College Ruled

twenty-nine

| 29 |
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I MANAGE to turn a four hour drive into a seven hour trip.

I didn't meant for it to happen. Stalling turned into stopping one too many times. One place being a hole in the wall café where I accidentally wasted a couple of hours sipping too much caffeine and finishing my latest novel — a mystery thriller that should not be read when stopping at a café for a quick matcha break.

So when I finally make it home, it's already dark. A few fresh flurries stick to Theo's windshield as I pull against the curb, but otherwise, the weather stayed still, the roads basically clear.

        There are three cars in the driveway. Camilla's Subaru, my dad's Yukon, and a white Ford Escalade that I don't immediately recognize. I frown at it as I pull my bag up to the front seat with me.

Dread — exhausting, lousy dread — creeps into my already tired bones.

        Did Mom get a new car? Unlikely, given she despises anything Ford related, but I hope like hell her car manufacturing preferences are just another change that I haven't been updated on. Because she didn't mention having company today. And after hours crammed in Theo's truck and the unfortunate choice of not combing my hair this morning — I look like absolute shit.

       The bags darkening under my eyes glare back at me as I spare a glance in the rearview mirror. Grimacing, I try to smooth my hair down before shoving Grayson's hat back onto my head.

      I take my time making my way from the truck to the large porch. The still quiet of the winding down subdivision is peaceful, and I welcome it with open arms. Like the deep breath of fresh air one takes just before diving below the surface.

     Squeezing my eyes shut, I hesitate for one moment longer. Two.

     Then, I dive.

     At the first ring of the doorbell, my mother's petite form rounds the corner of the entry way and jostles toward the front door. It swings open in front of me, the bells dangling from the golden holiday wreath jingles between us as our first greeting.

     I'm momentarily startled by the fact that my mother — who has never veered off her scheduled six week two-inch trim — has gotten a haircut.

     The long, dark woven braid she usually wore down her back is cut to her shoulders, and she has bangs. Bangs.

     She hates bangs. Used to swear she'd never get them. It was why I'd wanted them so much growing up.

     "Your hair—"

      "Go change please, yeah?" The door clicks shut behind me, and my mother's cold hand falls on my forearm. "You have hot sauce on your shirt."

       I wince.

     "Shi—shoot. Sorry." Damn you Taco Bell. "Long drive."

"Mhm. Go."

"Alright, I—but—" Laughter spurs from the living room around the corner. "Who's here?"

        "I told you we were having company."

       "Right. I just thought..." I trail off when the muscle above her eyebrow twitches. "Nevermind. I'll just go change."

Better not to piss her off before the break even really begins.

When I make it to my room, I switch out my wrinkled road-trip attire for a pair of black jeans and a green sweater, and toss my bag onto my bed with one last longing look toward the fuzzy pajamas peeking out at the top. Abandoning Grayson's hat onto the same pile, I attempt to smooth the non-responsive, frizzy shorter layers of hair out of my face before giving up. A sleek black headband — that I'm sure I haven't touched since high school — sticks out of my top dresser drawer, and I grab that instead, huffing into the vanity mirror as I slide it over my mane.