I am convinced my mom is the best cook in the world. That may be a biased opinion, of course, but that is a hill I am willing to die on. This morning she made ham steak, eggs over easy, and biscuits with gravy, one of my favorite meals. Usually I’d ask what the occasion is, or if she has some ulterior motive since she doesn’t always make my favorites, but I’m more focused on not scratching the inside of my wrist where my new tattoo is. It’s been itching like crazy, which both Harley and the artist told me was normal, but I’m not allowed to scratch it. Not directly, anyway.

“Either scratch around it or slap it,” Harley said. 

I balked. “Why would I slap it?”

He grinned and rolled his eyes. “You don’t slap it hard, Mothgirl, just enough to make it stop itching. Watch.” He took my hand in his and turned it so the inside of my wrist was facing him. He started gently slapping at the tattoo, an arrow with a compass in the middle of it, pointing up. He has the exact same one on the inside of his left arm near his elbow. He was right, it did stop itching.

Now, at breakfast, I’m so focused on not scratching or slapping at my tattoo, I barely register the conversation my parents are having. Something to do with my dad’s job, I think. I don’t really care. Not only am I too concerned with my new tattoo, but also my phone in my lap, and the dozen or so unanswered messages to Harley.

I’m picking at my food, scrolling through the string, wondering if maybe they didn’t go through. It isn’t like him to avoid me like this. He’s always gotten back to me, even if it’s just a quick I’m fine, or I’ll call you later. 

All the messages went through fine, and I haven’t been left on “Read,” which is both a good and a bad sign. Good because he’s probably not actively ignoring or avoiding me. Bad because I have no clue what’s going on. Maybe he let it die? It’s happened before but he’s always had it back up in less than a day, calling me to apologize for making me worry. Or what if he sees that notification bubble with my name on it and he really is avoiding me? But why? Have I done something wrong?

That thought starts to send my mind racing and I can feel my anxiety begin to rise. 

It’s been two days since I’ve heard from him. What did we do then? Did I say something stupid? Something I shouldn’t have? He would have told me if that was the case…

Maybe he lost his phone at a club somewhere or something. That’s entirely possible given how drunk he can get when he’s out. A few times I’ve come to get him, the bartender has handed me his phone, letting me know Harley dropped it somewhere. The dance floor, the bathroom, next to his stool…

A loss is definitely worth considering. 

That eases my chest pain somewhat but it doesn’t go away completely. I’m really worried about him. Since his breakdown a couple months back, he’s been a bit more reserved, drinking more, staying in more. At least, I think that’s the case. Several times I’ve asked to go out, he’s said he’s too tired, too drunk, or just wants to be alone for a bit. As usual, I don’t press, but now it’s getting to a point where I can’t ignore that there’s something really wrong with him. 

Maybe I’ll swing by after breakfast and see if he’s home. I should probably give him a head’s up, though, just in case. I tap the message bar intending to text him just that.

“Windy.”

Mom’s sharp voice makes me jump. My head jerks up and I have to grab my phone before it slides off my lap to the floor. 

“Yeah?” I say. “Sorry I was…”

“On your phone at the breakfast table,” Dad said, his expression stern. “You know better than that, Windy June.”

I avert my gaze. “I know,” I mutter. 

“Did you hear what I asked?” Mom says.

I shake my head, pushing my gravy around.

She sighs. “Of course not.” She sits forward a little and I can feel my father’s annoyance drift over the table as well. Meal time is family time. Being on the phone, even if it’s just to check messages, is against the rules. No doubt I’m looking at a week of grounding for this.

“You remember the party coming up this weekend, right?” Dad asks. 

I glance up at him blankly. “What party?”

“Hector’s retirement party,” Mom says. 

It clicks and I sigh as it does. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I guess it slipped my mind.”

“Well, you have been busy lately,” Dad said, a note of understanding underlying his words. “With your job and the new therapy program.”

