Page 22

“Me too, send the flight info and I’ll see you then.”

The line clicks dead before I can even say goodbye. Must have been a connection error.

I lower the phone into my lap, letting the glow fade out until I’m staring at my own reflection in the black screen—wide eyes, tight mouth, the ghost of hope lingering around the edges of my expression like it isn’t sure it should be there.

A real reason. She needs a real reason to stay longer than just one night. Thanksgiving isn’t enough. I, alone, am not enough. Wanting her there—wanting her to just be home—isn’t enough.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. If I want her to stay past the bare minimum, then I have to give her something worth staying for. Something shiny, something exciting, something that proves I’ve changed or grown or become something she can be proud of.

I’ll have a date for the Winter Formal. A guy on my arm, that’s got to be at least a little exciting, right? Something that says, Look, Mom. I’m not the same kid you walked away from in January. I’m someone worth showing up for.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, settling like a weight I didn’t know I’d already been carrying for miles and miles.

A date to the formal won’t be enough either. This has to be some kind of monumental shift to really get her to stick around.

I cap the whiskey bottle and shove it back under the seat, wiping my nose on my sleeve. When I climb back to the front, I’m trying—trying so hard—to believe that this is doable. That I can find something, some ridiculous big something, that says this is worth it. That I can give her the reason she needs.

Riley’s probably wondering where I am. I should go home and think about it all there. Make a list of all the options and pick the most exciting, eye-catching one.

But when I turn the key in the ignition, the car coughs once. Twice.

She sputters and then, click. I take my key out and jiggle it back into the ignition. It’s a little sticky sometimes, that’s all. One more push, I turn the key and…

Click.

I try over and over again, and my stupid, junky $500 car is clicking like a cricket caught in a jar.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper, trying again. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Another click. Then nothing.

It’s almost funny. Almost. If it were anyone else, in any other car, I would be laughing. Fact of the matter is, it’s me, so it’s decidedly not funny.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel. “Really? Right now?”

After a minute of pretending maybe the universe will feel bad for me and magically fix the engine, I pull out my phone and text Knox.

Me: hey are you awake??

Knox: it’s only 9 and i’m not in my 80s

Me: your music taste says otherwise

Knox: what’s going on?

Me: this car won’t start. i’m at the usual spot.

He calls immediately. Knox has never been much of a texter; he says it’s pointless. Prefers to “hear it directly from the horse’s mouth.” I try to tell him horses don’t talk, but he never listens.

“What’d it do?” he asks, already sounding like he’s halfway to his boots.

No Hi, hello, how are you? Always right to it.

“It…clicked?” I say, which I know is not very mechanic of me. I try to make the noise and end up sounding like a broken pen, which to be fair, is not that far off the original sound.

“Clicked how?”

“Like…angrily? Like I owe her money.”