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Relief floods through me. “So you got it then?”
“Put it in the bank on Monday. Couldn’t have come at a better time. I wasn’t sure how we were going to buy groceries this week.”
Guilt cuts like a knife. Here, in the mess hall, I have more food than I know what to do with most of the time. I feel bad that I can’t send some back to them.
“Good. So you bought some groceries and stuff? Was there much left over? Any for the car?”
“Well, there would have been had there not been a stack of overdue bills. I figured I better pay the electric and water company before they shut off service. Then there was health insurance, and McKenna’s doctor has her on a new prescription—”
“I told you I didn’t need it! My old inhaler worked fine,” McKenna protests, never one to be a burden.
“No, Mom, that’s fine. Really.” I don’t let on how disappointed I am that we’re no closer to getting the car out of the shop. “Her medicine is more important. I’ll get another paycheck in two weeks and another after that.”
“Are you liking it out there? Listen, I know it’s good money, but I don’t want you doing anything that makes you unhappy. From what Jeremy was telling us, it sounds like they’ve got you stuck out in the middle of nowhere. No hot water even!?”
I laugh. “Mom, it’s really not bad, I swear.”
She doesn’t reply.
“I mean it!” I insist. “It’s actually kind of nice.”
Still no answer. I pull the phone away from my face and realize with a roll of my eyes that the call dropped.
Of course. Even with his signal booster, Ethan’s phone isn’t completely immune to the crappy cell reception out here.
Suddenly the phone rings in my hand and I answer it immediately, bringing it to my ear.
“Mom, sorry. The call dropped.”
“Oh, hi!”
The voice that replies is much softer and more youthful than my mother’s.
My eyes widen as I look down at the phone and realize I accidentally answered a call from Isla. ISLA.
Oh god. My finger hovers over the red END button but she speaks up again, nearly shouting.
“Please don’t hang up on me! Hello?!”
I pause, completely paralyzed with indecision. I feel bad. I don’t want to hang up on her, so I quickly explain, “Hi, sorry. This isn’t Ethan, obviously. I’m just using his phone for a second.”
She laughs and it’s playful, not enraged. Odd considering if a strange woman answered my boyfriend’s phone, my first reaction would not be light giggles.
“I know you’re not Ethan. It might come as a surprise, but you sound nothing like him. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.” I nearly smile as she continues. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him all week. God, he’s bad at answering his phone lately. Anyway, who are you?”
“Ethan’s assistant.”
“Of course! The pretty one!”
I frown, confused.
She hurries to continue, “Ethan hasn’t told me what you look like or anything. Don’t freak out. I just assumed you were pretty because of your voice. Are you? Pretty?”
I look down at my oversized t-shirt. “Uh…”
“And humble too! Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.”
I stay perfectly silent, trying to figure out who this person could possibly be. I scratch out jealous lover.
“Are you two friends?” she continues.
“No!” I rush out. “No. Not really. In fact, I feel like he can hardly stand me most of the time, to tell you the truth.” Whoever you are.
“And yet you’re answering his phone. How…intimate.”
I worry I might have been wrong. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.
“I swear it’s not like that. You don’t need to be upset with him over this.”
“Upset?”
“Yes, because…well—”
“Oh! Oh, no no. You have the wrong idea. Totally wrong idea. I’m Ethan’s sister—twin sister, in fact.”
I’m floored by this information. Ethan has family! A sister! In a mere moment, my brain generates a million and one questions. I want to know every detail of his childhood. Who wronged him? Who flushed his head in a toilet or stuffed him into a locker in middle school? Who made him into the callous man he is today?
I’d get around to asking these questions if Ethan didn’t walk out of the bathroom in that moment wearing only a pair of workout shorts and towel-drying his hair with a rough hand.
“Give me my phone,” he says brusquely.
I swear the man takes the world’s fastest showers. He can’t stand the idea of me using his phone. He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me. No, that’s inaccurate—with those toned arms and muscular shoulders, he could toss me halfway to Africa. Better to just say he doesn’t trust me.
“Now,” he bites out, stepping closer.
“Is that him?!” his sister asks, gleeful. “Oh good, put him on!”
“Okay, Mom,” I deadpan. “Good talking to you too. I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye!”
