We did not, however, talk about it tomorrow.
Or the next day, or the next.
We couldn’t.
And the only one who rememberedwhywe couldn’t was me.
BARELY A WEEKlater, winter break officially ended, and we were supposed to go back to school like nothing had happened, though it felt like time had stopped.
We’d never even celebrated Christmas. We couldn’t without Mom. Our artificial tree sat unlit in the corner, presents untouched, and on Christmas day itself, we’d all quietly grieved in our own ways, barely talking to one another.
Honestly, each time I tried, it made me furious. Whatever magic in that note that made them accept it at face value drove me insane. How could they believe Mom would do that to us? Why didn’t they ask any questions?
Meanwhile, they acted hurt when I talked about fae or my books whenever Mom came up, because in their eyes, I was changing the subject to some new hyperfixation.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rissa had yelled at me yesterday. “You aren’t even upset about Mom leaving!”
They didn’t get that I was devastated too, just not for the same reasons.
Each night, one of us would attempt to cook one of the dinners Mom had been teaching us recently, while the other two read a book or watched a movie. Dad kept picking up extra shifts and mumbling excuses for why he couldn’t be home until late. Now, apparently, one week off of school was “enough” for us to get over it and move on.
We were definitely not over it.
I couldn’t stand the idea of someone bringing up Mom and the “Fiji pilot.” In a small town, people talked. Even if Dad only told one person, all of Selmo would’ve heard the gossip by now. Plus, while I’d stayed offline, blaming my broken phone, I was pretty sure Olive had blasted our personal trauma all over social media.
As we walked to school, I slowed about two blocks away and stopped, unable to fathom going through the school day right now.
“I forgot my phone,” I called to Rissa and Olive, turning back before they could say anything.
Since Dad had left for work already, I didn’t need to sneak into the house.
Falling onto my bed with a huff, I pressed my cheek into the pillow and eyed the books I’d borrowed from the library on my nightstand. The fiction was useless: made-up stories about a human fighting to make their way in a fae world, only to marry a prince. Cute, but not helpful. The nonfiction wasn’t any better. Because what were the odds that the author had interviewed an actual fae?
Despite that, I’d come to accept that the kidnappers were fae. They had to be.
So, I’d read the books front to back, trying to figure out what might be true, or at least, commonly believed. Like how fae can’t lie. Or those tricky deals that the internet and books all agreed were a sure thing, though none of them could articulatewhy.
