Page 64 of No Room in the Inn

And suddenly, this place is suffocating me. Everywhere I look, I see Granny and Willow.

I have to get out of here. So I pack my bags, scribble a note to Willow, and leave for work—except today, I’m not coming home when I’m done with my shift.

Chapter 29

Willow

When I get back downstairs from taking a shower, I feel refreshed and ready to start the day. I haven’t asked Nixon about our date tonight, and looking around, I don’t see him anywhere. He must have already left for work. When I step into the kitchen, I see that he at least got the hot chocolate I left out for him.

My eye is drawn to a neon sticky note on the counter next to my phone, and I eye it curiously as I cross the kitchen to look. Nixon has never left me a note before. I can’t help but smile.

But when I actually read the note, my heart sinks and then breaks altogether.

“Willow,” I read. “Date’s off for tonight. It’s probably better if we don’t have any more contact with each other, so please don’t call. Have a good life. P.S. You missed a call from your lawyer.”

I read it two more times before I finally believe what it says. What is he talking about? What’s going on? And “please don’t call”?

Yeah, right. It’s the first thing I do.

I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Nixon, what’s going on?” I say into the phone, my voice sounding unsteady even to my own ears. “Where are you? What does this note mean? Call me, please.”

I just stare at the note once I’ve hung up until a sudden suspicion spurs me into action. I leave the kitchen and go to the room Nixon has been using. When I fling the door open, my heart sinks further.

Because there’s no sign of Nixon here. None of his bags, nothing in the closet, no linens on the bed.

Nothing. It’s like he was never here.

***

I call Nixon several more times over the next thirty-six hours, but he never answers. I text him, too, asking him to call me, but I’m finally forced to face the truth: he doesn’t want to talk to me. Sarah is just as confused as I am, but she says I should give him some time and space, so I’m left to obsess about it on my own. I don’t know what I did, but he’s obviously very upset about something.

I just wish I knew what.

I rack my brains time and time again, but I can’t come up with anything. And that’s the most frustrating part of it. If I knew what went wrong, maybe I could fix it—or at least explain. But no; he won’t talk to me.

I grit my teeth as I pull into my parents’ driveway. I don’t know what I’m going to tell them if they ask where Nixon is; I told them he was going to come to this dinner too, and yet here I am, Nixon-less. I try to push down the surge of frustration that rises in me, but I can’t quite manage it.

It feels weird to knock on the door of my own childhood home, but it would feel even weirder to just go in, so I ring the doorbell. When my mom opens the door, there’s an uncomfortable second of silence before we both try to speak at the same time.

“Come—” she begins.

“Hi—oh. Sorry. Go ahead,” I say.

“Come in,” she says, waving me in. Her hair falls in long waves around her shoulders, held back by a bandana headband, and she has on another flowy top and those weird palazzo pants that look like maxi skirts. I don’t fully understand the point of pants like that, but I’m not surprised to see my mom wearing them.

I follow her inside, sniffing as I do.

“It smells good,” I say.

“Your father made a roast,” she says, taking my coat and hanging it on the coat rack.

I frown. “You guys don’t eat meat.”

My mom waves an airy hand. “You do, though, don’t you? And you love roast.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say. Did they really do that just for me? “What are you going to eat, then?”

“We’re having tofu burgers,” she says, smiling.

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