Page 17 of Lethal in Pink

I nod and we both are grinning ear to ear as we sing in unison: “Girrrrrrrrl’s triiiiiip!!!”

Chapter six

Jae

Istand in the entryway with my carry-on zipped and my jacket half-on.

The duffel sits by the door, packed last night. Two checked bags already loaded into the car. My phone is on the side table, face-down. My passport is in my jacket pocket. My ticket is on my phone. The plan is set. The plan has been set for weeks. My mother checked my visa paperwork three times. My father reviewed the housing contract line by line. My sister stole my favorite protein bar from the pantry and ate it while making eye contact with me through the doorway, which I’m choosing to interpret as her own personal farewell ritual.

I zip my jacket. The sound is too loud in the quiet.

My mother appears from the hallway.

She's wearing a cream-colored sweater and dark pants, the kind of outfit that probably costs a lot but looks like she just threw it on. Her hair is pulled back into a simple knot, and she's not wearing any jewelry except her wedding ring.

I notice she's been fidgeting with that ring all morning, which means she's nervous. She does that when she's anxious or upset.

“You have your phone charger?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Your adapter?”

“Yes.”

“Your—”

“Mom.” I cut her off, but gently. “I’ve got it.”

She comes to a halt, her eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, her mouth contorts, the corners dipping down before quickly recovering, like her face is wrestling with its own emotions and her self-control is barely holding on. Then, in a swift motion, she bridges the gap between us and envelops me in a warm hug, her arms circling my waist.

“I still feel like this is a terrible idea,” she says into my shoulder.

A laugh escapes me, a sharp, choked sound that scrapes my throat on the way out. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Once or twice,” she says, still holding on.

“Seventeen times.”

She leans back, her hands still grasping my arms, and examines my face, smiling. “Then I have shown admirable restraint.”

Her eyes which are normally bright and energetic just look sad now.

I hate it.

Not because she looks sad. I’ve seen her sad before. Quietly, tastefully sad. The kind of sadness that gets tucked behind a closed office door and handled with an espresso and a twelve-hour workday.

This is different.

This is mother sad.

Deeply inconvenient. Extremely unfair. Borderline illegal.

My father enters the room. He is already dressed for work, even though it is barely morning. His presence exudes authority, the kind that makes every person in the room straighten their posture which is both astonishing and kind of annoying.

As I walk towards him, the sound of my shoes on the hardwood floor seems amplified, echoing through the space with a loudness that feels almost disproportionate.

My father stops in front of me.