Page 108 of Severance

“What about work?”

“I’m not on the schedule until Sunday.”

“What are you going to do in Seattle?”

“I need to see someone…” There’s a rock in my throat. I don’t know how to explain to her what I feel. I don’t even knowwhatexactly I feel toward Mikah. It’s such a strong pull, a warped hold he has on me. What I do know is that I need to see him.

My mother takes a slow, measured breath. “This is probably best to discuss with your father around.”

Anxiety begins to crush my spirits. I unplug the lights and hurry to put them into the box. “You don’t get it, Mom. You never get it. You can’t keep me here forever like I’m some pet.”

“Honey. What are you talking about? You’re not a pet.” My mother’s hand rests on my shoulder. “This is just so sudden. There’s nothing wrong with taking a trip, but you haven’t even packed. And you can’t go without any planning.”

I grab the box from the counter and rush to my room. To do both—the planning and the packing. My mind is spinning and my hands won’t stop trembling as I stuff my clothes and an extra pair of shoes into one of my larger bags. I’m not sure why exactly I need nice shoes since this isn’t prom we’re talking about, but I suppose if a girl makes all this effort to chase down a guy in another state, showing up in front of him in a pair of worn-out sneakers may lose her some points.

After gathering all the trip essentials, I walk over to my nightstand and pull out the bedside drawer. Inside, there’s a small velvet box with Dakota’s hummingbird. I haven’t worn the necklace since he died and part of me wonders if I should, but after staring at it for a good minute, I shut the drawer and move to my desk.

I open my laptop and type Mikah’s name into the Google search bar. My palms begin to sweat when the results pop up on the screen, one by one. Stalking a guy I slept with feels weird, but what are the chances he’ll actually want to speak to me after the screamfest we had in his apartment?

I click on the first link and stare at a dark flyer promoting Mikah’s upcoming performances in Seattle. The image is moody, just like him. There’s a tiny splash of light streaming across his face, and the only reason I can tell the photo is recent is from the faint line above the bridge of his nose that wasn’t so pronounced before the attack.

Fifteen minutes later when I go back downstairs, my father and mother are in the living room waiting for me, their features pinched with distress.

“I’ll be home in two days,” I say, strolling to the front door as if I’m just going to another shift at the bakery, my heart hammering.

“You can’t drive the Prius to Seattle.” My father shakes his head.

I roll my eyes. “Watch me.” My fist tightens around my car keys.

“Thomas.” My mother rests her hand on his shoulder as if she’s trying to hypnotize him. They rarely touch each other anymore, and it’s bizarre to see this as their new method of communicating.

My father’s gaze hardens. I can tell he’s conflicted about the words that are going to come out of his mouth next.

“Why don’t you trust me, Dad?” I ask, clutching at my bag and my laptop for dear life. “Why don’t you want me to be happy? Why can’t you let me do anything?”

“You’re not well, Alana,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

“Maybe this is what I need to do to get well.” My self-control begins to fail me. “Stop treating me like a child.”

“Nobody’s treating you like a child, sweetheart,” my mother adds.

“Both of you do. Please let me figure out my life on my own. I’m trying to make sense of everything. I’m trying to understand where I fit in now and where to go from here, and all you do is keep putting a spoke in my wheel.”

I don’t bother to wait for their response, because emotions begin to clog my chest and I realize that if I don’t leave now, it’ll turn into another fight. I walk out the front door and my father catches up with me when I’m setting my laptop and my bag on the passenger seat. He grabs the door of the Prius and asks, “Do you have money?”

“What?” Puzzled, I blink at him rapidly.

“Do you have money for gas and a hotel?” he repeats the question.Who is this man and what has he done with my father?

“Yes,” I squeak out. “I got paid last Friday.”

“Okay.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t approve of this, but I don’t want you to drive the Prius. You can take the Subaru under one condition.”

My chest swells with clashing emotions—I never expected anything of this sort from my father.

“You need to text us at least every eight hours or before you go to sleep so that we know you’re okay.” He hands me his car keys. “That’s non-negotiable.”

I nod. “Sure.”

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