Page 34 of Fool Moon First Aid

“You didn’t know,” Tyler gently insists, his tone carrying a hint of his usual playful note.

“Even so—” I begin, but he interrupts, a trace of urgency lacing his voice.

“It’s the first night of the full moon, and we usually run,” he says, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck.

“Go run, Tyler,” I encourage, feeling an unexpected sense of relief at the thought of them yielding to their nature. It eases the odd feeling that I should somehow entertain them in their own home.

“Will you be okay?” His eyes meet mine once more, searching for assurance.

“I’ll probably pass out here soon, and this bed looks tempting,” I admit, a wry smile touching my lips.

“Ethan’s décor,” Tyler blurts out, then clears his throat. “Get some rest. We can talk in the morning or some shit.”

“Or some shit,” I echo, my laugh coming out a bit strained, barely concealing the tension simmering just below the surface.

“Good night, Ava.” Tyler nods and backs out of the room, leaving me with the solitude I requested, yet a part of me wishes he’d stay just a little longer.

The never-ending buzzing of my phone slices through the quiet room, each vibration a glaring reminder of the one person whose persistence knows no bounds—my father. A familiar unease unfurls in my stomach, starkly contrasting with the calm I just soaked in with the guys. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? The mere thought of a call from my dad can send ripples of nervousness through me, while here I am in a house full of strange men I met only yesterday, and I feel…safe, calm, and somehow cherished.

Shaking my head at the absurdity of it, I relent and fish my phone out from the depths of my back pocket to see my father’s face on the screen, flashing his standard, domineering smile that seems to command attention, even through the digital display. Knowing that any delay would only stoke the fires of his irritation, I press the big green button and answer, my voice balancing warmth and apprehension. “Hey, Daddy.”

“No,” he barks, sharp and commanding like a whip cracking in the stillness of the room. I lean back into the cozy, oversized chair, letting my head rest along its back as I brace myself for the conversation that I know is going to be one-sided. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was out with Eloise,” I reply, weaving my words with enough truth to sound convincing. It’s not exactly a lie, per se, but it isn’t the whole truth either.

His grumble hums through the line, setting a dissonant tone for the entire conversation. “Lie,” he declares bluntly, his accusation heavy in the air, as tangible as the phone in my trembling hand.

I let out a sigh that crackles over the line—a subtle sign of my frustration and weariness. My dad is an enigma, always so serious. I can’t remember ever seeing him genuinely laugh, whereas my mother’s laughter was her essence. She had crow’s feet etched beside her eyes like delicate brush strokes on a masterpiece, and she embraced joy every chance she got.

How did two such opposites find each other? They did, though, and that’s why I’m here, a product of their unlikely union.

“Dad.” I sigh again, fatigue tinting my voice. “I’ve had a really long day, and I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I’d really like to just go to sleep.”

“I would think you had a long day,” he grumbles, his words carrying an undertone that sets me on edge, hinting at a disappointment that’s become all too familiar.

No amount of therapy is enough to brace me for these conversations with my dad. I’ll lie awake for nights on end, turning our exchange over in my mind like a puzzle with missing pieces. Making him proud has always been my aim, but ever since the day I first stood up to him—the night my mother died—I feel like I lost the ability to ever make him truly proud. He wasn’t just angry with me for questioning him about what happened, but he also expected me to silently accept her fate and then move on as if she had never existed.

But he can’t steal my memories of her. He’ll never erase the love she instilled in me. Still, his disappointment cuts deep, inflicting mental and emotional wounds I’m not sure will ever heal, like invisible scars that only I can feel.

That was the day I stopped using his last name.

As I struggle to find the words to respond to him, my dad fills in the quiet.

“Why did they take you to Mystic Med?” he asks, his tone laced with disapproval, as if each word is dipped in a frost that chills the warm air around me.

Ah, so that’s at the heart of his call, the reason behind the storm brewing in his voice. “Well,” I drawl, the word stretching out like a tightrope as I cautiously try to navigate through his bigotry, “all the ambulances in my area were busy.”

“They could have taken you to Mercy General,” he states matter-of-factly, his words sharp and pointed, as if they aren’t dripping with the poison of ignorance. “All you had to do was ask.”

I can’t help but snap back, my voice crisp. “Mercy General is over an hour away, Father. Mystic is closer, and, just so you know, considering you’re calling me while already aware that I was in the hospital” —I let my words run on as my frustration bubbles inside me that his first concern wasn’t whether or not I’m okay— “I needed emergency surgery. There was a snow globe, a souvenir from Mama, embedded in my leg.”

“I told you to sell those,” he snaps back, his tone as sharp and cutting as a knife slicing through me at the mere suggestion.

Never. Inside, my inner child flinches, retreating into a corner. Those snow globes were from Mama, a cherished connection to her, each globe a tiny world where her memory still dances. Fuming, I muster up all my defiance. “I need to go.”

“No,” he counters firmly, his word a boulder blocking my path. “Where are you, Ava?”

Alarm bells ring in my head, a clear warning siren blaring its caution.

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