“Reagan?” my mother’s voice calls out to me.
“Hi. Coming,” I cry out cheerfully and take three giant, silent steps toward the hallway mirror. My cheeks are flushed and my mouth is bright red. My dark, normally sleek hair is wild and my mascara is smudged beneath my bottom lashes. I totally look like a girl who has been kissing the boy next door, and they’ll know it in two seconds if I don’t fix this. I run my fingers quickly through my hair and wipe the mascara from beneath my eyes. I slather on a thick coat of lip balm and hope they’ll think I’m just wearing colored lip gloss. My cheeks … what can I do about pink cheeks …
“Hello? Daughter?” my dad calls out now.
“Coming,” I say and pull out my phone. I look down, faking a text, as I enter the kitchen. “Sorry. I was just texting with Harper.”
I slip my phone back into my pocket before they can see I’m lying. Mom raises her eyebrows at me anyway from her seat at the island. Dad stands opposite her in dark jeans and a black sweater. He smiles, grabs me, and hugs me tighter than normal.
“Favorite daughter,” he says and kisses me on top of the head.
“Only daughter,” I answer and return his tight squeeze. “That was a quick trip.”
I drop my purse on the floor, give Mom a hug, and take a seat on the stool next to her at the island.
“We missed you. Did you miss us?” Mom asks, running her hand through my hair.
“Yes. I wept uncontrollably,” I say and smile.
“What’d we miss around New Albany?” Dad asks, leaning against the counter with his strong, callused hands.
“Not much. Same shh … stuff. Different day.” I glance over at my mom with a sheepish grin on my face. She gives me “the look.”
“Nice girls like you don’t swear, Reagan,” she says, shaking her head.
“Yeah, yeah. You love me and my potty mouth,” I reply and wrap my arms around her shoulders.
“I certainly do not. I did not raise you to sound like a truck driver,” she says. I give her arm a squeeze and feel her wince. I pull my arms away and stare at her, waiting for an explanation. She doesn’t give me one. She stares straight ahead and takes a sip of her coffee, her thin blue sweater falling down her arm and exposing a sliver of a white bandage.
“Mom, what happened?” I ask, touching her arm. I run my fingers along the little grooves of the wrap. She shoos my hand away and pulls her sweater down, hiding it from view. “What happened?” I ask again, this time with a little more force.
“Nothing,” she says, refusing to meet my eyes. “Just some bumps and bruises. All part of the job, sweetie.”
I look at my father. He stares down at the counter, drumming his fingers on the side of his coffee cup.
“What’s going on with you guys?” I wait a few beats. Silence. “Did something happen on the mission?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Why would you think that?” Mom asks after a few silent seconds, her eyes fixed straight ahead, staring blankly into the backyard.
The lightness we shared when I first walked in was a facade. With each moment that ticks by, it begins to crack and the darkness they’re hiding slowly slips out, encircling the room like a thick smoke, licking the corners, the cabinets, and the granite until it reaches my chest, tightening my lungs with every breath.
“Because you’re acting super weird. I know when something is wrong,” I answer. “So what’s going on?” They share a look. One that says, Should we tell her?
“Nothing that concerns you, baby,” Mom finally says, her voice soft and still. I roll my eyes and stand up from the stool.
“You know, I’m really sick of this,” I say and point at my chest. “Childhood ended for me a long time ago. You want me to put assault rifles in my hand and kick down doors and rescue people like you do, fine. But start by telling me the truth.”
My fist knocks against the stone counter. My mother jumps and my father’s eyes widen, surprised by my anger. They’re used to me rolling my eyes, saying “Whatever,” and walking out of the room.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” my father snaps at me, his sharpness forcing my body back into the chair. “We will tell you what you need to know and that is it, do you understand me?”
We sit in impenetrable silence. My eyes dart between Mom and Dad, studying their weighty eyes, their tight lips, their strained breaths. Whatever they’re hiding, it’s heavy.
“That’s not fair,” I finally say, my voice quiet.