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“What?”
“Sometimes parents are wrong.”
The words hit him hard again, and Hunter flinched.
“Come on,” said Michael. He clapped Hunter on the shoulder. “Let’s go get your stuff.”
“I don’t want—”
“Come on,” Michael said. “Let her be wrong for once. It’ll be good for you both.”
CHAPTER 13
No one was home.
Or at least, neither his mother’s nor his grandparents’ cars were in the driveway.
“Well, this is anticlimactic,” said Hunter. He hadn’t even killed the engine in the jeep.
Michael glanced over. “You have a key?”
“Sure.”
But he didn’t want to go inside. This felt like a free pass, and he was tempted to peel out of here, spraying gravel behind him.
“If your stuff is packed up,” said Michael, “we can just grab it and go, right?”
Point.
The house felt the same as he remembered, some lingering scent from his grandmother’s chili—which she made every weekend—combined with the faint whiff of the potpourri sitting out in the living room. Cool and quiet and still.
Nothing was in the front hallway, but maybe she’d left his stuff downstairs.
Or maybe she hadn’t packed it up at all.
Hunter couldn’t decide which option he was hoping for.
He felt jittery now, not knowing where everyone was or when they’d be home. He was just standing there between the dining room and the living room, keys jingling nervously in his hand.
“So . . . ,” started Michael. “Upstairs?”
“No. Down. Follow me.”
The basement was ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, something he’d never really noticed until today. He hit the switches to light up the space.
She’d packed. Two plastic storage boxes plus a duffel bag were laid out on his bed.
His old bed. His quilt was gone, either packed away or folded in one of these boxes. His Xbox and alarm clock were gone. His books, his old school notebooks—everything. The room looked like it was waiting for the next tenant.
He snapped the lid off one of the boxes. Mostly electronics and notebooks, though two framed pictures lay right on top.
Michael picked up one. “Your dad and uncle?”
For some reason, Hunter wanted to snatch it away from him.
“Yeah.” He held out a hand. “Don’t say I look exactly like my dad. I get that all the time.”
Michael glanced up. He handed back the frame. “Hunter, there is nothing about you that would make me say you look exactly like this guy.”
