“Ouch. Getting rerouted?”

“Since they’re practically setting up campfires in the terminals, I’m guessing no. But that’s not even the good part.”

“There’s a good part?”

“Did you know my mom and Daniel are getting a divorce?”

“What? A divorce?”

“Yep.”

“When? Like now?”

“Like two weeks ago. It already happened. The moving out at least. Did your mom say anything about it?”

“No. And God knows she would.” She inhales.

“It’s not great,” I say.

There’s an awkward pause “Mira, with your aunt last year…”

“Yeah, the timing is less than excellent. Plus, she hasn’t said a word to me.”

“Sounds like you need to get home.”

“I am. I’m hitching a ride with some college students I met on the plane.” A stretch, since I didn’t meet anyone but Harper, but whatever.

“You’re getting in a car with a bunch of strangers?”

“Do I have a choice? Anyway, the girl driving is nice. She sat next to me on the plane for like, six hours.”

“And the rest of them?”

“I don’t know, but if they’re Harper’s friends, I’m sure they’re fine. I just have to get home.”

“Yeah, you do. Unless you want to miss the second most important musical moment of my life.”

She means it as a joke, but my laugh falls flat, and the stupidity and the fight all bubble up. I feel the simmer of old wounds beneath the silence on the line. It’s ancient history. We talked about it on one awkward phone call at the end of summer. We were going to start fresh this Christmas. Just get back to being friends.

She sighs. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know, I know,” I say in a rush. I’m cutting her off because I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to think about it. I want to get home, and I want to find out what the hell is going on with my mom.

“Hey,” I say, jumping on that idea. “Is there any way you can talk to your mom? Ask her if she knows anything about what happened with Mom and Daniel?”

“Sure, of course,” Zari says. “Hey, Mira? Be safe, okay?”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe call me at a gas station. Tell me how weird they are.”

I laugh. “I will.”

As soon as I hang up with Zari, Harper waves us over. We follow her around the back of a parking space. A sleek, white SUV lights up as Harper presses the key. I guess that’s our ride.

We stay back as she pops the trunk, settling a pricey-looking leather duffel inside.

“Here, let me get that,” Brecken says, taking my giant backpack. I roll my aching shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say. “Be careful—the latch is all wonky. Sorry.”