Split

Chapter eighteen

My parents pick us up at the airport.

They're equally as excited to see Zeke as they are me, and my mother's questions fill the awkward silence between my best friend and me during the car ride.

We might have promised each other that nothing would change, but there's still a slight strain whenever we pointedly don't talk about last night.

Or the way I woke up this morning looking at the man sleeping on the floor and fucking ran.

We drop him off at his parent's house. My mom invites him over for dinner tonight, hearts in her eyes, but Zeke politely declines. He has a business meeting. Typical of Lorraine to book him up even on the holidays.

The closer we get to the house, the more my nerves go haywire. I want to claw my way out of the car and run back to the airport, jump on the first plane I see, and let it take me far away.

Flying here was a weird experience. On one side, I was worried about coming home, and on the other, I felt a calm being in the air again. I love flying. Also, first-class comes with a lot of perks. I was taking full advantage of the extra space and free drinks. I never book those tickets, even when I have the points. Travel is supposed to be experienced the real way - when you're stuck between a fighting couple or a baby has been screaming for thirty minutes behind you, and there's a particular odor in the air. Those things are as comforting to me as a warm hug.

Seeing my childhood home again, not so much.

Dad insists on carrying my suitcase, and Mom practically herds me towards the door as if she's afraid I'll sprint away if she's unaware: I haven't ruled it out yet.

I open the door, tampering down my anxiety. I'm so keyed up that when a dark figure jumps out from the living room, yelling, "boo," I scream.

It's just a second before my brother steps into the light, grinning widely. "Being on the run has made you jumpy, kiddo."

I fling myself into his arms. "You idiot!" I wail. "I didn't know you'd be here."

Trent lives two towns over and works as an independent contractor. He's always busy these days, so I figured he couldn't swing by until tomorrow.

"And miss the prodigal daughters return?"

"Tell me, how many of our family members are hiding in this house?"

Trent gives me a crooked grin. "Grandma's in the closet."

It's a morbid joke. Our grandmother died five years ago, and Mom doesn't think her urn matches the aesthetics of the living room, so Grandma has been exiled to the storage closet upstairs. Unless my dad's sisters visit, then she's front and center on the mantel in the living room.

I laugh, and Mom nudges me further into the house, huffing. "Such rude children, laughing about your poor grandmother dying. What wouldn't your mashangazi think?"