But I care so little all of a sudden. I wonder how that happened.
She nods, her blue eyes smiling at me as she brushes a fly-away off my cheek. “You’re too busy. You leave for college soon. I want to see you.”
I kiss her on the cheek and grab an apple out of the bowl on the center island. “I’ll be home later.”
“Well, where are you going now?”
“To see a friend,” I tell her, turning and walking for the foyer. “I’ll be back.”
“Ryen?” my mom protests.
“Oh, just let her go,” my sister grumbles, standing up and carrying her plate to the sink. “Ryen is so busy and important now. We should be grateful when she graces us with her presence.”
I grab my wallet and keys off the entryway table, clenching my jaw. I don’t remember the last time my sister said anything nice to me. Or me to her, for that matter.
“Carson,” my mom warns.
“What?” my sister says. “I’m happy for her. At least it’s not grade school when she had no friends, and I had to take her everywhere with me so she wouldn’t be alone.”
I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth, not looking at her. She always knows what to say to make me feel small again. The smile I can usually force for my mother’s sake is pressed down deep in my stomach, contained under a pile of bricks, and the agreeable words I can always spit out don’t want to play this time. I’m tired.
I walk out the front door and hop in my Jeep before she says anything else. I don’t care if it’s just his town, just his house, or whatever. I need to see something that’s Misha.
I drive down the quiet, pristine lanes of Thunder Bay, the wind blowing through the open cab of my Jeep as loose strands of my hair fly wildly around me. The sun flickers through the leaves in the trees above, and the sea air wafts all around, filling my lungs with its fresh scent.
Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” plays on the radio, but I don’t sing along like I usually do. And I barely notice the slight wheezing coming up from my chest as I gape at the homes and lawns on both sides of me.
Holy shit. I’m way out of my league.
Two and three-story homes with gates and acres and circular driveways bigger than my house stand before me, and the cars that pass by probably cost just as much.
Jesus, Misha.
Not that my house is shabby, of course. It’s more than big enough, and my mother has done a beautiful job decorating it, but these houses are the high-life. For once, I’m really glad I’m driving a Jeep so I can blend in. It’s the only car on the market that doesn’t give away how much or how little you’re worth. There are rich and poor Jeep enthusiasts.
I continue driving, glancing at the map on my GPS and taking a right on Birch and then a left on Girard.
248 Girard. I’ve known his address by heart since I was eleven. At first I thought, with us being only a half hour away from each other, of course we’d see each other eventually. When we got our licenses and had more freedom.
But by the time that day came, we had lives, friends, and obligations, and it seemed to be enough to know we could see each other anytime we wanted to.
If we wanted to.
I pass the houses and read the numbers written on the columns, walls, and gates at their entrances. 212, 224, 236, and then…
I see it. On the left with a hedge of trees and two small rock columns featuring a walk-through gate and a drive-through gate, which is currently open. It’s a three-story, Tudor-style house, balancing the wood and rock beautifully, and I pull to a stop on the other side of the road to stare at it for a minute.
It’s quaint and picturesque but not as massive or pretentious as so many of the homes I saw on the way here.
But it does have a fountain in the front.
He grew up here. This is where my letters have been coming.
No wonder he complains so much, I laugh to myself. It’s a great house, but it isn’t him at all. Misha, who got suspended for fighting twice, plays the guitar, and thinks that beef jerky and Monster energy drinks make for a healthy breakfast lives in a house that looks like it could have a butler.
I feel my lungs growing heavy and thick, and I take out the extra inhaler I keep in a secret compartment in the console. Spring is here, and my allergies are going haywire.
I take two puffs, slowly feeling my lungs start to open up again.
I check my phone, seeing the time is nearly ten. I can’t sit here all day, can I? I look up, noticing a couple of women jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and I hear a kid yelling from somewhere in the neighborhood. I tap my foot against the pedal, suddenly torn.
I said I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but... Being this close, possibly only feet away from him, I miss him so much. I need to know what’s going on.
If I go up to that door, our relationship is over as I know it. Maybe it will go on in some other way, when I find out what’s wrong with him, but it won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted him down, and now he feels weird?
“Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.
I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going on.