Page 91 of End Game

Suddenly, the rain stops.

No, it doesn’t. There’s an umbrella over me—Barrett is exposed now, getting caught in the downpour. He’s sacrificing himself to keep me moderately dry.

“What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do,” he says, which is blatantly false.

“Barrett.”

He tugs my hand, until I’m forced to stand beside him under the cover of the umbrella.

“There. Now we’re both good,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “What, are you going to walk me home now?”

“If I need to.”

“You don’t.” I clear my throat. “I appreciate the offer, though. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Barrett leans down and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “It’s a plan.”

Taking a deep breath, I step backwards, out of the cover of the umbrella, and pull my hood up again. I turn on my heel and start off in the direction of the soccer house. We could totally walk home together. My house is only a few blocks away from his. I could be mostly dry right now.

But right now, I need a few moments to myself. I need to get my head on straight. I’m getting all sorts of mixed signals from him, and I don’t know what kind of answer I can give if he asks the question I’m afraid he’s going to ask.

Johanna’s beat me home, so I have to wait for her to finish her shower before I can take mine. Washing my hair takes for-ev-er. I hate it. I hate it so much. It’s a necessary evil, though, and if we’re going out, I want to look my best. For who, I’m not sure. Maybe for me. Maybe for whoever I hook up with tonight. I want to get laid. I want a night off, a night for myself.

When I get out of the shower, I’m surprised to find seven missed calls from my mom. We just talked this afternoon before I boarded my flight home. I click on her contact and the line rings. She answers almost immediately.

“Hi? Mom? You called me, like, fifty times.”

“Diana.” My mom’s voice is ragged. My panic sensors kick into overdrive.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your dad…”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “What happened?”

“He was in a car accident. He broke his leg and maybe some ribs. He might have a concussion.” Mom sighs heavily. “Because of the blood thinners he’s on, surgery is risky.”

“Okay. I’ll come up. I’ll find a train tonight and—”

“No. Don’t come.”

“Mommy.” My voice cracks. I can’t believe she’s pushing me away. I can’t believe she doesn’t want me there.

“I just mean…” She sighs again. “They’re monitoring him overnight. Nothing will be decided tonight.”

“I can still come up, be there for you.”

“They’re only letting one person in to see him at a time. Visitor’s hours are over in twenty minutes. Come tomorrow.”

“O-okay. I can do that. I can…” My voice trails off. I feel very young when I ask: “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t want to lie to you,” my mom says. “Try not to worry tonight. Go out with your friends. Take the edge off. Tomorrow, you can take a train up here. I’ll have Aunt Jo pick you up.”

“Mommy.” My voice cracks on the second syllable.