16
JADE
Ican't sleep.
It's two in the morning and I'm lying in Phoenix's bed, staring at the ceiling while he breathes steadily beside me. His arm is draped across my waist, heavy and warm, and I should feel safe. I should feel like I belong here.
Instead, my mind won't stop spinning.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark but somehow accusatory. For days now, it's been buzzing with messages I haven't answered. Missed calls I haven't returned. My mom’s name appearing over and over until I started leaving the phone on silent, face down, like if I couldn't see her trying to reach me, it somehow wasn't happening.
Twenty-three missed calls. Forty-one text messages. Each one probably more frantic than the last.
I know I need to talk to her. I know I can't keep avoiding this forever. But every time I think about picking up the phone, about hearing her voice, about trying to explain any of this—my throat closes up and I can't breathe.
The phone lights up again. Not a text this time. It’s a call. Mom’s name glows the dark.
I grab it before it can wake Phoenix and slip out of bed as quietly as I can. The cool air hits my bare legs as I pad across the hardwood floor, through the sliding glass door, and out into the night.
I close the door behind me and finally answer the call.
"Where are you?" Mom’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass. No hello. No preamble. Just three words loaded with enough fury to make my stomach drop.
"Mom, I?—"
"I called your landlord. I called the coffee shop. I called every single one of your tutoring clients." Her words come rapid-fire, each one landing like a blow. "You haven't been home in days. You missed your shifts. You canceled all your appointments. No one knows where you are."
Guilt twists in my chest. I hadn't thought—hadn't considered?—
"Are you in the hospital?" she demands. "Jail? Dead in a ditch somewhere? Because those are the only explanations I can think of for why my daughter would justdisappearwithout a word."
I sink onto the cold tile floor of the guest house, pressing my back against the wall. The moonlight coming through the windows paints everything in shades of silver and shadow.
"I'm okay," I say quietly. "I'm safe. I just... I'm in California."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can picture Mom standing in her apartment, phone pressed to her ear, processing what I've just said. When she speaks again, her voice is deadly quiet.
"Why."
It's not a question. It's a command.
"I got a job," I lie, the words tumbling out before I can think them through. "A writing job. I'm doing research for a?—"
"Bullshit."
The word cuts through my stammering explanation like a knife.
“You’re lying. I know you’re lying," Mom says flatly.
I close my eyes. She knows me too well.
"Who's there with you?"
My silence is all the answer she needs.
"You're with a man." It's not a question. "How did you meet him?"
I could lie again. I could make up some story about meeting at a conference or through mutual friends. But the lies are piling up now, building a wall between us that I don't know how to tear down.
