Great Big Beautiful Life(81)

Otherwise, you’d never know there was a storm at all.

When I go back inside, I remember to plug in my phone, which is now thoroughly dead. The second it turns on, I’m barraged with all the calls and messages I missed last night.

There are the ones I knew to expect—Margaret and Hayden each trying to get a hold of me, Hayden in an increasingly panicked fashion.

The ones I could’ve guessed I’d get—my friends’ group chat devolving into an argument about a true-crime docuseries that Priya, Bianca, and Cillian all had vastly different opinions on.

And then there are the messages that surprise me.

Theo, at some point yesterday, wrote to say I’m really sad our visit didn’t pan out. Miss chilling with you. And when I didn’t leap to reply to that, he followed up with Might actually be heading back to ATL soon. You still in that area? I leave that one alone. Regardless of what does or doesn’t happen with Hayden, I’m finally done making Theo’s plans for him.

And then the last, and most worrying, surprise.

Four voicemails from Mom.

Three messages.


Call me.

Why aren’t you answering your phone?

Please call me, Alice.



The panic is immediate. The heat, then cold, that flushes through me is intense. I’m instantly sweating, afraid I’m going to be sick, despite the fact that my throat feels impossibly tight.

My first thought, like so many times before this, is a deep, desperate Audrey!

I dial Mom, and it rings out, all the way to her voicemail. I hang up and try again, wishing I could pace, but tethered in place beside the electrical outlet, all the restless energy inside me trapped.

The line clicks halfway through the third ring. “Oh, thank god,” she says.

“What happened?” I get out between chattering teeth. “Is she okay?”

“What? Who?” Mom says.

“Audrey,” I blurt.

“Why wouldn’t your sister be okay?” Mom sounds very nearly offended by the idea.

That alone is enough to interrupt the anxiety circuiting through my body. I slump onto the arm of the couch, my shoulders slackening and a headache starting up, as if the sudden burst and then abrupt dissipation of cortisol has put me in a state of withdrawal.

Why wouldn’t your sister be okay? What a strange question to ask, after all those years when her very existence wasn’t a sure thing, let alone her okayness.

I shut my eyes tight and massage the bridge of my nose. “What did you need?” I ask.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Mom asks with her signature bluntness, entirely avoiding my question.

“I let it die by accident,” I say. “And then the power went out.”

There’s a silence on the other end.

“Hello?” I prompt.

“So you’re still in Georgia?” she says.

“Yeah, for now,” I say, noncommittal. “What did you need, Mom?”

“Nothing, nothing.” She sounds distracted if not disinterested.

My gut twists. “You sent me a few texts and left some messages. I thought there was an emergency.”

“Well, good thing there wasn’t,” she says lightly. “Seeing as how I had no way to get a hold of you.”

I grimace, move my fingers up to the spot right between my brows, and draw little circles there, trying to ease the tension. “Sorry. But I’m here now. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just saw we had a big storm coming in, and realized I didn’t even know where you are.”

There’s a serrated edge to her voice, almost like she’s mad at me.

But it’s not like I was keeping my location from her. I told her I was on a work trip a couple of hours away from her, and she didn’t ask for any more information.

“I’m up on Little Crescent,” I tell her now.

There’s another long pause before she says, “You guys get hit pretty bad up there?”

“Not too bad, no,” I say. “Lost some branches, but the power’s already back on, and the house I’m staying in didn’t take too much damage.”

“Good, good,” she says, distracted again.

“What about you?” I ask. “Any issues?”

“Oh, no, nothing major,” she says. “You know how it is. We’re far enough in from the coast to miss the worst of it. Heard there was some flash flooding, but we were fine.”

That we lodges itself into my heart like a tiny arrow.

I’m not sure if the we in question is her and my dad, or if it’s her and the chickens, and I’m not sure which of those possibilities would break my heart less.

I clear my throat. “Good.”

“And your friend? Hayden? He’s all right?”

“He’s good,” I assure her. “I saw him this morning. He’s fine.”

The truth, just not the whole truth.

“Well, good,” she says, like we’ve settled something. “Then I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, well, thanks for calling,” I say, uncertain what exactly just happened.

This is how it is sometimes between the two of us, like we each speak a different language and so have to do our best muddling through rough translations in a third language, one that’s native to neither of us.