If it hadn’t been evident with Evan, it’d be clear as day walking into our shared apartment. Murph and Wes both sit staring at a muted game on TV with open beers in front of them on the table. Thatch is rustling around in the kitchen, letting out soft curses every so often. He pokes his head around the corner as I shut the door behind me.
“Anything?” he asks.
I shake my head, as does Evan, and his face falls before returning to the kitchen. I set my bag down before following to help. Thatch and I work around each other, getting dinner ready, a hushed worry settling in the air between us. If they’re anything like me right now, they don’t have much of an appetite, but I’m trying to keep things as normal as possible. This whole thing could be absolutely nothing to worry about and she’s fine.
We’ve just sat down when our phones go off almost collectively, milliseconds between a few of the text tones. Two little words on my screen make me so sick to my stomach that the threat of puking on the table is real.
I can’t.
Then two more pop up, and I jump up to rush to the bathroom down the hall, leaving the silent table behind me.
I’m sorry.