Page 21 of Until Presley

“Who is this?” Her father’s voice comes across the line.

“This is Ham.”

“I think I have the wrong number,” he says. I can just imagine he’s pulling the phone away from his ear.

“No, Dr. Blanchard, you don’t have the wrong number.” I pause, but when he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’m Presley’s boyfriend.”

“Presley doesn’t have a boyfriend,” a female voice with a Texan accent says.

“She does, and I’m him. We are still new. Are you her stepmother?”

The woman on the other end of the line confirms she’s Thea.

My mom starts scribbling on a sheet of paper and taps it when she’s done. She wants me to tell them she’s okay.

“Presley is resting. She’s really upset right now.”

“Thank goodness it wasn’t her.” I hear the relief in her father’s voice.

“It wasn’t, but she knew who it was. I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you who it was yet.”

“That’s okay. Tell her to call us when she wakes up,” her stepmother says, and they say goodbye and hang up.

“Was that my parents?” I turn toward the soft voice and see my girl standing on the last step. She’s still in my shirt, and she brushes her legs together, trying to make herself smaller. “Did you answer my phone, or did you call them?”

“They called, and yes it was them. I knew he’d keep calling. The news is reporting that a marine biologist based here was killed, but they aren’t identifying her yet. Your parents were worried it was you.”

“I doubt it,” she says, and I move toward her.

“They were. He called.”

She looks up at me as I stand in front of her. Even on a step, she’s smaller than me. I wrap my arms around her body, and she leans into me.

“I made some soup for you.”

“Thank you,” she says, and I pull away, but she grabs my hand. When she sees my mom sitting at the table, she stops. “Oh god, let me go get dressed.” She tries to turn away, but I keep a hold of her.

“My shirt is longer than your shorts,” I tell her. We approach the table, and my mom stands up. “Mom, this is my Presley. Presley, this is my mom, Florence.”

Mom doesn’t disappoint. When Presley holds out her hand, my mom pulls her into her body and hugs her tight. For a moment, Presley just stands there, and then I watch the moment she accepts the comfort my mom is offering. She sinks into her body and wraps her arms around my mother. I see her clutch at the back of her shirt. My mom holds on to her just as tightly, and she starts whispering things I can’t entirely hear. Presley’s shoulders start to shake, and they continue to hold each other. Iwant to pull my girl from her arms and comfort her, but I know she needs this.

After a moment, they part, and Presley wipes at her face. I hand her some tissue, and she blows her nose before looking at my mom, who is only a few inches taller than her.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been hugged like that.”

“Mom hugs are the best, aren’t they?” My mom doesn’t know the mistake she’s made, but Presley, ever graceful, smiles at her.

“My mom’s hugs were the best. Thank you.”

“What?” My mom looks between me and Presley. “Oh, sweet girl, I’m so sorry.” She pulls her into her body again for a brief hug.

“Thank you again, Florence.” Presley turns to face me.

“Call me Mom or Flo,” my mom offers, and Presley turns back and nods at her. I see a soft smile cross her face, and I want to distract her from her loss.

“What’s the smile, babe?” I ask, and she turns to look at me.

“My best friend Morgan has a dog named Flo. She’s her protection dog that Morgan’s husband trained. She was trained as a tracking dog for the police.”

---