“Meg?” His voice is a deep grumble in my ear, and I find myself rubbing the goose bumps prickling on my arms.

“I have to call my mom, and I’m freaking out.”

“Okay. About what?”

“About staying.”

“What?”

I exhale. “And getting a job and moving in with my uncle.”

“Meg,” he says, and I can picture him shaking his head in exasperation.

“I know.”

“Meg,” he repeats.

“Yes?”

“You haven’t told your mom any of it? She thinks you’re coming home still?”

“Tomorrow. On a bus. Which, obviously, I don’t have a ticket for.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats flatly.

“I think. Ish.”

“Ish.”

“Why do you just keep repeating everything I say? That’s not helpful.”

His breath huffs into the speaker. “Because I honestly don’t know what to say. Except you have to call her. Right now. It’s not like she can change your mind, and I know you’re mad at her, but she’s your mom. You have to tell her.”

“It’s not that. More like, I don’t want her to be mad.” I hate how tiny my voice is, but this is the truth. I’m scared to death of making my mom mad. Or sad. Or disappointed. Or lonely. All of it makes my stomach sick, and I know when I call her, I’ll be doing all of that and more.

He must realize it, because his next words are soft.

“I’m on my way.”

I catch the reflective flash of Micah’s bike five minutes later. He rides straight to the backyard, and there’s movement behind the curtains as he’s removing his helmet. James gives us a wave from the window in front of the sink where he’s washing dishes and then leaves us alone, abandoning his spot.

That’s it. I love being a grown-up.

“Okay. You’re going to call your mom right this minute, and I will be here the entire time. If it goes badly, you won’t be alone, and I promise to take you someplace after to distract you.”

“On your bike?” I tease, playing for time.

In the dim glow of the neighbor’s outside light, the corner of his mouth quirks. “That’s how confident I am that this will be okay. But also, Frosty Snacks is close enough to walk.”

I take a fortifying breath, tug out my phone, and dial my mom’s number. She doesn’t pick up at first, and I’m wondering if I can just say it all in a voice mail when she answers in a rush.

“Hello? Meg!”

“Mom? Hi. Yeah. It’s me. How are you?” I ask. Stupidly.

“Oh, you know,” she says. Which, I suppose I do. My phone-less hand clenches in the pocket of my sweater, stretching it.

“Mom, I got a job here.” Might as well start at the top.

“A job where?”