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I wish my parents had adopted a pet instead of having me, but I wouldn’t wish this treatment on any animal.
The kitchen is sterile and staged, like a real estate agent is prepared for potential buyers to swing by. Fresh flowers sit in a concrete vase at the center of the dark granite counter on the island. A stack of magazines sits beside it, one flipped to a recipe like I’m thinking about baking sugar cookies. Ridiculous.
The corners of my mouth turn down as I come to a stop before the refrigerator, staring inside once I open it.
It’s fully stocked, but nothing appeals to me. My jaw moves side to side. Two containers of leftovers sit on the middle shelf. No label or note, but if I’m the only resident, it’s not like the leftover food is there for anyone else.
Pinching the meat of my cheek between my teeth, I fish my phone from my sweatpants. I pull up my message with Dad and swallow at the one-sided conversation, his responses dotting the left side of the message thread far and few between. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don’t know why I torture myself begging for his attention.
He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t want him to give it to me, not like I used to.
My thumbs move anyway, like I’m possessed.
Devlin: I had Frank pick up my Range Rover from school today so he can look at it in his shop. He asked if you’re interested in a 1994 Ferrari F355 for our collection. I told him to hold it. We can look at it when you’re home.
It seems like a million years ago when Dad introduced me to cars. The memory is distant, foggy at the back of my mind, always out of grasp when I try to examine it with clarity.
Switching over to my message thread with Mom, the words come easier.
Devlin: My AP psych teacher assigned a research topic on identity. Do you have any books on how the brain handles influences of environment at home?
A burning sensation sits heavy in the center of my chest, licking against my ribcage. I rub at it as I set my phone on the island. I brace my weight on my hands and drop my head, hanging it above my silent phone.
The granite is cold.
Give up, my mind whispers.
Pushing out a humorless puff of laughter, I shove away to make something to eat.
There’s no response by the time I’m done making a protein smoothie for dinner. It’s not until I’m rinsing the blender in the sink that my screen lights up, hooking a deep part of me that I keep locked up inside. The part that harbors hope.
Scolding myself with an eye roll, I flick off the water and wipe my hands on a crisp folded dish towel, tossing it on the counter before grabbing my phone.
The text is from Mom. The hope that ballooned to the surface drifts back down. Her words are clipped and sterile, even for a text. Library shelf. Home office.
I don’t even warrant full sentences. My mouth settles into a severe line.
“Fuck this,” I mutter.
It’s too early to go sit on the roof and smoke cigarettes. My fing
ers scrub over my mouth. I could go for a run, but Bishop did work us hard in practice with dribbling drills. Pushing my legs to burn off the wild array of thoughts crowding my head will only bite me in the ass at tomorrow’s practice.
For as huge as the house is, the vaulted ceilings feel like they’re swallowing me up, the walls creeping in from all sides. I need to get out of here. A drive up to Peak Point sounds good.
I need to be beneath the stars as they blink into view. They always clear my mind.
After running upstairs to get my wallet, I head for the garage. Before I step through the door, a suspicious sound stops me dead in my tracks. One engine just started.
I grit my teeth against the rushing sensation of my heart pounding harder, my body on heightened alert.
Something is wrong.
My eyes narrow as I go through to the garage.
I keep close to the wall where I can peek around a partition that leads into the garage where Dad and I keep our car collection. My gaze flies back and forth, then widens when I spot the lit taillights on my Porsche.
Someone is sitting in the driver’s seat.