I grip my fork. I hate the new program. It’s supposed to help with cognitive development and anger management. I’m sure it’s meant to be helpful, but the lady treats me like I’m a child, something I absolutely cannot stand. Yet another reminder that the only one who treats me like an adult is Harley Cox. 

“Mhm,” is all I say.

“I was asking if you still needed to go and get a dress for the event,” Mom says.

I shake my head. “No, I’ve got it,” I say. “I think I just need the shoes. Nothing I have fits with it.”

“That’s because all you have is boots and sneakers,” Dad grins.

“They’re comfortable.”

“Be that as it may, you’re right, they won’t be acceptable for something like this,” Mom says. “We’ll go into town this afternoon and pick some up.”

I grimace. I hate shopping, especially for clothes and shoes. I’m not a fashionista and know next to nothing about clothing or what the latest trends are. I just wear what I like and go from there. I still consider my wardrobe cute, but it’s mostly teen attire and pajamas. 

“I know you hate it, but it needs to be done,” Mom says, patting my hand. 

I make a noise and she rolls her eyes. 

Dad grins and winks at us. “Everyone is going to be jealous when they see I have two pretty ladies on my arms and they only have one.”

Mom rolls her eyes good naturedly. I sit up, a thought suddenly occurring to me. There is no damn way I’m going as “the child of…” 

“Can I bring someone?” I ask quickly.

Dad’s eyebrow ticks. “By someone, do you mean Harley?”

“Please?” I ask. “It’ll be weird if I’m the only adult without a date.”

I can see the muscle under Mom’s eye jump. If it’s one thing she can’t stand to be reminded of, it’s the fact that I am, in fact, not a teenager. I’m a grown ass woman, one who’s had boyfriends and had sex. I get my development is stunted, but I still deserve to be treated my age.

My parents exchange a look. I glance between them, my hands clasped in my lap around my phone. 

Mom sighs. “Does it have to be Harley?”

I frown. “What’s wrong with Harley?”

“Nothing, baby, it’s just…he seems a little old to be accompanying you to something like this.”

And there it is. I stiffen, my eyes locked on hers. “He’s thirty-four,” I say flatly. “I’m twenty-five. How is that too old?”

“She has a point, Mindy,” Dad says in a low voice. “Let her bring Harley.”

Mom’s fingers are tapping quietly on the table. She wants to argue, to bring up the whole “chronological versus mental age” bullshit again. As far as she’s concerned, I am still only fifteen and incapable of making rational decisions for myself. My fingers tighten around my phone, ready for battle.

I don’t know what it is that she decides it’s not worth the fight. Maybe it’s because she knows how close I am to Harley, that he’s respectful and treats me well, something Nikki or anyone else has never really done. Besides, I know she likes him. Loves him, even. There have been countless times she’s referred to him as my older brother in the way he acts with me.

She’s really not that far off, actually. He’s protective, loving, and a total pain in the ass. But he also fights for me, defends me, and rushes to my side at the drop of a pin, just as I do for him. 

“You’re priority number one in my life, Bug,” he said one day, months after we started hanging out. “I’ll kill and die for you.”

Hopefully he’ll be willing to suffer the indignity of a stuffy suit and a crowd of strangers for me. Bonus points if there’s an open bar.

“Fine,” Mom finally says. She raises a finger. “But he needs to keep his drinking under control. He may not be a sloppy drunk but I won’t have him embarrassing this family by consuming half the rum in stock.”

My entire body feels like it’s rising with glee. “I promise he’ll be on his best behavior.”

“You better be, too, young lady,” Dad says.

I nod vigorously. “I’ll go call him now.” I start to rise but Mom pulls me down.

“Woah there, Tornado. Finish your breakfast first.”

Impatiently, I wolf down the rest of my meal, follow it with my orange juice, and kiss them both before dashing down the hall to my room, shutting the door firmly behind me. 

Bringing Harley’s message string back up, my heart skips. That’s right…he’s been dark for two days. I called him once and it had gone straight to voicemail, but that was yesterday. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time and it will ring.

I push the call button.

It rings. 

I heave a sigh of relief. Now he just needs to answer…

*