“Are you sure you don’t just want to spend the night?” Harper asks as she pulls into my driveway. Her headlights hit the garage door, creep up the sides of the house, and spill into my parents’ bedroom. I look up at their window. The curtains are closed. Thank God. “It’s almost four a.m.”
“Positive,” I answer and climb out of her car. It’s dark and silent out, but navy blue is beginning to frame the star-dotted black sky, the sleeping world on the cusp of a new day. In an hour, the sun will shed its golden ribbons and I’ll be forced to face everything I’ve done in the last twelve hours. But not now. Now, I just need sleep.
“Call me tomorrow,” Harper says, the right side of her face rising into a small smile. “You’ll be okay.”
I nod once in agreement even though I don’t believe her. I close the door without saying another word and stand frozen, my feet glued to the asphalt, as Harper backs out of my driveway and rolls down Landon Lane. I watch her taillights blink red twice as she rolls up to the stop sign, then disappears from my sight.
The unseasonably warm October temperatures are long gone and the chilly morning air has encapsulated every strand of grass in its crystal frost. I pull my thin coat tighter around my body and glance over at the Weixels’ house. Luke’s bedroom window is cracked open but his light is out. I wonder if he’s staring at the ceiling, my betrayal playing over and over again in his mind like it is mine. I hope it’s not. I hope he’s asleep.
I run my hands through my messy hair and force my legs up the front walk until I reach the door. My stomach is throbbing as I say a silent, selfish prayer that Mom and Dad are asleep. I put my key in the door and quietly push it open. But there they are. Sitting in pajamas in the sunken living room we never use, loaded weapons resting at their sides. Fuck.
I close the door, lock it, and turn back to face them. They stare at me, their eyes wild with fury, their mouths pressed together into solid, thick lines. Their chests rise and fall in unplanned unison with heavy, enraged breaths. Their deafening silence is much worse than screaming. I walk across the foyer, throw my keys on the console table, and take a seat on one of the living room steps. Tension circles the room like a poisonous cloud. I pull my knees toward my chest and wait.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” my mother asks, her tongue slowly wrapping and pausing around each word. I stare into her sharp green eyes. They narrow as the seconds tick by without my answer.
“There are a lot of things wrong with me,” I finally say. “Most of them have to do with being born to the two of you.”
“Reagan, how the hell could you be so irresponsible?” my father explodes, ignoring my declaration. “You leave this house not only without telling us but without your gun to go get drunk at some stupid party. Are you trying to get us all killed? Do you even know what is happening right now?”
“I do but not because you had the courtesy of actually telling me,” I say, my voice struggling to remain calm. “I had to go find out about Anna Taylor and Alejandro myself. You expect me to act like a Black Angel but yet you treat me like a child. So guess what. For one night of my life, I decided to act like that child.”
“Don’t you dare use that angry tone with us, young lady,” Mom replies, her mouth twisting into an infuriated scowl.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened to you tonight?” Dad asks, his voice about five octaves louder than Mom’s. “The watchers had to track you down at that party. We could have pulled you out right then and there, but we wanted to see how stupid you would be. And congratulations, you were horrifically stupid.”
“So stupid in fact, I had to beg Sam not to report your actions to CORE,” Mom adds, her voice now rising. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed? Or ruin your entire career?”
“See. That right there is the problem with the two of you,” I reply, my hands at my side, my fingers digging into the hardwood steps. “You guys just assume this is what I want for my life but have you even bothered to ask me? No. Because you don’t care. You just want what’s best for the agency, right? The Black Angels come first.”
Dad jumps up from the couch, his arm outstretched, his finger pointed at me, shaking. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m absolutely done with this shit, Reagan.” Dad grabs his gun off the couch and turns to Mom. “You deal with her.”
Mom and I stare at each other as Dad stomps up the stairs and pounds down the hallway. He slams the bedroom door so hard I can feel the crack of the wood in my chest. The house is silent again.
“How could you say that, Reagan?” Mom says, furiously shaking her head. “When all we’ve ever done is protect you.”
A laugh bursts from my throat, deep and angry. Mom’s eyes narrow into slits.
“Why are you laughing?” she demands.
“All you’ve ever done is protect me?” I say, regaining my composure. “Are you kidding? All you’ve done is put me in harm’s way. My whole life has just been one dangerous situation after another.”