Page 39

Obviously I want my real life back. Desperately.

But this weird little break from reality? It could be worse.

I’m riding the high of victory as we pull up the driveway. My mini-golf scorecard is still clutched in my hand.

“I cannot believe you lost by four strokes,” I say, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “Four whole strokes, Drew. That’s an embarrassment.”

Drew shakes his head. “I have two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle. I physically cannot hit the ball softly. That’s just science.”

“Oh, so it’s the muscles’ fault?” I tease. “Poor big, strong Drew and his tragic overpowered arms.”

“You won with those little spaghetti noodles you call arms,” he fires back. “I’m genuinely concerned for your muscle tone.”

“I have muscle,” I protest, flexing my bicep. “I play tennis.”

He glances at my arm and shakes his head, lips twitching with amusement.

“Maybe if you spent less time lifting weights and more time working on finesse, you wouldn’t have launched three balls into the parking lot like a caveman.”

“God, you’re cute when you’re cocky,” he says, voice dropping a little. “Maybe we try wrestling next. Loser has to admit the other one is better at everything.”

I burst out laughing at the image of wrestling Drew, but the sound dies in my throat as we crest the driveway. My father’s car is already parked in front of the house.

My smile drops.

Dad’s never home this early.

I hop out and head straight for Dad’s office. The moment I walk in, he looks up from his desk and freezes. His gaze drops to my jeans and tank top, and his expression sours like he’s just bitten into something rotten.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, voice thick with disapproval. “What on earth are you wearing?”

I glance down at myself. “It’s…a disguise. So I can go out without being recognized.”

His lip curls. “If someone saw you looking like that—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. The horror in his voice says everything. “Imagine the photos.”

The small, happy bubble I’d been floating in all afternoon pops instantly.

I nod quietly, the spark of freedom I’d felt shrinking under his stare. “You’re home early,” I say, trying to change the subject.

Dad looks down at his desk, jaw tight. He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Carmen filed.”

It takes me a second to process the words. Mom filed for divorce.

“I’m…sorry,” I say softly. I don’t know if I should be though. Things were complicated between them. I have no idea how he feels about it all.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he replies in that detached, icy tone he uses when he’s anything but fine. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Right.

I’m dismissed.

I give him a tight smile and slip out of the office, heading upstairs. It takes all of ten minutes for the walls to start closing in again. The carefree feeling from the day evaporates completely.

God, I miss my old life. I miss my friends. I miss feeling like I actually belonged somewhere.

I pull out my phone and call Jasmine. Straight to voicemail. I try the rest of the girls, one after another. Same thing. Then, even though I know it’s pointless, I call Mom.