My chest begins to ache in that old familiar way, a weight that whispers hateful feelings without actually forming the words.
Useless.
Worthless.
Stupid.
Fat.
I blink hard, forcing my lungs to work again. I pull in a shallow breath through my nose, paste a smile on my face, and look up—pretending everything’s fine.
“You hungry?” Alex asks, hooking a thumb toward the kitchen.
“No.” I say, still trying to shove down the horrific thoughts curling through me. “I think…” I swallow hard, “I think I just want to call my mom. If that’s okay.”
“Of course.” Dakota speaks up first, his voice gentle. He fishes his phone from his hoodie pocket, unlocks it, and holds it out to me, the screen glowing softly in his palm. “Here. Use mine.”
My gaze flickers between him and the phone. “I thought you were going for a run,” I say.
“Changed my mind.” His smile falters—just a flicker—but he presses the phone into my hand. “Go on, sweetheart.”
“Thanks.” I take it carefully, the warmth of his hand still clinging to the metal edges.
He hesitates for a moment, looking deeply into my eyes, then he glances at Alex. “Hey, what do you say we head out to the garage, check that water heater?”
Alex blinks, frowning. “Why? It’s not even making that noise anymore.”
Dakota gives him a pointed look, but Alex doesn’t get it. “I’d really like for you to help me with it,” he says slowly.
Hell, even I can tell he’s just trying to give me some privacy.
Alex opens his mouth to protest, but Dakota doesn’t give him a chance. “Come on,” the beta sighs, grabbing Alex’s wrist and tugging him toward the front door.
Alex stomps after him, still confused. “This can’t wait ten fucking minutes for me to eat?”
The door swings shut behind them, and the house goes still.
I pace the living room with the phone in my hand. My thumb hovers over the screen. The bright reflection of my own face stares back at me, pale and uncertain. Then I take a deep breath and press “Call.”
The phone rings and rings.
Each tone stretches longer than the last. It’s weird. My dad always answers the phone pretty quickly. He’s usually on it, playing some ridiculous game.
By the fourth ring, I already know no one’s going to answer. The sound cuts off with a soft click, followed by my mother’s calm, distant voice drifting through the speaker:
“You’ve reached Phillip Mercer. Please leave me a message…”
I hang up before the beep, then I call my other dad’s cell. But his phone doesn't even ring, it immediately kicks to voicemail.
A sharp twist of sadness grips my stomach. I press the phone tight against my chest, swallowing hard against the burn in my throat. For a second, I almost give in to thechildish urge to cry—I just want to talk to my mom—but then the screen buzzes in my hand.
My heart jumps.
The words flash across the screen:
Phil – Skyla’s Dad
My pulse trips over itself as I swipe to answer, hand trembling slightly.
