Chapters (42)
- TITLE PAGE
- COPYRIGHT PAGE
- CONTENTS
- START READING
- PLAYLIST
- PROLOGUE
- PART 1
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- PART 2
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- PREVIEW: PLAYING WITH FIRE
- PROLOGUE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hey, Dad, it’s me, Ever. Look . . . I don’t know how to say this. I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I can make it home this Christmas. Something came up. A friend invited me over, and I think it’s really important that I go. I really am very sorry. Let’s get on the phone and pencil a date and I’ll come soon. January soon. I . . . I hope you’ll have fun without me. More like know that you will. I know Dad’s and Renn’s invitations are purely out of guilt. They made their feelings about me known after what happened. I . . . well . . . call me back. Bye.
A day passes. Then another two. By the third day, I know I’m not going to get a call back. A part of me understands him. Another part wants to lash out, to explain that I was never made welcome after what happened to Mom. That the accusation was written plainly on his and Renn’s faces every time they looked at me, which wasn’t very often. After I dropped out, after I left, they didn’t call. They didn’t text. They didn’t want my company. It is only now, a few years later, that they’re starting to show signs of interest in me. But what if it’s too late?
Dad is ghosting me like I’m an underwhelming Tinder date, I text Renn.
He doesn’t respond. Not even with an LOL.
I think about texting Pippa to ask if she could check on them for me. But I haven’t responded to her messages in so long; it seems like a deeply selfish move.
Throughout all this heartache and turmoil, Dom spins golden stories and makes plans around our upcoming Christmas. About decorated trees, epic ugly sweaters, mistletoe, and an old-school door-to-door carol.
I eat it all up, ready to devote myself to my new instant family.
ELEVEN
ELEVEN
I wake up to a knock on the door before the alarm goes off.
It’s morning enough and weekday enough that I don’t instinctively think an axe murderer has come to kill me. I drag myself to the front door, knocking into Loki’s water bowl by accident in the process.
“Whoever you are, you’d better be bearing pastries.”
I unlock the door, and no one is there. I peer around the peeling wallpaper and wonky floorboards and notice a small square box at my feet. I recognize it, even though it’s covered with shipping labels. I don’t need to see the return address to know it came from my childhood home.
To: Everlynne Lawson
From: Martin Lawson
OPEN