No response.
I try calling.
He doesn’t answer.
And I grow scared, really scared, scared that he’s fallen back into that life, the life that was drowning him, scared thatLaurie’s parents are pulling him back under, scared that he’s all alone with no one to fight for him. I feel as though I’m in water, trying to scramble out onto a slippery bank, but I keep falling back in. I’m no longer on solid ground.
I keep calling as I pack up my things. Calling when Bailey, Casey, and Jonas come over for a farewell dinner on Thursday night and Jonas tells me he hasn’t heard from him either.
And I’m panicking and I don’t know what to do, but I will see him tomorrow and hopefully he’ll tell me that he just needed a few days to clear his head.
But then a text comes in from him.
What time are you coming?
Five, if that’s okay?
Yes, I’ll come home from work early.
Are you okay? Where have you been? I’ve been worried.
Two more hours pass before he replies.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Dad drives me to Indianapolis, chatting with me the whole way, but I can’t escape this hideous feeling of something being terribly wrong. I couldn’t even say goodbye to Sheryl and thank her for everything she’s done for me without feeling like I was going to be sick. She made me promise to come back soon and I told her I’d try, but so much depends on what happens when I see Anders.
Is he bringing me to his apartment just so he can tell me to my face that it’s over?
As soon as this thought strikes me, I sense that it’s true.
My heart is racing as Dad pulls up outside the silk lofts. I force myself to stay in the moment with him as he gets my bags out of the boot.
“I’ll take it from here, Dad,” I say with a bright smile, trying to hold it together and pretend that nothing’s wrong.
And while we have made real progress this summer, he still doesn’t know me well enough to read when I’m acting.
He takes me in his arms and tears prick my eyes as I hold him, my dad.
“I love you,” I say in his ear.
“I love you too, Little Bird. Fly back to us as soon as you can.”
When his car has turned out of the car park, I get out my phone and call Anders.
He doesn’t answer.
I text him.I’m outside your apartment.
I’ll buzz you in.
No. Answer your phone.
I call him again. This time he picks up.
“Wren?” he asks with confusion.
“Is it over?” I demand to know. “You and me. Is it over?”
