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She turns away from her phone to utter the briefest, “Hey, Em.”
Sometimes I miss the little girl who would come running to greet me at the door, throw her skinny arms around my legs, and plead for hugs.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Meh.” She shrugs. “I heated up some of the leftover pizza for you.” She points toward the kitchen without looking away from her phone.
My stomach rumbles. “Thanks.” My sister may not be excited to see me but at least she won’t let me starve.
I set my purse on the entry table and take out my phone, sliding it into my pocket. “Did you eat?”
“Yup.”
I open my mouth to ask what’s so interesting on her phone that she can’t hold a conversation. Nah, that sounds too much like the kind of nagging a mom might do.
Sighing, I head for the kitchen, stopping to ruffle my hand over the top of her head on my way. She grunts and slaps at me in protest.
In the kitchen, two cheese slices about thirty seconds from being reheated into charred cardboard wait for me in the toaster oven. I grab a paper plate off the counter and tug one of the slices out, burning the tips of my fingers in the process.
“Ow! Damn.” I grab a knife and poke it into the other slice and drag it out slowly, plopping it onto my plate.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I set the plate on the table and grab a can of lemon seltzer out of the fridge, popping it as I sit down. I pull out my phone and flick the screen on.
Dex: Get home safe?
I smile wide. How’d he know this is almost exactly when I usually get home?
Me: Yup. Sitting down for leftover pizza now.
Dex: Miss you.
My thumb hovers over the phone. I’m so close to tapping out an invitation. But won’t that seem sort of desperate and clingy? Too easy?
Me: Miss you too. What are you up to tonight?
There. That’s honest. But not too needy.
Dex: A minor bit of mayhem.
Huh.I don’t know what to make of that.
I bite into one slice, searing the roof of my mouth. Dammit. How long does a slice of pizza need to cool off?
Knowing I’ll just burn my mouth again if I stay put, I stand and wander to the corner of the counter where we usually stack the mail. I sort through the junk—why do companies still waste money sending paper when everyone just looks things up online now? Stuff we don’t need, I tear into shreds and toss in the trash. Bills I set aside to take care of later.
I stop my mad tearing spree at a plain white envelope addressed to me by hand.
Ashport Correctional Facility.
Tremors run down my arms, rattling the envelope. No fucking way.Why?He’s not supposed to send us anything.
Fury replaces my fear and I rip open the envelope. I yank out the grimy piece of notebook paper, staring at the neatly printed block letters.
Dear Emily,
This letter is long overdue. At first, I hesitated to write it because I do not want you to think I am asking for anything. Not your pity or forgiveness. It has been years and I do not want to reopen old wounds. I recognize that saying sorry will not bring your parents back or change what I did.
