Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
I sob quietly into my pillow until sleep finally finds me.
26
EASTON
By Friday morning, one thing is obvious: I’m going out of my skull. I feel like a caged animal. Pacing around, unable to get very far. Trapped. And every day it gets a little worse. Every morning, I wake up without hearing from Emma.
“What’s up with you two?” Sarah looks up from the bowl she’s putting together for breakfast as we enter the kitchen, slicing up fruit and arranging it on top of yogurt.
“What are you talking about?” I grab a strawberry before she can stop me, popping it in my mouth while she groans and rolls her eyes.
“I was going to use that,” she mutters before going to the fridge. “I need a certain number to make it look the way I want it to.”
“Oh, what, are you going to take pictures and put them online? Like anybody cares about your breakfast?” Preston grabs a few blueberries and ducks the arm she swings in his direction.
“Just pretend I never said a word to you.” She’s shaking her head when she goes back to slicing a banana so carefully, I’m surprised she doesn’t pull out a ruler to make sure each slice is the same thickness. “If you both want to walk around in a crappy mood and act all pissy and grumpy, whatever.”
Is that how we’re acting? Am I even surprised? It hasn’t been easy getting through the week without Emma, as crazy as it seems. She’s been logging in from home, the way we told her to, which is good for her, even if it sucks for us.
But that would be fine if she would answer the texts we’ve been sending. When she makes up her mind to disconnect from the world, she stays that way.
So yeah, maybe we’re a little on edge, wondering about Emma, wrestling with the frustration of missing her. Hoping there’s no deeper reason for her silence.
I’m driving today, and it just so happens everybody on the road decides to drive like complete dickheads. “What is your problem?” I shout with my palm slammed against the horn. “Nice turn signal, asshole!”
“You’re going to get our asses killed if you don’t stop yelling at people.” Preston runs a hand down his face, then lets it drop into his lap. “I kind of like not getting shot by some random psycho on the road.”
The way I’m feeling, I’m the psycho on the road. I’m the one people need to be worried about pissing off. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering going to school today,” I mutter.
“You know me. School isn’t my favorite place. But we do have to go sometimes,” he reminds me. It’s a weak joke, half-hearted.
“I can’t concentrate. What’s the point?”
“Then maybe I should be the one driving if you can’t concentrate.”
“Would you fucking give it up already?” I snap, which shuts his mouth. “Don’t act like you’re not feeling it, too. I know you are.”
He doesn’t bother arguing with me, since what’s the point? We both know I’m right. “So what are we going to do about it?” he asks instead.
The answer is obvious. “Fuck, giving her space. I want to go to the house to see with my own eyes that she’s okay.”
“Same here. But I also have an exam today in American Lit, so it’s going to have to wait.”
Fuck. I’m going to flat-out explode before then. “Then I guess it will have to wait until later.” And I’ll have to find a way to get through until then. I got through it all week, didn’t I? I’m still alive. I’m just not very happy about it.
I’m only happy when we’re on our way later in the day. “Everybody knows something is up,” Preston tells me once we’re pulling out of the lot.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t notice the way they were all looking at each other during lunch?” When I can only shrug, he snickers. “It’s probably better you didn’t notice, I guess. We weren’t really participating in the conversation or anything.”
“Oh, you mean I wasn’t hanging on Maya’s every word or giving my opinion of how Elliana should decorate whatever room she’s still decorating at the house?” It feels like we’re too young to care about shit like that, anyway. “Sorry if I couldn’t pretend to be interested today.”
It’s not right, how much Emma means to us. I know it. I feel it. I care too much. It’s like all of my thoughts center on her. How she is, what she’s doing, if there’s anything she needs that I’m able to give.
The problem is, I don’t know if she wants anything from me. It’s like torture. All I want is to make her life better somehow, and she can’t be bothered to answer a text.
Or maybe she just can’t do it. Maybe there’s another reason. The thought leaves me with my heart in my throat by the time we pull up at the familiar curb, and now I have to stop myself from jogging up the pathway to the porch. What if she hasn’t been ignoring us? What if she’s been too sick?