Page 41 of Yes No Maybe

Mira eyes me skeptically. “You want to cry, don’t you?”

“No.” I swipe the dampness under my eye. “A little. She’s a smidge meaner than I expected.”

“She’s had a rough few days. She’s close to her dad. It wasn’t easy seeing him off to jail… Remember how sad you were when Mom left on deployment?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you had your grandparents. Imagine being stuck with a stranger.” Mira helps herself to my cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches. “Rolling out the red carpet probably feels… overwhelming.”

“Of course, you’re right. Understood. I will pull back the red carpet and play things cool.”

“Just be normal. You do your own thing. Let her do hers. Take it slow.”

Mira puts Sara’s number in my phone. “She might be more willing to communicate with you this way.”

When she hands it back, I send off a quick text to her.This is Rowan. Text or call whenever. Happy to have you here.*house emoji, nerd emoji*

Mira shakes her head. “That’s not playing things cool.”

“I saidwhenever.”

After a short talk with Sara alone, Mira leaves. The house remains quiet but unsettled, like restless spirits are afoot, but they don’t know what to do with themselves.

I follow Mira’s advice and give Sara space. This makes me think of Dean. Why do people need so much space from me? If he were here to support me, he’d have Sara talking and laughing by now. And I’d feel like a woman in a solid relationship instead of wondering if two weeks of silence falls into the ghosted category.

I stare at my phone, debating. Should I add another text to the lingering messages I’ve already sent?

No. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I clean the kitchen and put the cookies and sandwiches away. Then, I break out my laptop to catch up on work emails and continue researching for my Inspiration Project. There’s nothing like to-dos to stave off an emotional breakdown.

I start a list in my work notebook.#1: Stock up on extra school supplies & pantry items

I wonder if Sara will want to go back-to-school shopping. What teenage girl doesn’t like a trip to the mall? With the stipend provided for Sara’s care, she’ll have her own shopping spree. I almost text her the idea before reminding myself to give her space. That brilliant plan can wait for tomorrow.

In the kitchen, I make dinner. I play music while cooking, hoping to lure her from her room to see what’s happening.Maybe she’ll want to help. Or talk. Something.But she doesn’t take the bait. Over an hour later, I pull steaming enchiladas from the oven, set the table, and head to Sara’s door. She hasn’t come out of her room once since Mira left, and I hope that means she’s enjoying her space.

But when I knock, she doesn’t answer. I try again, louder this time. Nothing.

Heart racing, I check the bathroom and the rest of the house. But I only find Edgar chittering at birds through the back window.

At her door again, I pound. “Sara, this isn’t funny. Open up, please.”

When she fails to answer, I try the doorknob. It’s locked. In my panic, I jump to frightful conclusions.What if she’s unwell? Or she took something? Or tried to hurt herself?

I bolt to the kitchen, grabbing a fine-pointed knife from the utensil drawer. With shaking hands, I work it into the keyhole on her door. The knife slips, slicing a three-inch gash into my right palm. But the lock pops and the door swings open.

Sara’s room is empty. Her suitcase sits unpacked on the bed. The window’s open, and the screen’s been popped out. Checking the front porch confirms that her bike is gone.

First, I’m relieved not to find her unwell or unconscious. Thinking drugs or suicide is a harsh conclusion to jump to, but not knowing Sara well and being fully aware of the desperate lengths teenagers will go to, I couldn’t help it.

With a paper towel pressed to my bloody hand, I text her.Sara, dinner’s ready. Where are you?

No answer, and ten minutes later…This is Rowan, and I’m worried. Text me, please.

Twelve minutes and nothing, I call. It goes to voicemail. “Sara, this isn’t funny. Please call or text me immediately.”

Seventeen minutes pass. I sit at the kitchen banquette with a glass of water, tapping my fingernails on the Formica like I’m composing a frantic song. As the sky darkens, I wonder how long I should wait before calling the police.

I call Mira instead. When she answers, I blurt, “Sara’s gone. She snuck out the window and took her bike. Should I call the police?”

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