by T. L. Martin
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom,” I say numbly.
I lock the door before I dig through the cabinets, stuffing a toiletry bag with as many practical necessities as it can hold. Tampons, bodywash, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. Fuck it. I take the Chanel face cream too.
On my way back out, I still when a purple bottle of shampoo catches my eye. Shampoo I’ll never be able to afford on my own. I swallow, reach into the shower, and lift the bottle to my nose. Lavender, and the sound of his voice.
I love the way you smell.
An ache creeps past the ice encasing my chest, and I shut my eyes.
The last time I was sent away from home, I didn’t get to prepare. And yet, I’d swap all these bottled comforts for the chance to be unaware again. There’s a cold truth in the statement ignorance is bliss.
“Eva, it’s time.”
My hands shake as I put the shampoo into the bag and zip it up. I open the door, pass Bridget’s still form, and slip the toiletry bag into my suitcase.
“Your driver is parked out front.”
I turn to her. “It’s a seven-minute walk to school. I don’t need a driver.”
“That would be accurate if you were going to school. The airport, however, is forty miles from here, and I don’t have the time to take you myself, seeing as this was unplanned.” She eyes me up and down.
My stomach drops to the floor. “Wh-what? But school . . .”
Easton . . .
Bridget’s eyes narrow. “I know you well enough by now, Eva, and I know my son better. You are both stubborn. A quality I can admit will serve you well later in life, but that can easily turn reckless. In case you haven’t noticed, this family is hanging by a thread. One more event or rumor will snap it for good.”
My knees shake. My chest constricts.
I was so sure I’d get to see him again.
Bridget glances at her phone, and a long, red fingernail slides across the screen. “I would move if I were you. The only available flight options are immediate or twelve hours from now, and those airport chairs are painful when you have to wait for a new flight.”
Desperation stabs me, sharp and cold. “I can’t just leave. My schoolwork, my transcripts—”
“It will be taken care of.” Bridget’s thumb pauses on the screen, eyes lifting to mine. At my expression, she sighs, her gaze flicking to the door before it returns to me.
“Eva.” She sets her phone on my bed. “Darling, listen. I know this has been sprung on you so abruptly, but it’s for the best. My brother, Perry, is . . .” She runs a finger along her pearl necklace. “We’ve both come far considering where we started. He worked hard to make a name for himself in LA. He has the means to provide a very cushy life for you until the timing is right for you to return.”
Cynicism seeps into my lungs like smoke.
I know by now, no thread count is high enough to smooth the sharp edges that hide behind a cushy life.
“Until the timing is right?”
She places a hand on her hip. “Easton graduates this year. We can discuss . . . options once he leaves for university.”
A hot wave of frustration pushes against me, and for the first time, I don’t bother to train my expression. What’s the point in hiding my resentment now? I’ll never see this woman again. I’ll never see any of them again. Pain flares in my chest, but I try to ignore it.
“You’re angry,” Bridget says. “It’s understandable.”
“Maybe a Xanax and some brandy will make me feel better. It works for you, right?” It should feel good to be candid, but all it feels is too little too late.
Her eyes flash. “You may not believe me, but I know what it’s like to raise yourself. I came out stronger because of it, and so will you. Now, pull your shoulders back, gather your belongings, and leave, or you’ll only make things worse for yourself and Easton.”
I choke back the impulse to spew out another retort. I can take whatever she throws at me, but Easton doesn’t deserve any punishment she may have in store for him.
I grab my backpack from beside the nightstand, grip the suitcase handle, and pull it upright. Before I leave, I look over my shoulder. Bridget’s phone is already back in her hand, thumb flying across the screen. Guess it’s time-consuming to organize shipping one of your “children” away.
“Perry’s assistant will pick you up from the airport once you land,” she says without looking up. “She has your picture. She’ll text me once she’s acquired you.”
“Must be a relief. Wouldn’t want your cargo to get lost.”
