He always answers.
Shit.
“That me you’re about to call?”
I nearly drop the phone.
Bones is standing three feet away, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking like he just happened to be passing through Hartsfield–Jackson airport at six in the morning. His hair is messy, like he woke up, dragged a hand through it, and called it good. There are circles under his dark eyes. And his expression is carefully neutral in that way that means he’s anything but.
“What the—how did you—why are you—” But I know. Of course I know. “The tracker.”
“The tracker,” he confirms, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty.
“You followed me.Again.”
“You left without saying goodbye.”
“I said goodbye!” The lie is obvious even as it leaves my mouth. “I left a note.”
“‘Tell Dad I’m sorry about missing Christmas’ doesn’t count as goodbye, Em.”
He moves closer, drops into the seat next to mine like he’s settling in for a conversation. The gate agent is making increasingly agitated gestures at the few remaining passengers. The door to the jetway will close in minutes.
“You should go,” Bones says, nodding toward the gate. “You’re gonna miss your flight.”
I look at the gate. Look at my boarding pass. Look at Bones.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
His expression shifts—his neutral mask cracking just slightly. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t.” My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. I hate that he’s seeing this. “I can’t get on the plane. Every time I try to stand up, I see the van. I feel the zip ties. I—” My breath hitches. “I can’t do it.”
Bones doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just sits there beside me—solid and real and not rushing me, not telling me to suck it up or get over it.
That was always his thing. When I was losing my shit at sixteen about school or ballet or Dad being overprotective, Bones would just sit with me until I calmed down.
Still does, apparently.
“Final call for Flight 2847. The gate is now closed.”
The gate agent pulls the door shut. My plane is now leaving without me.
I should feel panic. Instead, I just feel . . . relieved.
Which makes no sense. The gate just closed on my flight home—on my career, my apartment, my entire life—and I’m relieved?
It has to be the adrenaline crash. Or shock. Or my brain protecting me from more trauma by convincing me I’m fine with not flying.
That’s all it is.
It doesn’t mean anything else.
“So,” Bones says. “What now?”
“I don’t know.” I slump back in the chair, exhausted. “But I’m not going back to Stoneheart, OK? I’m going back to New York. Back to where the only thing I have to worry about is rehearsals for spring season . . .”
I came back to Stoneheart for one visit and got kidnapped within twenty-four hours. If that’s not the universe sending a message, I don’t know what is.
