Page 12 of One More Made Up Love Song
Freddie looks up, eyes widening as he processes her presence, then lifts his head in acknowledgement.
Sloane waves, then turns back to face me.
“And the music?” she asks. “Any progress on that front?”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look at the screen, relief washing through me as I see a call coming in from my mom.
“I’m sorry, I need to take this. It’s my mom,” I say as I stand. I tilt my head toward Freddie. “He should be done in just a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fill you in.”
As I duck out of the control room and into the hallway, it feels a little like I’m throwing Freddie under the bus, but honestly, Sloane will get her answers one way or another,and Freddie is the only one who can give her what she wants.
At least in this regard, I’m happy to just be the assistant and not the one responsible for making music. Or any other kind of creative decisions. I know my strengths—I’m a problem solver, a task manager, an organizer of things and people and priorities. I should not be trusted with anything else.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I’m so glad you answered,” Mom says, the tone of her voice immediately setting me on edge. Mom and I are close enough that she often calls just to say hi. Sometimes she wants to give me updates on Dad’s tree farm. He’s shifting to Japanese maples in the east field, or he just got a new contract to provide crepe myrtle trees for Lowe’s Home Improvement stores.
Other times, she wants to tell me about the latest addition to the donkey sanctuary she’s been building over the last few years. I shouldn’t just call it a donkey sanctuary. She has other animals too. A peacock, several llamas, a couple of pot-bellied pigs a family across town bought as pets but surrendered when they grew to be well over a hundred pounds each. Last week, she texted me pictures of a baby donkey she picked up in Asheville. She named him Pirate because he was born with only one eye.
But Mom doesn’t want to talk about donkeys today. I can already tell. “What’s wrong? What is it?” I ask.
She breathes out the kind of sigh I recognize, and I know, before she says anything else, what she’s about to tell me.
“It’s Carina,” she says. “She’s gone again.”
I lean against a vending machine in the hallway and pinch the bridge of my nose. I am getting very tired ofworrying about my little sister. “Gone where? Did she tell you anything this time?”
“Not a thing. She at least left a note, but it was vague.Chasing something big. Be back soon. Don’t worry about me!”Mom says. “But how am I supposed to not worry? She’s only twenty-one years old.”
The tension in my shoulders eases the slightest bit. I get why Mom’s upset, but if Carina left a note, I’m not as concerned. This isn’t the first time she’s gotten a wild hair and taken off on an unplanned trip. She always responds to Mom’s texts eventually. I’m sure she will this time too.
“I know, but Mom, twenty-one means sheisa legal adult. Maybe you reallyshouldn’tworry about her.”
Mom huffs. “You know it isn’t that easy.”
“Carina’s smart, Mom. And the note’s an improvement over the last time she took off.”
I’m not sure it’s helping my cause to remind Mom of the time Carina jumped in a van with people she’djustmet to attend a music festival on the other side of the country, but that’s just how Carina is. It’s maddening how quickly she trusts people, but most of the time, it’s also pretty amazing. No one can see the good in a person like Carina can. I wish she wereslightlybetter at picking up on the bad in people, but there’s no good wishing for something that isn’t going to happen. Carina is who she is—who she’s always been.
“I’ll text her to check in, okay?” I say to Mom.
“Maybe she’ll respond to you,” Mom says. “My phone says my messages have been delivered, but so far, I haven’t heard back.”
“How long has she been gone?” I say.
“Only four days. But that’s a long time to ignore yourmother. I promise my messages haven’t been pushy. I just want to know she’s okay.”
“Can you see her location?”
“I tried, but it wouldn’t pull up. The app keeps telling me my username is invalid, which is dumb because I never changed it.”
Sometimes it feels like a lot that, even though my sister and I are fully grown adults, my mother still uses an app to track our locations. After losing Daphne, I can’t truly fault her wanting to hold us close—figuratively, if not literally—but I sometimes wonder if it makes her worrymore.If it’s created an unreasonable expectation.
“We can FaceTime later, and I’ll help you figure it out, okay?” I say. “But I really don’t think you need to worry. I’m sure Carina is fine.”
“But you’ll check on her?” Mom asks. “See if you can get through to her? I know you don’t think I should worry, but I swear, something was different this time. She was off before she left. Like she’d lost her sparkle.”
“What do you mean? How did she lose her sparkle?” I switch Mom’s call over to speaker phone and pull up my sister’s Instagram account. I doubt Mom has checked, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Carina has posted something about where she is or at least who she’s with.
