Page 71 of Mistlefoe
“No, you don’t get it.” I’ve lost all desire to live, but somehow pull myself to my feet and start donning my outer layers. “Latin American parents are… Even more specifically, my parents are really old school. They’re going to leap to conclusions I have no way of proving otherwise.”
Conor stops by the door. “I’ll be your witness, then.”
I choke in the middle of wrapping my scarf around my neck. After thumping my chest hard, I say, “Do you have a death wish? If you so much as pop your head into the discussion you’ll lose it.”
“Worth it.” He shrugs. “Let’s go.”
“Conor!”
“I assume the more we tarry, the more they’ll theorize?”
“Shit. Let’s hurry.”
We tumble out of Conor’s house and the hurrying ends right there. The outside has become a field of white blanketingthe pine trees, the ground, and more importantly, Conor’s pickup truck that brought us here.
He rubs the top of his head over his beanie. “New plan, I’m gonna start shoveling and in the meantime, you call your parents to let them know we’ll be there within the hour.”
“Okay, and then I help you.” We nod to each other and get to work.
*
“Stay in the car,” I say as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Nope.” But Conor’s faster and he’s out of the vehicle before I can even process.
Yelping, I try to move faster. Except, I slip as I get out of the car and latching on the door gives him enough time to walk around it. I watch as if everything was happening in slow motion—Conor rushing over to help me at the same time as Mom and Dad open the front door.
“Sierra Fernandez!”
This is when Conor catches me in his arms, legs spread wide to balance our combined weight. We both turn to my parents.
Dad’s face is purpler than I’ve ever seen it and he’s gnashing his teeth in a way that looks painful. Meanwhile, Mom holds up her cellphone like she’s taking a picture of us. Our front yard isn’t very long, and the nearness helps me catch a tinny voice coming from the device.
“¿Grammie? ¡Estoy bien!” I scream from the sidewalk.
“No. You. Are. Not!” Dad grouches back and points a finger at the porch floor. “Come here right this second.”
“I’m going to let you go slowly,” Conor whispers in my ear. “Ready?”
“No. Yes.” I grab onto his arms until my feet are firm on the frozen path. To my family, I say, “I can explain.”
Dad turns his index finger into the house. “In! Now.”
Goodness. I’ve never heard him speak in syllables alone. I’m really done for this time.
I shrug my purse strap higher and trudge at a snail pace.
“¿Y ese quién es?” Grammie asks from through the phone, and that’s when I see Conor following after me.
“I said stay in the car,” I half hiss, half whisper.
“No.” The set of his eyebrows is as stern as I’ve ever seen it and I figure I can’t help a man who is bent on marching to his death.
No one says anything until we’re secure inside the house, away from our snooping neighbors. I didn’t see anyone openly watching, but I have no doubt they were.
Once the door is closed, Dad rounds on me. “¡Explícate, señorita!”
I draw in air and explain, “Conor and I were working on the office event but we were so tired from everything that’s been going on, that we fell asleep and woke up with Mom’s phone call. That’s the honest truth, cross my heart and hope to die.”
