“You knew I told you in confidence.”
“Your safety was more important, Willow.”
“In other words, you’re not sorry.”
“Four minutes,” Mom said through the door.
Saffron looked over her shoulder at the door as if Mom might explain.
“They’re kicking me out,” Willow said. “Effective immediately.”
“They’rewhat?” Saffron shrieked. She charged out of the room.
No sense testing whether Mom would enforce her ticking clock. Willow pulled open drawer after drawer and stuffed clothes into her carry-on. She darted to the closet and yanked her favorite dresses from their hangers—one, two, three, four, no more would fit. Oh, her shoes… Colorful heels, cute sandals, bold boots. One wardrobe item that never reminded her of curves she might prefer to whittle down if she’d had any say in her genetics. She’d chosen every pair with skill and style. She loved her shoes, felt lovely wearing them.
Tears rose in her eyes.
No. Stop it. Not the time or the place. She hadn’t let her family see her cry in years. That streak would not be broken tonight. She tugged her duffel bag from under the bed and hurled in every pair of shoes that would fit. About half of them.
She turned a desperate circle in the middle of the room, bidding her possessions goodbye. On one wall stood her bookcase, crammed with mostly nonfiction. The middle shelf held her favorite decorative pieces. Her grandmother’s vase. Nathan Corrigan’s glass hummingbird, which she’d purchased at the fair two years ago. Leaving them behind brought physical pain to her chest.
“Here.”
Saffron rushed back into the room, holding out her green nylon messenger bag. “You can put books in this, or whatever you want.”
“That’s your favorite computer bag.”
“My penance. Or you can give it back to me some other time.”
There wasn’t time to argue or refuse. From the other side of the door, Mom said, “Three minutes.”
“I want to take the glass,” Willow whispered and nodded at the vase and hummingbird. Books were replaceable. She was no collector, didn’t care which edition she owned if she had to rebuy them.
“On it.” Saffron dashed out and back in seconds with half a roll of bubble wrap.
While Willow worked the zippers of the overfilled duffel and carry-on, Saffron knelt on the carpet, head down, wrapped the vase and hummingbird, and tucked them inside the messenger bag. When she stood up, she was sobbing.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“Well, now you do.” And should have before.
“Where’ll you go? Where’ll you sleep tonight?”
“Two minutes,” Mom said through the door.
“Mom, stop it!” Saffron threw the door open and nearly barreled straight into her. “This isn’t okay!”
“I agree,” Mom said. “It’s unacceptable, and I hope Willow figures that out in the next two minutes and calls the lupine.”
No more bags to pack. The rest of her belongings would remain behind. Maybe she could come back for them in a few days. Mom’s anger was a persistent ice storm, but Dad’s was a volcano. He would spew and be spent. In a few days or a week he would talk Mom down. Strange, if that were true, how urgent it seemed that Willow leave nothing behind she truly cared about.
She got her shoes and coat. She hefted the messenger bag on one shoulder, the duffel on the other, and dragged her carry-on behind her toward the front door. She grabbed her purse with her free hand.
“Willow,” Dad said and held out his hand, palm up.
She tried to decipher the gesture. Already taking it all back? Saying she could stay?
“Your house key, please.”
