‘Good. Nice of you to find the time to call since you’ve been so busy and all.’ He sounds gruff as the cheering in the background cuts to a car commercial. ‘Better go and check on your mom, we’ll talk to you next week, I guess.’
‘Is Hudson there?’ I ask before he can end the call. ‘Or Kane? I haven’t heard from them today.’
‘They’re playing video games, I’m sure they’ll check in when they have the time.’
They won’t. Unlike my parents, as far as my brothers are concerned, I’m out of sight and out of mind.
‘Gotta go. Happy birthday, Mia.’
The call cuts off, the phone still pressed against my ear, warm and uncomfortable. I leave my desk and lie down on my bed, waiting for him to call back. Mom will say something, and he’ll call back. He’ll apologize, ask me how my day has been and wish me happy birthday like he means it.
Two minutes pass. Then five. Then ten. Before I know it, tears are pouring down the sides of my face, tickling my ears. Tossing my phone across the bed, I scrub at my face with my sleeve, the fabric of my sweater scratchy against the sensitive skin, then pick up my book. I don’t want to think about my dad. I don’t want to think about anything. I didn’t acknowledge their birthday card, I lied about spending time in bars and now I’ve stressed my mom into a migraine. Why would he want to talk to me? He didn’t want me to leave and I couldn’t wait to get away. He must hate me. But not nearly as much as I hate myself.
My room is deathly quiet as I stare at Charles Dickens’s words, turning the pages without taking in a single sentence. When I reach the end of the chapter, I can’t remember a thing I’ve just read and carrying on is pointless. Reading has always been my escape but right now, I can’t even lose myself in a book.
I don’t want to be alone with all these awful thoughts but I can’t go to my friends. How do you explain a birthday crash-out when it’s all your fault? I can’t think of a way to frame things that don’t make me look like a terrible daughter and no one in their right mind would have sympathy for that.
I look over at the biscuit on the desk. The jacket slung over my chair.
It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but there’s only one person I want to see right now. With a choked sob, I rise and take myself into my bathroom to wash my face.
The last thing I want is for Ethan to know I’ve been crying.
26
Ethan
‘Have you been crying?’
‘No. I poked myself with a mascara wand is all.’
Mia is lying and she’s not good at it. But she’s also standing in front of my door, eyes rimmed red and her nose pink. Whoever is responsible for upsetting her like this,on herbirthday, is as good as dead. And I know it’s shitty of me, but I really, really hope it’s that Oliver guy.
She holds out my jacket, neatly folded, like an offering.
‘I wanted to return this.’
‘Thanks.’ I take it and toss it behind me without looking, hopefully onto the bed, otherwise it isn’t nearly as smooth of a move as it was in my head. ‘You get a hold of your folks?’
‘Mmm-hmm. Did you pick a movie?’
I can’t help but feel like the call didn’t go so well.
‘Not yet. Kitchen clean-up took longer than I thought. Sure I can’t tempt you to join me?’
She tugs on the same silver bracelet I noticed last night, still gnawing on her lip. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to be in the way.’
I almost laugh but she looks so serious, the noise gets stuck under a lump in my throat.
‘Mia, my plan for the evening consists of sitting on my ass,watching a couple of old movies and eating as many biscuits as I can before I start to feel sick. Does that sound like something a man should do alone?’
‘Honestly?’ she replies. ‘Yes.’
‘Right, but because it’s your birthday, I’m prepared to make an exception.’
Stepping to one side, I wave her inside, beyond relieved that I took the time to clean up my room earlier. Are all my dirty clothes jammed inside a hamper in the closet? Yes. Are those brand-new, box-fresh sheets on the bed because my first set was starting to turn stiffer than my dick first thing in the morning? Also, yes. But Mia doesn’t need to know either of those things. All she sees are clear floors, clean surfaces and, yes, that’s right, a fancy-ass candle burning on the windowsill.
‘It’s nice in here,’ she says, turning in a slow circle as I stoop over to pick up my jacket. Damn it, missed the bed.
