Page 64 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
The ringing stopped. There was nothing — no voicemail box, no“hello?,”no swearing at me for calling at this hour or calling at all.
But then I heard it. The smallest breath.
It hitched. Trembled. It wasn’t steady, wasn’t anywhere close, and then itbroke, a sob tearing through the phone, small, sharp, and raw, and my heart dropped into my stomach.
“Sienna?” I rasped, sitting forward in bed, my pulse spiking.
She didn’t answer. Another sob came down the phone.
My breathing went shaky. I gripped the sheets and pulled them off me, swinging my legs out of the bed. “Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She sniffed, trying to catch her breath. “I—Matt, I?—”
I pushed up from the bed, already moving, already grabbing, and pulling on the easiest clothes I could find — a t-shirt and a pair of joggers. “Are yousafe? Are you at home?”
“Yes,” she croaked. “I just—I don’t know what todo?—”
“I’m coming.” I didn’t care how it sounded, how it looked, how it came across. Just wrenched open the door and padded asquietly down the hall as I could before hitting the stairs. “Text me your address.”
“But—”
“Text it. Now.”
“O-okay.”
I snagged my keys from the kitchen island and passed through the back hall to Margot’s room, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder, and knocked hard enough on her door to wake the dead.
She cracked it open, her eyes half open, her greyed hair braided back, her nightgown on. “What in God’s good name?—”
“I need to go,” I said quickly, seriously, breathlessly. “Zach’s asleep. I just need youonin case he wakes up.”
She looked at me, her eyes widening the moment she took in my face. “Okay—yeah, go, I’ve got him,” she said quickly, already moving, already stepping out into the hall.
My phone buzzed against my ear, Sienna’s broken breaths still echoing down the line.
“That your address?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I moved back through the house, stopping for a split second to pull on the easiest shoes I could find.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice cracking clean down the middle.
“I’ll be there soon.”
The rain had started by the time I was halfway there, fat drops hammering the windshield between my wiper blades, the streets slick and reflective and blurry beneath my high beams. I ran a red light. I didn’t care. The image of her crying, alone, into the phone wouldn’t leave me alone.
I pulled up in front of a small, dimly lit townhouse, the porch light on and the garage door closed, every window dark. She sat on the front steps, just barely out of the reach of the rain, in just a hoodie that was too big for her and no shoes, her arms wrappedaround her knees like she was trying to hold herself together by force.
She pushed up the moment I threw the car in park and opened my door.
I got out fast, not caring if I got wet, not caring aboutanythingbut her, and slammed the door behind me. “Sienna?—”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she croaked, taking one step down, and then another, stepping into the rain like it wasn’t even happening. Her hands shook, her hair slicked down and clung to her cheeks the more the rain hit it, and her eyes—fuck, puffy, red-rimmed, and glassy—looked like they hadn’t closed properly in weeks. She gripped the cuffs of her sleeves.
I wanted to grab her. I wanted to pull her into me, wanted to shield her from the rain and from whatever had causedthis, but I didn’t know how to do that when she very likely hated me, when I didn’t deserve that privilege. So instead, I stood a few feet back, feeling my clothing gluing itself to me, feeling the chill of the rain as the wind picked up. “Tell me what?” I asked gently, trying to show her with just my face, just mybeing here, that she could say whatever it was.
She stared at me, her jaw working like she was trying to find the words, rain, or tears or both sliding down her cheeks.
Then she said it.
