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Walking back to the little cottage house, I shiver as the wind cuts through my shirt. Maybe I’m hoping to get sick. It feels like I have nothing left, so much so that a severe cold could wipe out what remains of whatever spark that keeps a person moving.
“Get in the car, Cameron. We need to talk.”
Travis’ informal greeting, when I got out of my car at my apartment Wednesday night after reluctantly coming back from Pete’s, still feels like the start of a bizarre nightmare. How long had he and Randy been sitting there, waiting for me? Were they hoping to see me show up with Pete?
I have so many questions that I should have asked at the time, but I was in too much shock to think straight. I thought maybe something had happened to Mom or Dad. It wasn’t them that had become a family tragedy. It was me. Dead on arrival.
“Dad’s not happy. We received a report about a relationship between you and a Pete Carver at Fairway Foods that would be highly damaging to the family,” Travis informed me after sliding into the backseat of Randy’s Charger with me.
It was all so confusing. All I could do was focus on the briefcase he opened like it was official business as he pulled out forms for me to sign. I don’t think I fully grasped what was happening until the car stopped, and I realized we were at the airport.
Sliding the patio door closed, I take in the foreignness of the furnishings. To a vacationer, the plush throw pillows and lush sitting chairs might look homey. I don’t think I’ve ever known what a home is.
My options for the evening are bleak. A stack of local carryout menus sits on the kitchen counter next to the credit card Randy left when he hand-delivered me to this well-decorated prison. It’s too reminiscent, though, of one exciting evening with Pete when we ate our first meal together. I’m in no mood to watch television or work on my tablet. Staring at my phone, plugged into its charger, I know I shouldn’t even look at it.
It’s my only lifeline, though. I’m afraid I prematurely signed my life away in the back seat of a car before Randy shuffled us onto a plane. Travis said I had to decide if I wanted to throw my family away.
“How long do I have to stay here?”
“That depends on you,” Randy said, dropping the bag he had pulled out of the back of his car at the airport. “As long as it takes, I imagine.”
“Can’t you talk to Dad for me? Please.”
I don’t think he’d looked at me the entire flight. He scoffed at my question, and when he leveled his gaze at me, it was the first time that I suspected his annoyance wasn’t with me.
“After all these years, you think anyone can talk to him? Count your blessings. You’re free.”
Free? How is this free? I don’t have Pete. What the hell did I sign? And why? There has to be another way. How can what Pete and I have be so threatening? No one even asked how we feel about each other.
I can’t even imagine what Pete must think. Travis said nothing would happen to him as long as I agreed not to contact him. That’s providing even less reassurance now as I stare at my phone, remembering his last voicemail, begging me to call him just to let him know that I’m okay.
My hands are shaking, and my stomach is threatening to produce more of the bile I’ve been belching up all day, but I snatch my phone from its cord. Can they monitor my phone activity? What would they do to Pete if I called him? Can’t they understand I at least need to talk to him about all of this?
Waking up my screen, I’m so paranoid, I walk to the bathroom and shut the door. There are no windows in the bathroom, even though I know I’m being stupid. My family isn’t secret agents, but yet, here I am, uprooted and on the other side of the country.
Missed calls—six. Pete. They’re all from Pete. A sob racks in my chest. I have to swipe at my eyes to see my text messages.
PETE: Sweet dreams.
PETE: If you meet me in the third-floor supply closet, I might have a muffin for you.
PETE: Don’t tell me you gave up muffins.
PETE: They must be keeping you busy down there today. Text me back when you get a chance.
Pete. Pete. Pete.
They’re all from him and lose their playfulness after that, spiraling into concern. I’m a horrible person. Why did I ever think I had anything to promise anyone?
Swiping at my nose, I’m glad he’s not here to see what a blubbering mess I am. When I get to the last of his texts, my heart skips a beat.
PETE: You have one hour to tell me where you are or I’m going to your parents’ house to find out.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Oh, fuck. No. Don’t.”
He wouldn’t, would he? I don’t even want to imagine what my father would do if Pete showed up at their door, demanding to know where I am. Visions of the police being called on him have my pulse racing out of control.
One hour, he said. Shit. I only have three minutes left.
