Six Months Later

Six Months Later - Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Insistent electric beeping wakes me. It can’t be seven o’clock yet. I’m too tired. Too snug and content here in the cocoon of my blankets.

The clock blares on, unmoved by my silent protest. I roll over and mash the snooze button and then burrow back into the blissful warmth of my quilt. Two more minutes and I’ll get up. I mentally catalog my sandal options. Is my blue tank top clean? Maybe. Or I could—

My thoughts cut off as I remember. The snow. The darkness. Blake. Adam.

I sit up, scanning my room as I kick the covers off my legs. It’s cold and dark. Too cold and dark for seven o’clock in May. I shiver as I rise from my bed, padding across my wood floor. My curtains are tightly shut, not a sliver of daylight showing around the edges.

I pull the drapes open quickly, like I’m ripping off a bandage. Outside, it’s still winter. Inside, I die a little.

I press my palm to the cold windowpane with a sigh. The street looks magical, every house and mailbox dipped in a snow so white it looks like sugar. It’s like a Christmas card.

But I’m not ready for Christmas. I’m ready for jean shorts and sweet tea and long, sticky nights with cicadas singing in the grass.

I return to my bed, curling into a ball. It wasn’t a nightmare. I’d known that, of course, but nothing else seemed possible when I’d stumbled in here last night.

Now, the newness of the day hits me like teeth, gnawing at the unwelcome truth. I’m missing time. A lot of it.

“Chloe?”

My mom’s voice drifts up the stairs, familiar and just a little scratchy so she probably hasn’t had much coffee.

“You want breakfast, honey?”

No, I really don’t. I want my six months back.

I try dialing Mags again before giving up and heading downstairs. Mom is peering into the fridge, her hair in a towel and her shirt buttoned wrong. Nothing newsworthy there. Until she turns at me and breaks into a grin.

“Morning, Superstar. Need some oatmeal to keep that brain churning?”

Uh, what? I blink several times, and she just laughs, pulling out a carton of blueberries and a couple tubs of yogurt. Which is…weird. We don’t do breakfast. Not together, anyway.

“Too early, I guess.” She nods at a cup and saucer on the counter. “Your tea’s ready.”

Tea? We have tea in this house?

I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I’m too tired to care. The coffeepot is sputtering, so I head over to get myself a cup. One whiff and a wave of queasiness rolls through me. I push the pot back onto the burner.