Identifying Sara

Chapter Twenty-Three

When I wake, I'm completely alone. No sign of my mother ever being here remains in the house. Not her purse, not her phone, not her favorite coffee mug that always sits on the counter in the mornings. Nothing. I wouldn't be surprised if she was out making plans for another move right behind my back, I just have to remind myself to be prepared mentally. I shrug it off still holding onto my feelings of annoyance towards her as I trudge to the kitchen. My palm is numb from giving her a high five to the face the day before so it doesn't surprise me when I see a light shade of red covering my palm. I must've hit her a lot more aggressively than I had thought I did. I picture her walking around where ever she is at the moment with an imprint of my hand on her cheek, maybe a little swollen and numb. I don't feel bad, but I also don't feel any better, I feel angry, annoyed, and any other words that fall under that category. My stomach roars, demanding food, so I make myself a waffle and my anger rises when I open the utensil drawer to find no forks are clean. First, I finally have enough of my mother to the point where I slapped her, and now there's no clean forks! I slam the utensil drawer closed and settle on eating my waffle with my hands making myself even more annoyed-if that's even humanly possible-when the syrup sticks to my fingers.

Once I am back to my room, I fall onto my bed wishing things that have been on my mind for years. It's the same repeating pattern over and over again. I wish my dad was here, I wish I didn't have to dye my hair to the point where it's nearly dead, I wish I could live my life normally. A sudden knock at the door jolts me awake from my thoughts. I groan and walk down the stairs taking my time hoping that whoever is at the door will give up and leave. I swing the door open ready to yell at the person who decided to disturb me and my eyes widen when Carson is the one that stands there in jeans and a jacket, his hair still damp from a shower that I assume he took moments before coming here. He looks at my outfit which consists of my rubber duck pajama pants, an old black t-shirt and tangled hair.

"Well," he says taking in my appearance, "you look lovely." He tries to stifle a laugh and hide it, but it doesn't work because I catch him and send him a glare. "Yeah, ha-ha. Come in, you're letting all the cold air in." I say grabbing his arm and tugging him inside the house before icicles begin to form on my ceiling. Even though there is at least 2 layers of clothing between his arm and my fingers, I feel like my hand is on fire and my stomach is doing somersaults. I don't want to let go, but I know I have to. We stop in the living room, "sit there." I say gesturing towards the couch. He raises an eyebrow, and I raise mine back at him. He shakes his head and laughs plopping himself on the couch. I roll my eyes and hurry up the stairs going through all of my best outfits deciding what I should wear.

I reach my room and go through my closet, only setting my eyes on the empty box in the corner of closet twice. I try to keep my eyes from tearing up by blinking fast, I don't want Carson to see me like this, but even though most of my emotions consist of anger towards my mother, I am still hurt that she took everything I had, even if she was trying to hide it, I had already discovered it so why hide it now? I take my attention off of the box and back to my clothes. Before I know it I'm downstairs once again, now in jeans and my favorite maroon jacket standing in front of Carson.

"Ready?" He asks.

"Obviously," I reply smiling. "Where are we going?" I ask when curiosity takes over. He stands and it's for the first time that I realize he isn't much taller than I am, maybe half a head or so. I don't know where the random thought came from so mentally I yell at myself to focus just so Carson doesn't find me staring to make things more awkward. He digs his keys out of his pocket as I stand there impatiently waiting for a response.

"You'll just have to see," Carson tells me with a wink. I roll my eyes, "not this again." I complain. "Sorry sweat pea." He shrugs and begins to walk to the door with me following his footsteps. Sweetpea? I remember the time when we sat on the hood of his car, under the stars, he called me that and I am now really feeling the urge to ask why. "Can I ask why you call me that?" As we head out the door I hear him chuckle, making me furrow my eyebrows in confusion. I don't find it amusing at all.