I miss them.
I miss how my dad groans every time he gets out of a chair, insisting he doesn’t need a new knee. I miss my mom’s advice, always wrapped in passive-aggressive baking. I even miss my sisters yelling over each other like they're still twelve and playingMario Kart.
My thumb hovers over the FaceTime button.
It’s not as if I have some big news. No trade, no injury, no championship. Just a ferret jungle gym and a girlfriend-who’s-not-a-girlfriend who I’m pretty sure owns my soul.
Min would tell me connection is good for my cortisol levels or some shit. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I just… miss being someone’s kid.
I hit the button anyway.
The screen rings once, twice, then flickers to life. Mom’s face fills the frame, backlit by the glow of the kitchen. She’s holding a whisk and wearing one of her oversized “This Is My Baking Shirt” tees.
“Tristan DuBois, you better not be calling to tell me you shaved your beard again.”
I laugh. “Hi, Mom.”
Her eyes crinkle with joy. “Hang on, hang on—girls! Your brother’s on the phone!”
I hear a distant thud, a chair scraping, and then chaos as the rest of the DuBois clan enters like a hurricane made of flannel and sarcasm.
And I melt right into it.
The screen splits as Ellie and Jules squeeze in beside Mom, both talking over each other.
“He lives! I thought you died or moved to space—”
“—or got recruited by some secret hockey cult—”
“—or fell off the face of the Earth—”
“Hi,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “Love the support, as always.”
Behind them, Dad ambles in with a mug of coffee. He’s still in his work boots. “Hey, Tris,” he says, calm as ever. “You break anything or just miss your mom’s lasagna?”
“Neither. I built something.”
Mom raises a skeptical brow. “Is it still standing?”
“Rude,” I deadpan. “It’s a ferret enclosure.”
Three beats of silence. Then Ellie blurts out, “You don’t have a ferret.”
“I do now.”
The girls shriek like I just told them I had a baby, and for once, I don’t feel the need to downplay anything. I want them to know my life. All of it.
“You got a pet?! What’s its name?! What does it look like?! Why didn’t you tell us?!”
I shift my phone to show Kepler, still passed out on my chest. “This is Kepler. And technically, he belongs to Minerva.”
Mom blinks. “Minerva?”
“My assistant,” I say, too fast. “Sort of. She started out that way. I guess. She’s—uh—she’s a lot more than that now.”
Ellie gasps and throws her hands up in the air. “Are you dating your assistant?”
“Yeah. I mean—yes. I am.” I look down at the sleeping ferret and add, “We’re… serious.”
