produce, but he has a few horses and dairy cows just for fun.
