I pull my phone away from my face to verify. Jesus, ten thirty already? I could’ve sworn it was the crack of dawn.
“Well, it sounds like you’re having fun. I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too, sweetie,” Mom says. “How’s Kat?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. HowisKat? I haven’t heard from her since her grand exit last night. “She’s good. Her boyfriend’s nice.” I tug the junk drawer out a bit more and get back to rummaging.
“Oh, I didn’t know he was joining you!” Mom says, and herexcitement on the subject feels borderline insulting. “Is Kat still loving U of I?”
“Yup.” I grit my teeth. “She’s obsessed with it.”
Mom is quiet for a moment, leaving me enough time to scrounge up some eye drops and pry out my crusty, dried-out contacts. “Did it get you excited about next semester?” she finally asks. I don’t speak fluent Parentese, but I believe that roughly translates to “are you moving out of my house soon?”
I push a long breath out through my nose as I flick my contacts into the trash like boogers. “Still working on the transfer app, Mom. I’ll be all set so long as Professor Meyers doesn’t flunk me again.” The only people who want to see me off to U of I as much if not more than I do are Mom and Dad.
“Well, let’s not blame this on Professor Meyers when you’re the one taking the tests.” She’s using that playful, pretending not to be bothered tone, a Susan Konowitz classic. I guess she’s sick of telling the other agents at her brokerage that her daughter “isn’t quite ready for U of I.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, responsibility for my actions,” I rattle off. “Listen, I should go…”
“Hang on,” Mom stops me. “At least tell me about your plans for the day. When are you headed over to the Flemings?”
My stomach churns, and for a second I think I may need to hit my knees and snuggle up to my trash can. Throwing up would be a great excuse not to discuss the only subject more depressing than my accounting grade. “I don’t know,” I say, breathing through the nausea. “I’m not sure if I’m going.”
The silence on the other end of the line feels heavy with disapproval. “What do you mean you’re not going?” Momfinally asks. “Wasn’t that the whole reason you didn’t come to Florida?”
“I said I’m not sure,” I correct her. “It’s a whole thing. I’ll tell you more about it when you get back, but I’m definitely not skipping Florida Thanksgiving again.” I sandwich my phone between my face and my ear, grabbing a bottle of Tums from the back of my junk drawer. Expired. Damn.
“All right, well, we’ll be home Sunday afternoon,” Mom reminds me. “I have a few showings on Tuesday and Wednesday, but I’ll send you a few nights that might work for family dinner this week.” That’s the Mom I know, on vacation and still coordinating both her real estate and family life.
“We’ll figure it out, Mom. Just enjoy your trip.”
“Right, right,” Mom grumbles, sounding like she needed the reminder. “We’ll let you go, but we just wanted to call and say that we love you.”
“And don’t drink all my beer!” Dad calls out.
My stomach goes full spin-cycle mode, and in desperation, I shake out two expired Tums into my palm. “I don’t think you need to worry about me drinking anything anytime soon.”
“All right, well. Love you!”
“Love you back, bye.”
I end the call, pop the Tums, and give myself a moment to recalibrate before opening my texts. No word from Kat—not even a text to let me know she made it home. I flop down on the bed and start crafting a message that functions both as an apology and a reminder that she’s not off the hook for being a dickhead last night.
“Admiring our pictures from the bar?”
I fumble my phone, pressing a hand to my heart to keep it from jumping out of my chest. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” Ellie leans against my door frame, using her ring fingers to scrape the crust from the corners of her eyes. “Is this your room?”
My cheeks go hot as I start to stammer. “Oh, um. I, uh.” I’m not usually so self-conscious about living in my childhood bedroom, but I’m also not usually giving tours to girls who make wiping away eye boogers look cute. If I weren’t so hungover, I’d make up an excuse for all the teenage decor, but my head feels like it’s been dragged behind a semi from here to Chicago, so all that comes out is “Yup.”
Ellie nods and takes one cautious step inside, then another, then a third. It’s almost like she’s waiting for me to stop her; when I don’t, she starts to walk the room’s perimeter, and my heart rate climbs with every book or softball trophy she picks up for closer inspection. “Have you always lived in this house?” she asks.
“My whole life.”
“And how long did this take you?” She gestures to the giant collage of posters, pictures, and ticket stubs on the far wall, years of memories layered so thick, you can’t even tell what color the paint behind them is.
“The Wall of Fame? I think I started it sometime in elementary school.”
