The clock only ticks, suddenly deciding to stay in its own business.
It figures.
“I’ll do Dad first,” I decide. I regret this decision immediately when I realize that every single one of his twenty-seven missed calls comes with a voicemail, all of which contain varying degrees of “come back home so we can fix this.”Thisbeing me. No, thank you.
Mom’s voicemails are more of the same, in a slightly different tone. She doesn’t want tofixme, she just wants tohelpme, and can’t I see that? Her texts consist almost exclusively ofCall me backs andRunning off upset when all we want is to make sure you’re okay isn’t very kind or mature of yous andI’m starting to get worrieds. Are you safe?s. Which is just…
I mean, is she serious?Isn’t very kind or mature, as if sitting your grown child down for an intervention because she dared todo something so scary as being able to retire before she turns thirty is just the epitome of being kind and mature.
Fred’s messages, while many, contain only links to videos, some of which hint at me being dramatic and some of which hint at understanding how I’m feeling and wishing he could do the same. There are not, I note, any messages asking me where I am or if I’m okay, only an increase in the frequency in which the videos are being sent and a more serious tone to them as I scroll to recent ones. A new video comes in as I hold my phone, and I open it to find a series of clips of movie and tv show characters saying “I miss you.”
I sniff. I guess Fred is pretty okay, all things considered. Even if he did mostly just sit and watch as our parents made me out to be an irresponsible, idiotic, naive little girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing and needsthemto let her know.
Mmm… yeah, nevermind, he sucks too, missing me or not.
Your parents love you, Sarelia. They do. They simply don’t love you in the way that I love you, or in the way that you love them.
Archie’s words flit through my mind, interrupting the resentful path my thoughts have taken, and I huff. It sounded so nice, all his words about how they love me and just don’t know how to show it right. Howhewould show me what it feels like to be loved in the way that feels like love.
And yet, he said that they love me. That they mean well. That they’re trying in the way that they know how to try.
And if they’re trying, then that probably means that I should try, too. Even if it sucks and I’d rather dig one of the clock’s hands into my skull than speak to them right now because I justknowthey’re going to take this great, big, huge, amazing thing that’s happened to me and turn it into something bad. Like getting kidnapped by my celebrity crush’s uncle and delivered to his doorstep isn’t the plot of half the dreams that I have.
Still, I inhale, exhale, and press “call” on Fred’s contact, pretending it’s only a little bit cowardly and bitter to call him instead of our parents. I’mtryingafter all, and if my parents have taught me anything, it’s that apparently “our best” doesn’t have to be “thebest” in order to pass muster.
“Hey,” Fred answers after four rings, casual as could be.
My eyebrows rise. “Hey,” I echo. “What’s up?”
“Oh, not much,” he lies. “My sister ran away from home in a fit of tears like some kind of storybook princess, and my parents are in a tizzy over it. They’ve been discussing calling the cops for a missing person report for the last two hours. What’s up with you?”
I blink. “The cops?” I ask. “I’ve not even been gone for twenty-four hours. And I’m a full-grown adult.”
“Oh? Are you? I would never have known from the way they’re acting. As far as I’m aware, you’re a woman gone too soon, lost in her prime—her youth! And I’m an only child now. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve already drawn up plans for how to turn your bedroom into an at-home gym.”
“I miss you, too,” I reply. “Can you do some recon for me? Who should I call first?”
He sighs the sigh of a teenage boy who hasn’t been getting enough attention lately, then hushes as he shuffles out of his room.
I stay quiet, waiting for him to give the all clear before I speak again. My lip smarts, protesting the presence of my teeth against it, and I run my tongue over it in apology.
“Dad,” Fred grumbles finally. “Definitely Dad. Mom’s got her funeral binder out and is looking at caskets.”
I groan. “What’s Dad doing?”
“Dad’s drinking a beer and watching the football game. His team is losing.”
That is not promising.
“Maybe I should wait a little longer,” I mutter, sliding my gaze toward the clock. I only have seventeen minutes before I have to go to family meeting, anyway. My parents can wait until after that, right? Dad’s team will have pulled themselves together and won the baskets, and Mom will have… well, Mom will have found a very nice plot of land for me to be buried in by then. And who am I to deny her that pleasure?
“If you wait any longer, I’m jumping ship and coming to you.”
“You don’t know where I am,” I remind him. “And you’re sixteen. You can’t just run off.”
“You share your location with me, bozo. And I’msixteen. I’m practically an adult—like you. Andyouran off.”
Ah, the grand delusion of youth. “Sixteen is not almost an adult,” I reply, pulling my phone away from my face to turn off location sharing. “And you can’t come to me if I turn off tracking.”
