Tate
Something’s wrong.
From the minute I rolled out of my freshly made bed this afternoon after our impromptu Taylor Swift singalong, I’ve had this heavy weight in my gut.
We’re on our way to my parent’s house, Pitstop’s next to me in the front seat, her hand under mine on her thigh while her Dad sits humming along to the radio in the backseat next to her brother.
Penelope keeps tossing furtive glances at me. She’s picking up on my anxiety, but neither of us know where it’s coming from. Things are good. My mouth is healing, my body is rebuilding, and Mom’s cranberry stuffing is going to slay as always.
So what the hell is this prickling feeling all about?
“Okay, what gives?” It’s Oliver Lindstrom who breaks the silence in the car. “This silence is weird, Peppy. You’re never this quiet. Do you think I’m going to break Tate’s face? Because that’s totally not going to happen.”
“If you think I’m going to be uncomfortable with Zachary, Pumpkin, please don’t worry. We’ve talked, we’re good.”
She casts a glance at me. “It’s neither of those things. Tate’s just having a weird afternoon.”
It’s as close as either of us could probably get to explaining what’s going on because I have no fucking idea. I just know that I woke up from our pre-Thanksgiving dinner nap feeling a foreboding sense of doom I couldn’t explain.
Pitstop’s Dad pats my shoulder, I’m sure it’s supposed to be reassuring, but my stomach’s in such a tangle of knots it doesn’t feel at all settling.
As we pull into my parents’ street, ice fills my veins when their driveway is empty. Where’s Dad’s SUV? I reassure myself not to panic or catastrophize. Just because I got up this morning with dread consuming my body doesn’t mean dread is going to happen.
Maybe Mom forgot something and sent Dad to the store to pick it up. Unlikely, Mom usually has the majority of her Thanksgiving groceries taken care of weeks in advance, and she called me from the store a few days ago when she was getting all her fresh stuff.
My sour stomach only gets worse when I have to unlock the front door. When Mom’s home and she knows I’m coming, the door is left unlocked.
Also unusual, but not necessarily indicative of something being wrong.
It’s the lack of mouth-watering aroma lingering in the air that makes my blood run cold and my heart threaten to stop beating in my chest. Mom’s usually been up cooking for hours on Thanksgiving. The succulent turkey and ham, the smooth and creamy mashed potatoes, the vegetables everyone needs to have to maintain an air of being vaguely healthy...
Nothing.
The oven’s cold, the ingredients are spaced out on the kitchen island like she’d prepped to start cooking but something called her away.
Everything about this is wrong, the car being gone, the door being locked, and the house being cold and scent-free.
Where are my parents? And why aren’t they here arguing over how much apple cider to put in the gravy?
“Tate?”
I jump as Penelope touches my arm.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—you... you were in a world of your own. What is it?”
My tongue is thick and my mouth dry. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”
Mike stands next to me. “Oven’s off, there’s no food cooking. Maybe try calling them?”
My hands are shaking. It’s probably nothing, there’s likely a rational explanation for why Thanksgiving is running a few hours behind schedule. It’s going to be fine.
Penelope’s talking to me, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. Her hand digs into my back pocket, and she pulls out my phone, making the screen light up. “Maybe they’ve sent you a mess—no, nothing on your screen.” She holds the device out to me. “Dad’s right, call them. Let’s figure out where they are. Maybe they got sucked into a conversation somewhere, or they’re waiting for a tow truck, or... there are any number of places they could be.” Her voice is soothing as she pats my arm.
“I know it’s hard but try not to panic.” Even Oliver’s turned serious, and his face is somber as he tries to reassure me.
Panic. That’s what has my chest in a vise. That’s what’s pressing my ribcage inward, threatening to crush my organs. That’s what’s clouding rational thought.
“Come on, breathe with me. It’s going to be fine.” Penelope’s voice wavers telling me she’s not sure it will be fine. But that could just be because she’s never seen me like this before.
