Chapter 7 - The Quiet Apartment
My apartment was a second-floor two-bedroom near the edge of campus, smelling faintly of old carpet and the lemon furniture polish I used on Saturdays. There were no balloons here. No orange and black banners. No cardboard cutouts of my face.
Just a stack of tax accounting textbooks on the kitchen table and a half-empty bag of coffee beans by the sink.
We sat around the small laminate kitchen table. Emmett pulled three cold beers from the small fridge, handed one to Sloan, one to me, and kept the last.
“So,” Emmett said, popping the cap off his bottle with a satisfying hiss. “Do you want to talk about how you just committed social suicide in front of twenty-four screaming Weber relatives?”
“I didn't commit suicide,” I said, turning the heavy walnut plaque over in my hands. The brass plate was cold. “I just stopped pretending I was invited to the party.”
Sloan reached across the table and laid her hand over mine. Her fingers were warm. “Your mom is going to call you by dinner time. Probably crying.”
“Let her,” I said. “Or better yet, let her call Colton. He’s much better at comforting her when she realizes the world didn't revolve around her schedule.”
The phone in my pocket buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
A group chat notification. Family Reunion 2026.
I pulled it out and laid it face up on the table.
Mom: Where did you go? We’re waiting at the table.
Uncle Vance: Is Craig coming or what? The appetizers are here.
Colton: Mom, stop. Just give him a minute.
Mom: He ruined pictures. Everyone is asking where he went.
I picked up the phone, tapped the group chat icon, and hit Leave Group.
A small notification appeared at the bottom of the screen: You have left the conversation.
May you like
Emmett let out a low whistle. “Damn. Nuclear option.”
“No,” I said, looking out the window at the parking lot where sycamore leaves were drifting across the hood of my car. “That’s just turning off the television.”
