Booked

Chapter 11 | That's a Civil War in the Making

I didn't know if any part of me truly did believe that I could win.

My eyes scanned the page open in front of me, dreadfully blank, waiting for me to fill with ink messed-up characters that didn't behave without anything to show for rationality.

I knew I couldn't expect my heart to jump out of my chest and make this an easier process for me, but that was the best idea I had so far.

As I drew circles on my touchpad with my fingers, I pictured Miles at his writing desk, making up for the lost months of writing by writing non-stop all day.

That did nothing to help my confidence.

My fingers itched to fall back into old habits of filling up the page with words I had memorized right out of the dictionary. The alternative involved staring at the computer screen for several more hours.

It was way too early in the morning for my brain to form coherent sentences. But winning this challenge would complete my job as an undercover agent for Alec if Miles kept his end of the deal—which would give me one less thing to worry about.

I usually preferred not to stop once I started writing, but this was not a typical session anyway, so I found myself putting down the laptop in frustration.

My feet tiptoed back into my room, careful not to wake my Mom up.

I picked up the sleeping bag I had tossed aside this morning when I woke up so that Mom wouldn't trip over as she did two days ago. I stifled a yawn and glanced around my room, illuminated by a tiny starry night carousel nightlight Mom never slept without for as long as I could remember. It was a wonder that it had lived through all these years.

I was debating a new location to put away the rolled-up mat when I noticed that the bed was empty.

I couldn't remember seeing Mom walk around in between the quick glances to my screen. No light seeped from under the bathroom, but I caught on to a low sound coming from that general direction.

Pressing my ear to the door, feeling like quite the detective, I picked up on sniffles.

The sleeping bag slipped out of my hands, and I flinched away from the door.

That didn't sound right. For as long as I could remember, sadness wasn't a sentiment Mom ever expressed. Frustration, maybe. Anger, definitely. But never tear-provoking sadness.

I entertained the possibility of knocking for a brief second, visualizing what that would look like—slipping inside, hugging her, and talking through it. Through what?

I wasn't built for that. I was built for coherent plans to solve issues—for detachment. The concept of comforting someone was foreign to me.

She couldn't really blame me—she taught me to stay emotionally removed.

We had an implicit contract not to discuss feelings. Our bonding activities involved designing a balanced schoolyear plan every summer and organizing planners, breaking down every day to its very last minute.

"Did you get the highest grade?" replaced "How are you feeling?" and felt like a gradual and a sudden change simultaneously. The weekly scheduled check-ins were our I-love-yous.

Feelings never came up, at least not since I turned seven.

I wasn't fit for this, but calling Emma and Ace—or even Miles—to comfort my sobbing mother was a ridiculous notion.

Slowly, I backed away from the door. I must have imagined the entire thing. Mom wasn't crying—she did not give that much power to anything.

Besides, what would make her cry? She had a successful private practice that she co-founded with the love of her life—or whatever she called Dad these days. It had been so long since anything remotely tragic had happened to our cookie-cutter happy family.