Page 19 of Riot Act
“That’s not the same thing, Pres,” Dad argues. “Ten days in San Diego isverydifferent to weeks and weeks bouncing around Europe. I won’t know where you are. I won’t know if you’re safe—”
“Like you’d know where I was or if I was safe if I was with Jonah!”
“Of course I would!” Dad’s face is almost the same color as his Malbec. “He’s your brother. He’ll look after you. Ofcourseyou’d be safe with Jonah!”
On the other side of the table, my half-brother smirks, knowing all-too-well that our father can’t see the nasty little twist to his mouth. He’s loving this. He nearly ruined my life three years ago. Now, he’s coming perilously close to ruining my graduation trip and I willnotlet it happen.
My chair’s legs scrape on the hardwood as I push back from the table. “I’m sorry. I’ve lost my appetite. Can I be excused?”
Dad reaches out and places his hand on top of mine. “Stay, sweetheart. I think it’s best we talk and put this Europe idea to bed now, before you get your hopes up about anything.”
“We can talk about it tomorrow. And…no. We’re not putting it to bed. I am going on this trip. My friends are going off to different colleges. Differentcountrieseven. I won’t see them again for god knows how long. I’m not missing out on the chance to spend some real time with the—” Wow, I can hardly breathe. I pause, taking a second to calm myself. It doesn’t work, though; my pulse is racing. I feel weirdly lightheaded. “I’m sorry. I really…I actually don’t feel well. Excuse me.”
“Storming off only proves how immature you are,” Jonah calls after me.
I’ve bolted from the kitchen, though. I’m halfway up to the second floor. As I take the stairs two at a time, my father’s words ring in my ears.
Of courseyou’dbe safe with Jonah.
But Dad doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s talking about.
I’veneverbeen safe with my older brother.
If only he knew the truth.
Hours later, Jonah proves how little he’s changed. I wake up in the brand-new bed Dad bought me, sweating.
He hasn’t made a sound, but I know he’s there.
In the shadows.
Waiting.
7
PAX
It’s dark.
My pulse is racing so hard, I think I’m about to have a fucking heart attack. I jolt upright, clawing at my shirt, only to find it soaking wet, plastered to my skin. It takes ten solid deep breaths before my pulse slows and reaches an even rhythm. I peel the wet shirt from my body and hurl it into the darkness, then bring my knees up so I can rest my elbows on my thighs, holding my head in my hands.
What the hell wasthatabout?
On the nightstand, my cellphone is lit up, casting brilliant white light up the wall behind me. I normally turn it off when I go to sleep but I must have forgotten before I fell asleep; a string of text message notifications monopolize the screen, and every single one of them is from M.
M for Meredith.
M for Mom.
I groan, snatching the device angrily from the nightstand, unlocking it.
Message received 02.23
M: You were at the penthouse. You didn’t come and see me.
M: I don’t know why you need to be this difficult, Pax. You know I’m sick. You should have at least visited before blowing through town.
M: So once again, you’re forcing my hand. I’ve transferred myself to the rinky dinky facility in ML. Now you don’t have a choice.
