“Yes, Dad,” I deadpanned.
His gaze sharpened. “Smart-ass.”
Then they were gone. The truck roared off, leaving me standing in the gravel, dust settling around my boots. The quiet hit hard. Our trailer looked the same as always—siding a little warped, porch steps a little crooked. The box fan in my bedroom window still rattled. The plastic flamingo Mrs. Hargrove had stuck in her patch of dirt two lots down leered at me like it knew all my secrets. I climbed the stairs and pushed the door open.
Mom was exactly where I expected: curled on her side on the couch, the empty wine box shoved under the coffee table. The TV played an infomercial about a mop that could allegedly change your life. I tugged a blanket over her shoulders. She barely stirred.
“Hi, Mom,” I murmured.
Then I went to my room, dropped my bag on the floor, and flopped onto the mattress. The springs screamed in protest. The ceiling stared back at me. Silence pressed in. I lasted maybe thirty seconds before I grabbed my phone. My thumb hovered over her name. Holly. I had no idea what the rules were here. No idea what I was allowed to say without blowing this up or making it heavier than she could carry right now. Fuck the rules.
Me: Get home ok?
I stared at the message for a second, then hit send before I could overthink it—which, for me, meant I only overthought it for six full seconds instead of thirty. The bubbles showed up almost immediately.
Holly: You were literally in my driveway when I got home, genius.
I huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. Already felt better.
Me: Yeah, but you know. Gotta make sure you didn’t trip on your way to the door. That bikini looked hazardous.
The dots appeared, then vanished. Appeared again.
Holly: Wow. Misogyny AND concern. A two-for-one deal. Also, I wasn’t wearing that bikini when you guys dropped me off. Day dreaming much?
I smirked at the screen.
Me: You didn’t seem very concerned about male objectification when you were staring at my chest.
Message sent. Immediate regret. Two agonizingly long seconds.
Then:
Holly: LMAO. Please. You WISH I was staring.
A pause.
Ok…maybe I was a little.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
She was still there. Still doing this. Still meeting me in the middle where the joking rubbed shoulders with something realer, sharper, scarier. I rolled onto my back, thumb flying, but before I could respond, she sent another message.
Holly: This weekend was good. The cabin. The lake. The dancing. Don’t get used to me being nice though.
Me: Too late. Already adjusted my expectations.
Holly: Bold of you.
Me: That’s what they’re sending me to basic for. My boldness.
Holly: Pretty sure it’s for your inability to shut up and listen.
Me: Aw, I didn’t know you paid attention to me like that.
Three blinking dots. Longer this time.
Holly: I’m still figuring out what I feel. But “don’t like you” isn’t really accurate anymore.