“Also, I’m having her put a lock on your new bedroom door. Just a standard precaution.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Only someone who hasn’t met a monster would believe a lock is all it takes to keep them out.
Her thumb hovers over the screen, and she clears her throat before she looks up. “You have my number, Eva. Use it if you need me.”
That’s the most motherly offer she’s ever given me, and she’s wasting it on the wrong kid.
“I won’t need you,” I say, an ache throbbing in my chest. “But I’m not the only one who lives here.”
She arches her brows. “Excuse me?”
“You said it yourself, this family is falling apart.”
“I suppose you expect me to just snap my fingers and fix everything?”
“All anyone expects of you is to be a parent.”
She lowers her phone, fingers gripping it unsteadily. “As if you know what my son needs better than his own mother.”
Disdain seeps through my voice. “A mother shouldn’t need to be told to show her son that she loves him.”
Her lip trembles, and she bites down on it to conceal the unease. Just when I think her ice is finally about to thaw, she lifts her chin and looks away, nose in the air.
I roll my eyes. How very mature. Opening the door, my grip tightens around the suitcase handle, and I exit the bedroom I used to call mine.
“Eva, wait.” Bridget clears her throat as I look back at her. Her lips part, then close, and she fidgets with her pearls. “I’m not good with . . . with . . .”
“Affection? Emotion? Being human?”
Her gaze narrows. “I was going to say, being sentimental.” She glances away. “I won’t know what to say to him.”
“So don’t say anything.” My heart burns. “Just be with him.”
Because I can’t be.
Because he needs you.
With a swallow, I keep my eyes forward as I pass Easton’s room, and the walls close in on me with each step. It’s hard to breathe. By the time I finish dragging my suitcase to the bottom of the stairs, I’m suffocating.
“Jovencita . . .” Maria appears beside me. ¿A dónde vas? The alarm in her voice pricks me with guilt.
I tell myself she should be relieved I’m leaving. I’m one less person to take care of, and the messiest of them all. The pressure on my heart threatens to crush me. I don’t want to miss her. She’s not mine to miss. None of this is mine.
Keep moving.
I have to keep moving.
“Pequeña, no.” Her mop slips from her hands and lands with a clank on the floor. “Por favor, no.”
My cheeks are wet when I open the front door and yank the stupid suitcase over the threshold. A bald man in a black suit relieves me of my luggage and opens the back door of his Lincoln. I duck inside and slide across the leather seat. Tinted windows dim the sunlight, the ignition starts, and I allow myself one final glance back at the house.
Maria stands in the open doorway, tight lines near her eyes etched with worry.
The driver pulls away from the curb.
“Don’t worry, Maria,” I whisper, wiping my cheek. “There will be no more parties for me.”
It takes seconds for the home I played house in to fade from view. Funny how it takes so long to arrive where we are, but with only a blink, it can all disappear forever.
Exhaustion weighs on me as the distance str
etches. This is good. This is where I’m meant to be—far, so far away. Free to run. Free to hide. Fading away, deep in the quiet shadows. My eyelids grow heavy, and I release an uneven breath. Sleep would be welcome right now. A moment of pitch-black. A flicker of reprieve.
But I’m restless. With each spin of the tires, my heart pulses with something heavy, something nagging. Like I’m going the wrong way. Like I’ve left something behind.
A tear slips down my cheek.
You don’t have a home, I remind myself.
You can’t grieve something you never had.
But maybe home is a person, and maybe heartbreak doesn’t have rules. My head is dreaming of whiskey, my heart is famished, and I’m going the wrong way.
The car stops, and my eyes snap toward the window. Trees and park benches surround me. I look out the other window to see suburban houses lining the street. The driver puts the car in park.
“Excuse me?” I call.
He ignores me, unbuckles his seat belt, picks up his phone, and sends a text.
“Excuse me,” I say louder. “This isn’t the airport.”
