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Speechless(144)

By:Hannah Harrington


                Besides, if we pick up again now, I’ll just be thinking about                     my dad the whole time, and that’s too gross for words.

                Sam groans his disappointment, but he’s grinning at the same                     time, so I know he’s not actually upset. He leaps off the table and tosses me my                     phone.

                “Fate is a cruel mistress,” he laments.

                He walks up to me, tipping his head down like he might kiss me                     again; my breath catches in my throat, aching for it so bad it makes me a little                     light-headed. I have to stop myself from saying his name or just wrapping my                     arms all the way around him, no matter how much I want to in this moment.

                At the last second he draws back with a smirk and says, “Come                     on, I’ll walk you back.”

                He starts off across the park without me, and I stand there for                     a moment on my own, swallowing down that dizziness and trying to regain the                     feeling in my numb feet.

                What a tease.

                * * *

                There’s a black sedan I don’t recognize parked in my                     usual spot in the driveway when I get home. The sight of it sets off alarm bells                     in my head, and the ominous feeling only grows stronger as I slide up to the                     curb instead and make the perilous trek across our icy driveway. I shoulder                     through the front door and drop my bag by the foot of the staircase, kicking the                     door shut behind me and listening for voices. There’s bits and pieces of muted                     conversation drifting in from the living room—I can’t make out full sentences,                     but I catch words and phrases, like charges and                         police statement and testimony.

                I ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and poke                     my head into the living room. There’s a man in a navy suit sitting next to Mom                     on the couch, a manila folder spread open on the coffee table, on top of a brown                     leather briefcase. They’re engrossed in conversation, Dad standing off to the                     side with a coffee mug in his hands that he keeps stirring without drinking.

                Dad’s the first one to notice my entrance. He stops moving his                     spoon and says, “Chelsea,” and I try to glean as much as I can from the tone of                     his voice, but it doesn’t give much away. It’s serious, but not                     death-of-a-valued-family-member serious.