“For heaven’s sake. She will be fine. It’s Newport Beach, not North Korea.”
His door closes quietly, and I know he’s the one who shut it. Always trying to protect me.
Still, his muffled growl seeps through the barrier. “With Uncle Perry, it may as well be. He’s a fucking creep.”
They continue back and forth, but Bridget’s responses are underwater, drowning alongside Easton’s heated, relentless pleas.
So Uncle Perry is a creep.
I know his type well.
A sliver of awareness skates over me, trying to break through the numbness, but I block it out.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve gotten too comfortable here, in a stranger’s house. That comfort is what has possibly ledhimright back to me.
I should never have forgotten who I am.
I have no home.
And I have no mother who can tell me what to do.
She can send me to the airport, but the second I set foot on pavement, I’ll be on the run again.
Lost.
Lost.
Lost.
Just as I’m meant to be.
Easton
Me: Are you home?
Whitney: Yes ...
Me: Stay there. I’m giving you a ride to school today.
Whitney: Umm, okay?
I almost forget to grab my backpack before I exit my bedroom. My shoulders tense when I spot my mom in Eva’s room—arms crossed, quietly watching Eva pack as though she’s a fucking delinquent who can’t be trusted. My mom’s gaze slides to mine, and I spot the cell phone in her hand.Eva’sphone. I grit my teeth, meeting her stare. She’s not only making sure Eva isn’t up to anything. She’s ensuring I can’t intervene. Resentment twists inside me.
Guess my mom does know me somewhat after all. But not well enough if she thinks her presence is all it will take to get me to stop Eva from getting on that plane.
Eva’s back is to me, her movements passive as she drops a folded tank into a suitcase at her feet. The sight fills me with unease.
Where’s her resistance?
Where’s herfire?
Three years ago, I promised her she’d be okay. I promised she’d be safe. Last night, I made that promise again.
There’s no way in hell I’m breaking it.
I tear my gaze away and head down the stairs with tension tightening my shoulders. My grip is unsteady on the orange juice carton while I fill a tall glass. I leave it on the island, hoping she’ll see it. There’s no way to speak to her right now, and my mom would throw away any notes I left out, so I have to hope this gesture delivers the message I can’t.
I’m not letting her go.
