Page 74 of Golden Goal

“Hey, Becca,” Jill says.

I sit up straight, my heart racing. “Is Dad okay?”

“He’s fine. He’s outside, talking to the couple in the RV next to us. I’m sorry for panicking you. I wanted to call and talk to you, but of course I couldn’t find my phone.”

She chuckles, and I let out a breath, relieved there’s nothing wrong with my dad.

“Did you put it in the fridge again?” I frown, thinking back to the last time she lost her phone. She eventually found it a few hours later in the fridge when she went to put the groceries away. I don’t know how she loses it when they live in a forty-foot RV. But she does.

“I checked in all those places. Even called it with your dad’s phone, and nothing.”

“The storage under the sofa?”

“I’ll have to check there. I was organizing earlier, so maybe I set it down in one of the drawers. Do you have time for a quick chat?”

I get comfortable, leaning back against the cushions, and turn the television off. “Sure.”

She clears her throat. “The real reason I called is because we spoke to Mason again recently. He said he still hasn’t heard back from you.”

My stomach sinks at the mention of my brother.

“I know. I just . . .”

“I know what you said at Christmas about it, and I respect your decision, but—“

“Jill,” I cut her off. “I know you mean well, but I don’t want to talk to him right now. I don’t want to rehash everything.”

“It’s not your fault. Everything that happened. Is. Not. Your. Fault. Please hear him out. For yourself. For me. For your father. He’s still sober. This time is different.”

Different how?

“I’ll think about it.”

We spend the next several minutes catching up before we hang up. I drop my phone onto the cushion next to me, squeezing my eyes shut.

I don’t know what to do.

Part of me wants to talk to him. Hear what he has to say. But part of me doesn’t.

I don’t know if I can go through hearing he’s sober and clean again, only to get another phone call from my dad in a few weeks telling me that Mason has disappeared, and no one can get a hold of him.

I still remember the first time it happened, when he finally resurfaced—hopped up on whatever his drug of choice was at that moment. He called me from a phone at some diner. Told me it was all my fault he was addicted to drugs, that he couldn’t stay sober for more than a few weeks.

Dad and Jill have both tried to reassure me that he only said it because he was high. That he didn’t mean it. But I’ve never been able to believe them.

I suppose I can at least listen to his voicemail. Doesn’t mean I have to call him back. But at least if Jill or Dad ask, I can tell them I listened to it.

Before I can talk myself out of it I grab my phone, click on Mason’s message, and hit the speaker option.

“Hey sis.” He clears throat. “It’s Mason.” He pauses. “Not that you don’t know that. I was calling to talk about . . . well, everything. Please give me a call when you get this. Bye.”

I hit the Play button, needing to hear his message again. He does sound better, good even. But then again, what do I know?

Listening to his message didn’t help me decide whether to call him back or not, the way I hoped it would. I’m pulled out of my thoughts by a knock at my door.

I open it to find Holt, a baby monitor in his hand, on the other side.

“Hey. What’s up?”