Page 33 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

My stomach twisted—not just from his words, but from that tone. That low, calculated tone demons use when they think they’re in control. The tone that used to seep through the walls at night, twisting into nightmares. The voice of my stepfather. The reason I hated them.

He knew I had seen the phone call.

I thought about lying. But then I remembered who I was dealing with.

"Yeah," I admitted. "I saw."

For a moment, Ethan didn’t say anything. His usual smirk was gone, and in its place—nothing. Just blankness. Like a door shutting in my face.

Then he turned, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders were stiff, the muscles in his jaw tight. Not irritation. Not annoyance. Something else.

Fear.

"Forget about it," he said.

I frowned. "Ethan—"

But before I could say anything else, he walked off, disappearing into the rest of the group like nothing had happened.

I sat there, staring after him.

Something was wrong. I could feel it like a cold hand pressing against my ribs, like the weight of a storm before it breaks.

And I had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter 12: Surviving Jocks, Cursed Hotels, and Questionable Stew

The bus ride was a disaster.

Not in the we-crashed-into-a-ditch-and-are-now-being-chases-by-wolves way (though, frankly, that would have been better), but in the dear-gods-make-it-stop way.

It all started with Joy. Because, of course, it did.

"A song for our journey!" She declared, standing in the aisle like some kind of ancient bard who had just discovered sound. "A song to lift our spirits!"

I prayed. I begged the universe to strike her a blow from where she stood.

But the universe? It hated me.

"Country rooooads," Joy belted out, painfully off-key.

Ethan jumped in without hesitation—probably because embarrassment required a soul. "Take me hoooome—"

Their duet was a blessed distraction, slicing through the silence that had bloated between us like an overinflated balloon.

Moments ago, Ethan had warned me to forget what I had seen. Now, I couldn't help but keep on replaying it—what I saw on his phone, what it meant, what he meant.

And here he was, singing like we weren’t orbiting a black hole of unresolved tension.

This wasn’t just awkward. It was nuclear.

Someone please kill me.

Max, grinning like the devil’s hype man, leaned forward. "To the place—"

"GUYS, NO," I whispered to myself, but it was too late. The jocks had taken over.

What followed was less singing and more of a chaotic, gut-wrenching wailing that could probably be classified as a war crime. I honestly pitied glasses. Notes were slaughtered. Lyrics were forgotten. Somewhere in the great beyond, the gods of music were shaking their heads in disappointment.

---