Fragile Little Things ✓

23 fall

Jem

THERE WAS A PARTY TONIGHT and I couldn’t care less about it. I decided to stay back at the garage to finish up an engine I’m working on. But alone in the darkness of the garage, empty without the boys, an annoying feeling catches up with me.

There’s a bitter taste at the back of my mouth, and it has little to do with what I had to eat or drink. I’m still in the dark with only the low glow from the generator to keep me company, when my phone lights up.

It’s Mason.

I wipe off my hands, picking up. “Yes?”

“Eli told me you didn’t leave the garage,” he says. “Go home.”

Easy for him to say. He made nice with Ever and I’m pretty sure he left with her for Christmas. They were probably fucking each other’s brains out before he decided to call. I don’t know why I’m being such a bitter asshole about it. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s him.

“You know, Mason,” I say, “you can’t tell me not to be spending nights here when you’ve been doing the exact same thing for months now.”

Mason sighs on the other end. “Yeah, man. I fucked up. But I’m not gonna watch you fuck up, too. And if that makes me a hypocrite, I don’t care. I’m just looking out for you. That’s what friends do.”

I sigh. “Are you done?”

“Don’t be stubborn, Valentine—”

Sighing, I hang up on him. It’s late and I don’t need a lecture. Mason likes to pretend that he’s responsible for all of us, but he’s not. I’m older than him, anyway. Besides, the garage being quiet expect for the hum of the generator isn’t so bad. I’m not leaving until I’m done.

A few seconds later, my phone starts ringing again. My jaw clenches as I try to ignore it. I have no fucking clue why Mason’s being so persistent. Alright, maybe I do. He knows how it feels to not want to go anywhere. Or do anything. Because no matter what you do, there’s always a hollow emptiness only one person can fill. Except you can’t be with that person.

But the difference between me and Mason is that I have a legitimate reason to be staying away, whereas he was just a self-sabotaging idiot. My gaze slips to my screen late and I can’t believe my fucking eyes.

Because it’s not Mason calling again.

Bright and clear, my screen reads, Indigo.

My heart roars to life. It can’t be a mistake, because if it was, she would’ve cut the call by now. The thought that she might be in trouble, and that I might be her last resort flashes white-hot in my mind, and I’m reaching for my phone faster than the speed of fucking light.

I answer before the call can end, holding my phone to my ear. “Indie?”

There’s a soft intake of breath on the other end of the call, like she wasn’t expecting me to answer—like she wasn’t expecting it to be me. It hits me quickly. She doesn’t have my number. So either she got it from someone, or . . . she found it from when I called on her birthday.

My thoughts are confirmed when she says, to check if it really is me, “Jem?”

There’s some background noise that tells me she’s not indoors. And her voice—it hits me like a freight train. It sounds raw. Broken. Like she’s been crying.

“It’s me,” I say, my voice firm. Steady. For all I know, she’s low on battery and I’ll lose her when she needs me. Important questions first. “Are you okay?”