Page 11 of Fragile Sanctuary

Today, the group chat’s name wasDon’t Tell Mom. That made me snicker as I slid my thumb across the screen.

Cope

How are the new digs? Ready for a rager?

My fingers flew across the screen.

Me

Like the time you guzzled peach schnapps and smelled like cobbler and rubbing alcohol for five days straight?

Cope

Don’t say peach. I’m still traumatized.

Kye

I’m the one who’s traumatized. You puked in my closet. When a girl came in asking for a peach inked on her ass, I started gagging.

A new message flashed on the screen.

Arden has changed the group name to Nonstop Notifications.

Cope

Harsh, A.

Our youngest sister, who had come to live with us when she was twelve, liked her solitude and didn’t appreciate being interrupted. Especially when she was working on a new art piece—and she almost always was.

Me

Put the chat on do not disturb. That’s what I do when Cope’s getting all needy. Like his millions of adoring fans aren’t enough.

Arden

Smart. Should’ve done that years ago.

Cope

Can you divorce your siblings? What are the legal ramifications of that?

Me

It means you won’t get any peanut butter poke cake the next time you’re home.

Cope

Cruel and unusual punishment, Rho.

I chuckled to myself, knowing I’d won that battle, and shoved my phone into my back pocket. I let my gaze roam over the rest of the small space. It was still mostly a disaster. Even though I didn’t have a ton of belongings, I still hadstuff. And that stuff was currently in a mishmash of half-open boxes scattered around my living room.

I’d pulled out the important things. My coffeemaker. A skillet, a saucepan, a few plates, and some cutlery. A girl had to eat, after all. And no one wanted to see me uncaffeinated tomorrow morning.

But the most important of all had been a handful of worn books. Novels that contained shared journeys I’d taken with my dad.The Perks of Being a Wallflower,The Hunger Games,The Outsiders, and, of course,A Wrinkle in Time. They pulled me toward them as if they had their own gravitational force, and I let my fingers ghost over the titles’ cracked spines and yellowed pages.

The library had sustained some fire and water damage, but mostly smoke and soot stained the covers and the edges of the paper within. Over time, given how much I reread them all, most of that had worn away.

Only the last section of each book remained dusted with black flecks from the fire. Because as frequently as I revisited each one, I couldn’t seem to force myself to make it to the end. Of any of them. Something about the endings was too painful, too final, even if they were happy.

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