Tim's mother is too young to die, but she dies anyway--in a video that goes viral. Tim scrambles to hold his life together, but the person who keeps him on his feet turns out to be his half-sister, a fiesty girl who has no idea they're related, but...
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Mornings come too fast lately. My body does this thing where it only wants to sleep for five or so hours at a time. Little red ticks on my clock spell out 7:38 on the bedside table. Not much considering my tossing, turning, and playlist-making until 2am.
What's my body thinking? There are two very important roles played by sleep over the summer:
1) sleep erases everything. Doesn't everything seem better after sleep? It's like hitting reset.
2) what the hell else am I supposed to do with these spare hours? I can barely decide how to spend awake time as it is.
I try to kill a few extra minutes staring at the ceiling. Getting up before 8 o'clock is such a waste of socially acceptable time in bed.
This is my position until I hear the tinny echo of voices from downstairs, anyway.
The word lawyer is more than enough to get me scrambling onto the floor to the vent.
"I thought we were done with lawyers," Heather says, "I figured as long as we made it clear we won't back down, they'd drop it."
"Tay wanted Tim here," Darrell replies, "that has to count for something."
"It has to. That's what we've got going for us." Heather sighs. "I really didn't think it would come to this."
"There's still a chance it won't." Darrell forces in a last shred of optimism. "I'll call the lawyer's office at lunch. See you tonight."
The breathing I forgot to do comes in sharply when I finally remember. Darrell's heavy work boot footsteps are followed by the opening and slamming of the front door.
"Goddammit, Tay," Heather mutters, barely loud enough for it to travel through whatever house-type mechanics let me eavesdrop on her.
Goddammit, Tay.
My phone is on the bedside table and I know exactly what's on it: potential regret. It's full of the stuff right now, but something else is stirring around inside me worse than awkwardness. I draw myself up slowly, grabbing my phone to look over the messages I've already read.
