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“Yeah, I heard you,” says Finn with a snort. “Fine. It’s your mess to deal with.”
“Glad we agree,” I say, switching the coffee maker on. “Was there any other part of my life you felt compelled to dictate for me? Because otherwise I have things to do.”
“That’s it,” he says. “I just came by to tell you I’m moving out.”
“What?”
Finn’s lips flatline. “I won’t stay here and watch you make a fool of yourself, Callie. It’s time for me to go. You do what you want. You’re a grown woman, right? You don’t need me here for anything. You’ve got West and that kid to take care of you.”
Finn’s never so much as mentioned moving away before.
“You’re overreacting,” I say, striving for calm and already starting to panic.
“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll bring you my key once I’ve found a place.” Finn walks out the door.
26
Raleigh
Thursday mornings are dead dull on this street, which is why I waited until today to sneak back into my parents’ house. Most of my clothes are still here—Mom did my laundry, thank God. I wasn’t looking forward to hauling all of that back to West’s; and hey, there’s an outside chance that means she might speak to me again one day.
She didn’t throw you out. You left. It plays in my head like a mantra, because someday I’ll have to talk to her and Dad about that, and I’ll be damned if I make a victim of myself. I walked out of here of my own free choice, and feeling bad because I’m mad at my mom is no excuse for rewriting what happened to make her look even worse.
The anger was easier to get over. After the first week or so it kind of burned out, though the humiliation and the hurt lingered. That’s the worst part.
But I’m not here to hash out my feelings. I’m here for clothes. My second internship starts Monday, and if I don’t want to run the risk of bumping into my parents in their own home, I have to get my things this morning while I know they’re both at the Market.
My key still worked in the back door. That’s a good sign, too. I suppose. I made it halfway upstairs before it dawned on me that they could have changed the locks.
I sit down on my bed hard, bumping the frame against the wall loudly, swallowing hard against the rising emotion. Grief? I think it’s grief.
I’m not very familiar with grief, but I think this is it: sick, and hot, and an overwhelming sense of loss.
Staying with West has kept me busy, especially now that Callie’s over every night. They keep my mind off the bad stuff, but sitting here alone in the bedroom of my childhood, I’m overcome with memories and the acute sense of having lost something important. My eyes burn and I make for the closet, digging out an ancient, battered suitcase covered with stickers from summer camps and bands I’d long since forgotten, ignoring the lump in my throat as I shove as many clothes in as possible.
I’m not packing forever. This isn’t goodbye. For God’s sake, I’m not breaking up with my parents.
Only what if that’s exactly what this is? What if next time they’re home they don’t even let me in?
“Raleigh.” My mother’s standing in the doorway, one hand pressed to her heart.
I blink hard, hammering down all the stupid feelings, and rise off the floor, leaving the suitcase where it is.
“Mom,” I say. “I just came back for some clothes.”
She nods.
She’s already crying, reaching for me. I hug her hard, letting a few of my own tears fall while she can’t see me.
“My boy,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Some long moments later I take a deep breath and let her go, stepping back and smiling when she fishes a pack of tissues out of her pocket.
“Well, then.” She pulls herself together and huffs out a breath. “I suppose we need to talk.”
“I guess so.”
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Are you being safe?” Mom’s eyes double in size as soon as she realizes what she’s said. “I didn’t mean—Good God. I mean, are you staying somewhere safe? For Lord’s sake.”