“No, ma’am,” he mutters without looking back.
What the fuck?
He opens the door, steps out, and shuts it.
“Asshole.” Unbuckling my own seat belt, I reach toward my door handle when another suit-clad form appears right beside the car. The vehicle blocks both men from the shoulders up, but my eyes narrow as the blue suit hands the driver a wad of cash. My eyes home in on the movement, freezing the exchange of money like a snapshot.
Those hands.
Etched with deep lines.
Hairy knuckles.
Clean, filed nails.
My stomach rolls, and nausea climbs up my throat.
Don’t be stupid.
It can’t be him.
You can’t tell who a person is by their hands.
Right?
My brain screams, my lungs constrict, and my fingers shake. Hundreds of spiders crawl over my skin. Panic seizes me as I yank the handle, but the door doesn’t budge.
Locked.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn’t happening. Your box is broken. It’s all in your fucked-up, so very fucked-up, head.
The driver’s side door opens.
I try to swallow, but my throat doesn’t work.
Then the door shuts. I listen to the slide of fabric against leather. The click of a seat belt. The shift of the gear.
Finally, I force my eyes to open. My gaze catches on the reflection in the rearview mirror, and all I see is blue.
Ice. Cold. Blue.
“Hello, Evangeline. It’s been too long.”
Easton
The glass of orange juice is still on the island when I get home.
My pulse blares in my ears.
I take the stairs two at a time toward Eva’s room, and the silence that stretches down the hall grips me with uncertainty. Reaching her open door, I walk inside. I don’t need to see that every piece of Eva is gone to know the room feels different, abandoned.
I’m too late.
My heart fucking hammers in my chest. Even when we never spoke, Eva was still there. She watched me before she caught onto me watching her. She listened before she knew I played for her. She was mine before I showed her she was mine. She consumed me before I even touched her. Her presence was enough, and now, her absence eats away at me like cancer.
I have to find her. My phone buzzes as I pace toward my parents’ room, and I fish it from my pocket.
Whitney: Is she okay?
Letting out a rough sigh, I reply: She’s not here. Headed to the airport with a one-way ticket to Cali.
Whitney: Wait. Really? Three dots show up, and she adds: Why? Not because of me, right?
Me: No. I swallow, typing: Because of me.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I open my parents’ door. Fucking empty. I move downstairs, but each vacant room I enter drills a hole into the pit of my stomach. I find Maria in the laundry room folding towels, and I knock on the open door.
When she peers back at me, the lines in her face are deeper, like she aged five years since I left this morning.
“Eva?” I ask.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Pobre chico. A driver took her with her bag.”
“Shit.” I groan and rake both hands through my hair. There are two airports near here, and Eva could be headed to either one. “Do you know where my mom is?”
“Back kitchen. Pero apurate. She is not herself.”
I nod in thanks and take off across the living room. For someone who claims to hate deception, my mom sure knows how to fucking deceive. Potted plants blur by as I stride down the narrow hall and open the door. The second I spot my mom, turmoil unfolds in my chest.
She’s leaning against the wall, a wine glass hanging loosely in her hand, and the empty wine bottle on its side at her feet. Dark hair spills haphazardly from her messy bun as she stares down at a book propped open on the stack of boxes in front of her.
“Hello, darling,” she says calmly and flips a page. “Aren’t you pleased to find me home? Apparently, friends cancelling plans with friends is trending.”
“Where is she? Which airport?” I growl.
“Eva is currently sitting comfortably in the back seat of a luxury vehicle with a reputable driver. I told you, she’s fine,” my mom mutters without looking up. “I meant it.”
Fine? She’s not fine unless she’s here. With me. “If you’re so certain, let me make sure.”
“Come here.”
“What?”
She arches an eyebrow and glances up at me. “For heaven’s sake, don’t look so serious. I said, come here.”
Distrust laces every step I take toward her. It’s not until I’m in front of her that I realize she’s not reading a book. She’s flipping through an old photo album.
