Book IV of the UNC Series
Carter Blake has a bone-deep hatred for the world-and especially for the people in it. All he wants is to keep his head down, focus on school and basketball, and avoid the mess of human connection. After enduring years of...
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I softly close the door behind me, not wanting to interrupt anyone sleeping. The guys have yet to fall asleep, still playing loudly, without a care for the others sleeping in the house. When I texted Dad, I quickly glanced up to see if anyone would notice and when I saw he read the message, I got up and left. Part of me hoped they would notice me leaving, but a greater part was just grateful to escape.
Honestly, I didn't expect Dad to read my message, considering it's three in the morning. I just wanted to let him know, in case he came looking for me in the morning. But I didn't want him to rush to pick me up in the morning or even leave his bed when I was about to walk home. He's been restless and tired lately because of audits and issues at work.
But I simply couldn't wait until the morning to leave. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. And I hate how Mom forced me to be social and have friends when it pains me to put on a front. I'm someone who revels in the silence, and she's forcing me to be someone I don't recognize and don't like.
I tried to maintain a positive attitude about it like Mom wanted. Still, I couldn't control the wincing after my attempts at joining the conversation. I would have left earlier, but Mom would have made a massive fuss about it. It's better that I get home when she's in bed and won't reprimand me for being antisocial. I can just lie about what time I got home. Hate that I have to lie, but it's better than what Mom would say.
As I descend the porch stairs, a pair of headlights momentarily blinds me. I raise my arm to block the light before lowering it and spot Mom's familiar Civic pulling up. The car has seen better days, especially as the paint rusts and scratches mar the sides. Mom has never been particular about being cautious when driving and pulling out of parking lots, especially the underground ones.
My chest clenches at the thought that she read my message on Dad's phone instead and came to stop me, forcing me to endure the night. But when I recognize the familiar mop of unruly dark hair and a broad stature, I let out a sigh of relief. I jog down the pathway to the curb, where Dad idles and rolls down the driver's window.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" I ask, keeling over to meet his eyes.
His dark grey eyes look tired and sleep-deprived.
I was sure his work and all-night drive to Cardill to drop Carsen off for off-season football training a few days ago would have him passed out by now.
"I saw your text," he shrugs with a genuine smile on his face. Wrinkles crease around his eyes and mouth, marking his age. But despite his stress, his face and eyes show none of it.
"Yeah, that was meant for you to see in the morning," I respond in my usual desolate tone. I've spent up the entirety of my social battery this evening and don't even have the energy to appear happy to see him, even though I am.
