Page 32 of From Now On

Hanging up is a gamble—Sean is a lot better at making calls than answering them—but this is a familiar part of the pattern. He calls me, then gets distracted and forgets he called me.

I repeat his name once more, then hang up. Exhale, then call him back.

No answer.

An endless stream of swears run through my head. I’m so disappointed. Mad—at Sean, and at myself, for thinking this time would be any different. Worried.

I force myself to tap the number at the top of myFavoriteslist.

“Hey, Hunter.”

The forced cheerfulness in my dad’s voice is worse than the undercurrent of exhaustion. He knows what this call means. I’m sure he dreaded answering, experiencing the same sick sensation that I did as soon as I saw Sean’s name light up on the screen. Subconsciously, as soon as I registered the buzz. Because only one person calls me in the middle of the night.

Another thing I resent my brother for—making me be the one to break our parents’ hearts over and over again. He never calls them. He always calls me.

A long time ago, I got some sick satisfaction from it. I liked that I was the person my big brother turned to for help. Almost like I washishero, for once. When the phone rings now, all I feel is anger and dread.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s all right, son. You calling from California?”

“Not quite. Car got a flat on the way and there was terrible traffic, so we stopped in Oregon for the night.”

“We?” There’s a rare note of curiosity in my dad’s voice as we help each other prolong the inevitable. Distract each other, just for a bit, before we address why we’re having this conversation at three a.m.

“Yeah.” I stop pacing and rest my elbows on the metal railing. “A friend of Harlow’s—Conor’s girlfriend, you met her at the banquet—decided to join us. She got a ride with me.”

“Does this female friend have a name?”

“Eve.”

“Nice name.”

My life is hockey and school. Well, was hockey. Still is school.

That’s the only reason my dad is latching on to Eve, because our small talk never lasts very long before we’re stuck on the big talk. He’ll ask how my classes are going, how hockey is going. But he can’t ask that second question anymore.

“Have you heard back from any schools yet?”

“Not yet,” I lie.

I need to tell him—and my mom—the truth. But now isn’t the right time for that conversation.

“How’s Mom?”

“She’s good. She and Kate Simpson are doing a cooking class together. We made one of the recipes tonight. It was…interesting.”

I chuckle, and it releases a little of the tension humming through my body. “Edible?”

“I’d have gone to bed hungry if not for some jerky I had hidden in the garage from my last fishing trip.”

“Nice one, Dad.”

“Yeah. The class lasts another four weeks, so I’ll have to restock this weekend.”

I smile, picking at the peeling paint on the metal railing. Little bits fall the twenty or so feet to the parking lot below. “Hecalled a few minutes ago. I tried—” My voice cracks. “I tried to get a location, but no luck.”

“That’s all right, son.” More false cheer. “I’ll swing by the usual spots.”

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