She picks up her iPhone and scrolls through her contacts. “Here,” she says, handing it to me.
My gaze narrows on the phone, but I take it.
“I still have Eva’s cell, but that’s the number to the driver. Go ahead, call him.” She takes a long swig of brandy. “Once you feel sufficiently reassured, I suggest you return to school. You don’t graduate by skipping classes.”
I hit the number and put the phone on speaker. My pulse ticks fast. I should feel a semblance of relief at the sound of ringing, at being half a step closer to making sure she’s okay, but the unease gripping my shoulders only tightens. If Paul would fucking drug her at a school swarming with people, I can’t put anything past him. I won’t relax until I hear her voice.
On the fourth ring, a gruff voice answers. “Bill O’Keefe.”
I release a long exhale. “Yeah, hi. I was hoping to speak with your passenger. This is her . . . brother.” I rein in my disgust at my use of brother before my mom can catch my expression.
“Is Mrs. Rutherford present?”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak with her, please.”
I glance at my mom, who sighs.
“This is she.” Instead of speaking louder, she raises her pitch an entire octave higher than usual. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Rutherford, I was about to contact you. Unfortunately, there’s been a problem.”
Halfway to bringing the wine glass to her lips, her hand freezes. “Excuse me?”
My jaw clenches, and I grip the phone tighter.
“Ms. Rutherford is no longer with me. She took off when I stopped at a gas station. I expect she had other plans, seeing as she took her suitcase with her. I’m sorry to relay this, ma’am, and, of course, I won’t accept payment for an incomplete job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’ll be paid. This is my oversight. I should have expected she might run away.” My mom sighs and presses her fingers to her temples. She mutters something else, but I’m not listening.
All I can hear are the same words on repeat.
Ms. Rutherford is no lo
nger with me.
By the time my mom hangs up the phone, anger and anxiety run rampant.
“Well,” my mom says, picking up her glass, “there you have it. The girl is a runaway. I suppose she’ll return when she realizes how good she had it. Hopefully, before anyone we know spots her.”
“That’s it? What if she’s hurt? What if she’s in trouble?”
“What would you have me do, Easton? Call the police?”
I don’t mention the fact I already called them on my way here, or that I plan to call them again to tell them she’s now missing. If my mom knew I involved the police, she would only think of one thing: her reputation.
“Do you honestly think they’ll take this seriously? She came from the streets, and she’s almost an adult now. She took her suitcase with her, Easton. This is certainly not her first rodeo. She knew exactly what she was getting into when she decided to act like a delinquent.” She finishes the rest of her glass and mutters, “After everything I’ve done for her.”
“Everything you’ve done? You’ve treated her like she’s nothing since the first day you saw her.” I shake my head in disbelief and toss her phone onto the photo album. “You know what? I don’t have time for this.”
Turning around, I head toward the exit.
“Where do you think you’re going? I swear, Easton, if your answer isn’t school, we’re going to have an entirely different conversation when you get ba—”
I slam the door behind me.
Maria, balancing a tower of folded towels in one arm, pauses by the stairwell when she sees me heading to the front door.
“Easton.”
I look over my shoulder.
“Por favor.” Concern crosses Maria’s eyes, and she says softly, “Vete con cuidado.”
Be careful. Something Maria rarely tells me, but she’s said it enough I’ve remembered what it means. She’s worried. That makes two of us. After a moment, I nod and yank open the door.
I can’t think straight as I pace to my car, slide inside, and call the police station back. It wouldn’t surprise me if Eva did run away. I’d understand the inclination, even as pain flares in my chest at the thought of her willingly leaving. But none of that matters right now. Until I know she’s safe, nothing else matters. Five minutes later, I hang up and throw my phone onto the passenger seat. Twenty-four fucking hours before they can file a missing persons report. An hour before an officer shows up to get more details in person. Anything can happen in an hour.