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I swipe the number.
“One second, Griffin,” Mom answers, and she tells whoever she’s with that she needs a minute. “Sorry. There you go. How are you doing?”
“I have to tell you something, and you’re going to be really upset,” I say.
“What’s going on . . . Griffin, please tell me that you’re not in California,” Mom says. Her voice is calmer than I expected. But there’s also an edge that’s totally unfamiliar.
“I’m in California,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to be out of there, and I’ll do whatever you want when I get back, therapy and whatever else, but
I—”
“You are coming home today!”
There she is, the mom I know; the mom you knew, too.
“Do not leave that airport,” she goes on. “Stay there—”
“I’m coming home on Wednesday morning,” I interrupt. “I’ll give you all the flight details.”
“That’s not happening. I’m flying out there and—”
“Fine. Fly out here. But I’m still not leaving until Wednesday. Tomorrow Jackson and I are celebrating Theo’s life,” I say. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ll send you Jackson’s mom’s phone number along with my flight info. You can call her.”
Jackson texts me his mom’s number.
“How will I know I’m talking to Jackson’s mom?” she cries. “It could be some woman on the streets you paid twenty dollars. How can I possibly trust you anymore? Have you called your father yet? Wait. He didn’t know, did he?”
“No, I called you first.”
“You lied to us.” She sounds so disappointed. “You tricked us.”
“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, but I had to—”
“I’m at work right now,” she interrupts. “Send me Jackson’s mom’s number and pick up when I call you.” Finally her voice softens. “Are you okay? How was the flight?”
“I’m okay. I didn’t freak out. Jackson took care of me.”
Mom breathes into the phone. “Pick up when I call you next.”
“Okay. I love you, Mom.”
There’s an excruciating pause. “I love you, too.” She hangs up.
“Yikes.” I avoid Jackson’s eyes as I send in a flurry all of the relevant information to both my parents. My dad texts me a minute later, asking for both of Jackson’s parents’ addresses, which Jackson types out for him.
Jackson hands me back my phone. He offers a tentative grin. “Well, how are you liking California?”
I laugh. “Not the best twenty minutes of my life, but not the worst, either,” I say.
“Let’s improve that. What do you want to do today?”
I look out the window and hope I don’t get sent home. Jackson’s parents could tip the scale in that direction. “I don’t know. Your call.”
When I imagined myself moving to California, I always thought the first thing you and I would do together would be hitting up the beach. It’s an obvious thing to do, but it’s such a one-eighty from what we’re used to back in New York. But that was in an alternate universe. I don’t have any direction of my own out here in this one.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi drops us off on a street corner. The air feels different, buoyant, like I can float on a breeze that smells like ocean and seaweed. I adjust my backpack on my shoulder. I missed the sun, but I’m already wishing I had sunglasses. Instead I shield my eyes with your bunched up hoodie.
Jackson pays the cab driver and points down the block at a light orange one-story house between two sand-colored houses. Considering it’s the only house with a ramp and railings leading to the front door, it’s what I would’ve guessed it was. The house looks worn and a little battered, like it’s weathered a fierce storm, but I love it. I can sense history pulsating from it.
