The response came faster than I expected, a bubble appearing almost immediately.
Surviving. Miss you.
Two words that shouldn’t have meant so much. I typed back before I could overthink it.
Miss you too. We’ll talk when you’re back?
Yeah. We will.
I sat there for a while longer, phone pressed against my chest, watching the stars my father had named for me. The fear was still there—probably always would be. But underneath it, something else had taken root. Something that felt like hope.
Mom was right. Love was a risk. But some risks were worth taking.
16
SETH
The flight home was fifty-seven minutes of white-knuckled tension.
I’d taken the window seat out of habit, then spent the entire ascent staring at my reflection in the plexiglass instead of the clouds. Every few minutes, my jaw would tighten—the muscles working through conversations I hadn’t had yet, arguments I was already losing in my head. My phone sat heavy in my pocket, switched to Airplane Mode the second the flight attendant gave permission, buying me an hour where no one could reach me.
The woman beside me was reading a romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the cover. I watched her turn pages without seeing the words, envying how simple her problems probably were. She wasn’t flying toward four days of performing a version of herself that had stopped fitting years ago.
When we landed, I turned my phone off Airplane Mode and watched the notifications flood in.
Mom
Your father is picking you up. Be polite.
Emily
Mom’s stress-cooking. Fair warning.
Dad
Call me as soon as you get into the terminal. I’m in the cell phone lot, and we have to get home. No dawdling.
I shouldered my bag and joined the crush of people desperate to deplane, everyone moving too slowly, the recycled air thick enough to choke on.
I stepped through the terminal doors and scanned the pickup lane. A moment later, Dad’s silver sedan pulled up to the curb, and I could already see his expression through the windshield—the one that meant I was already disappointing him and I hadn’t even said hello yet.
I opened the back door to toss in my bag, then slid into the passenger seat.
“You’re late,” he said instead of a greeting.
“The plane landed when it landed.”
“Don’t be smart.” He pulled away from the curb without checking to see if I’d buckled my seatbelt. I had because the alternative was listening to him lecture me about that too.
The drive to the house took twenty minutes. Dad spent them critiquing my posture, my haircut, and the fact that I’d only brought a carry-on.
“Your mother wants you here for four days. You’re telling me that’s all you packed?”
“I know how to do laundry.”
“Don’t be smart,” he said again.
I stared out the window and counted exit signs.
