Owning itsucked.
But maybe that was the point.
Chapter
Nine
FRANKIE
The first thing I heard was meowing. Persistent, unbothered meowing — like a chorus of tiny, furry alarm clocks who’d decided I’d overslept their breakfast by approximately five years.
I blinked awake, the only light in the room the faint blue glow from the old digital clock on my desk. Rachel was still next to me, curled under the blanket, one arm flopped out like she’d lost a fight with gravity. Her hair, all wild and haloed, made her look unfairly peaceful.
I didn’t know what surprised me more, that she’d stayed over, or that I’d actually slept.
The apartment was still wrapped in that fragile morning quiet which encouraged me to whisper a “hush” at the cats. I eased out of bed, tiptoed past the pile of towels we’d sacrificed to my hair-dye experiment, and squinted at the faint purple glint catching the light in the mirror.
Huh.
It looked… good. Better than good, actually. The blonde on top caught the light like nothing had ever happened, but when I moved, little flashes of violet peeked through. My quiet rebellionwas hidden under something soft and ordinary, like camouflage for the soul.
The cats, however, did not care about camouflage or emotional symbolism. Tiddles yowled like an old man demanding coffee. Tory darted between my legs. Tabby jumped up on the counter with all the grace of a bowling ball.
“Okay, okay,” I whispered, trying to shush them as I grabbed the food. “Breakfast before the neighbors report us for noise pollution.”
Kibble followed by wet food hit the bowls with its usual thunderstorm rhythm. For a second, everything felt almost normal, just our morning routine, no ghosts or guilt hovering behind closed doors.
Then I saw the fridge.
The note was still there, exactly where I’d left it the previous night. A magnet shaped like a strawberry held it in place like a dare. My stomach twisted, doing that slow, heavy churn that always preceded bad decisions or big truths.
I glanced toward my mom’s still closed bedroom door. No voices. No evidence that Maddy and Mr. Standish had magically reappeared in the middle of the night. Just silence.
Which should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
I stood there for a long time, hand hovering like I was afraid the paper might bite. It was ridiculous, really. It was just ink. Just words. But I’d learned that words, in the right handwriting, could split you open like glass.
Finally, I peeled it off the fridge.
Two sheets.
One in Maddy’s handwriting, one in his.
I read hers first, because I was apparently addicted to pain.
It was short. Brutal in that efficient, no-space-for-feelings kind of way.
Call me when you read this.
We need to talk. Immediately.
You owe your father an apology.
No “Love, Mom.” No “Hope you’re okay.” Just obligation disguised as authority.
My father?
My throat went tight. I could almost hear her voice, that snappish, high-pitched tone she used when she thought she was being rational.
