Page 26

The cool morning air greets me with a bite that feels sharper than it should for late spring as I head down his driveway toward my car. For one ridiculous second, my hand pauses on the driver’s side door because part of me wants to look back, but I don’t.

I climb in and turn the engine over, then ease onto the quiet streets before the city has woken up. Traffic is light enough that my thoughts have nowhere to hide, slipping into the empty spaces between red lights and familiar exits, no matter how many times I tell myself to focus on the road instead. It was only supposed to be one night. Two strangers borrowing a few hours where neither of us had to be anything except honest, with no promises to break when morning came.

I repeat it to myself as I merge onto the highway, waiting for one of those truths to feel convincing enough that I can stop thinking about him altogether. So why do I keep thinking about the way he nudged the basket of fries toward me before taking one for himself, like feeding me was the most natural thing in the world? Why do I remember the way he asked before every new touch, never assuming or taking, giving me room to say no even when I already knew my answer?

I tighten my hands around the steering wheel and force my attention back to the road stretching out in front of me. Whatever existed inside that house stays there and doesn’t get to follow me home. It stays in Houston. It has to.

By the time I pull into my apartment complex, I’ve almost convinced myself I believe it. Everything inside looks exactly the way I left it yesterday, except it felt temporary then. Half-packed boxes line the walls with careful labels written across the tops in black marker, waiting to be loaded into my car for the drive back to Charlotte. Yesterday, I walked out of this apartment believing I’d come back to finish packing. Instead, I’ve come back carrying a memory I have no idea what to do with.

I lock the door behind me, set my purse beside the growing stack of boxes waiting for Charlotte, and make my way to the bathroom. I fall into the familiar rhythm of my morning routine before my thoughts can wander back to last night. I pull a shower cap over my braids, slip off my glasses, peel out of yesterday’s clothes, and step beneath the stream of hot water, letting the heat chase away the stiffness that settled into my shoulders during the drive home.

When I shut off the water, the apartment is quiet again. I finish getting dressed, work moisturizer into my skin, and slide my glasses back into place before retrieving the small velvet pouch from my overnight bag. Carrying it into my bedroom, I settle onto the edge of the mattress, loosen the drawstring, and begin fastening the bracelets around my wrists one by one.

Dad started bringing them home whenever work took him out of town, each one tucked into his suitcase like proof he’d been thinking about me even while he was gone. Some came from airport gift shops, and one still has faded glitter stars because I insisted sparkles made everything luckier when I was ten. Not a single one has ever matched the next.

The last clasp clicks into place, and I smile before reaching back into the pouch for my earrings and the necklace. I fasten the clasp behind my neck, already thinking about the boxes waiting in the living room and everything I still need to finish before I can leave for Charlotte, then reach inside one last time for my ring.

My fingertips find nothing except the soft velvet lining of the pouch. Frowning, I tip it over and run my thumb along the inside before checking the bathroom counter where I’d gotten ready. My stomach tightens when I come up empty again, and I dump the contents of my purse across the comforter, but the small amethyst ring that has never left my hand for more than a few hours at a time is nowhere to be found.

“No,” I whisper, dropping to my knees to look under the bed, even though I know it couldn’t possibly be there.

My phone vibrates before I have the chance to stand again, the sound muffled beneath the mess I’ve made across the mattress, and I shove aside my wallet to reach it.

Dad Calling.

I answer on the second ring, my thumb sliding across the screen before I can think about it.

“Morning, Bug.”

His voice wraps around the nickname the same way it always has, carrying none of the urgency that’s been sitting like a stone in my chest since I opened the velvet pouch. I want to pretend everything is exactly as it was yesterday morning before I checked my MCAT score, before I walked into that bar, before I discovered the place on my finger where the familiar weight of my mother’s ring should be.

“Hey, Dad.”

My voice catches halfway through the greeting, and I close my eyes as if shutting out the room will somehow let me gather the pieces of myself before he notices.

“Callie?”

The teasing warmth disappears from his voice so quickly that my chest tightens. He’s spent too many years learning the difference between the daughter who says she’s fine because she is and the one who’s trying to convince both of us.

I force myself to take a breath before answering, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead as I stare at the mess spread across my comforter. The little velvet pouch sits in the middle of it all with its mouth gaping open as though mocking the empty space where my ring should be.

“Dad, I'm okay.”

The lie slips out on instinct, polished by years of practice, and I hate how quickly it comes. I don’t even pause to decide whether I should say it. I just do, because that’s what I’ve always done whenever life splinters beneath my feet. Smile and figure it out before anyone else has to carry the weight with me.

“You don’t sound okay.”

I open my mouth because I should answer him and come up with any excuse that will get us through this conversation until I can pull myself back together. But nothing comes. Instead, my throat tightens around every explanation before it can become a sentence, until all I can hear is my own breathing in the quiet apartment.

“Bug. What happened?”

Every answer I reach for slips through my fingers before I can hold on to it. I could tell him I tore my apartment apart looking for the ring, but what I can’t seem to put into words is why losing it feels like the last thread holding me together has finally snapped.

My grip tightens around the phone until my fingers ache, and I sink onto the edge of the mattress because my legs don’t trust themselves to keep holding me up. I stare at the space where my mother’s ring should be, willing it to appear as I open my mouth to answer him. I need to tell him something that sounds like the daughter who has always figured things out before anyone had to worry about her.

Instead, everything I meant to say disappears, and the only word that survives is the one I’ve been trying not to say since I answered the phone. “Dad…”

My voice catches before I can finish his name, willing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest before it turns into something I can’t control.