Grown(35)

I nod. “Yes.”

“But you gotta promise you won’t ever leave me, Enchanted. Promise it’ll just be me and you. You’ll protect me and I’ll protect you. Together, forever.”

He gathers me up in his arms, clutching my back, his body shaking. A fresh wave of love washes over my heart. No one has ever needed me like this before. Maybe the Littles, but this feels so much more . . . desperate.

I look over at the ocean, at what was once my home, so close yet so far, then back at Korey. My new home.

“I promise.”





Chapter 44


Grown





Voice mail #1: Enchanted? It’s Mommy, give me a call.

Voice mail #2: Enchanted? It’s Mom. Again. I’ve been calling you for the past three days and the only way I know you alive is because of your Instagram. Call me back.

Voice mail #3: Enchanted? It’s Mommy. What’s going on?

Voice mail #8: Enchanted, this is your mother. This is my eighth message and you haven’t called me back once! Call me. I mean it.

Voice mail #10: Enchanted, what is going on with you? I see you on the news performing but that’s the only way I know you’re alive. Look, you better call me! Your father and I have had just about enough of this, and we can’t seem to get any answer from Jessica. Call me back TO-DAY!

Voice mail #13: Oh, so you think you GROWN now? Think I don’t see you hopping around stage in that cheap getup and wig. Enchanted, I’m sick and tired of these games y’all playing. You better call me back!

Voice mail #17: Enchanted, baby . . . I don’t know what’s going on with you. I don’t care. I just want you to come home. We’re real worried now. It’s been three weeks since I’ve heard your voice. You just need to come on home now, OK?

Voice mail #21: Enchanted, it’s Daddy. Call me.

Voice mail #28: Enchanted, it’s Daddy. Just come on downstairs, baby. It’s OK. It’s OK. No one’s gonna hurt you, I swear.

Voice mail #29: Enchanted! Your father is downstairs. PLEASE, Enchanted. Please, go down, go talk to him. Please.

Voice mail #30: Enchanted, what’s going on? Please, they’re hurting him. Just answer the phone. Stop this!

Voice mail #42: Enchanted, it’s Mommy. Please, baby. Please, just talk to me. Why won’t you talk to me?

Voice mail almost full.





Chapter 45


Connection




On the Parkwood Instagram page, I see my friends. A picture of Hannah and Mackenzie at the last swim meet, grinning in soaking-wet suits. Pictures of the basketball game against our rival. There’s a picture of Shea, with her group of friends, handing out roses for the annual Valentine’s Day fest. The junior student council posts a message, reminding people to purchase their junior prom tickets and pay student dues.

I wish there was a picture of Gab, somewhere. Anywhere. I’m starting to forget what she looks like.

On Will and Willow’s page, Creighton posts pictures from the recent Presidents’ Day trip to the Smithsonian African American museum in Washington, DC, a video of their sing-along on the bus ride down, and pictures of them eating red-velvet cupcakes, my favorite.

Everyone is going out, living their lives. Two months, and it feels like the whole world has moved on . . . without me.

“Why you all up in his page?”

The airport terminal lights cast a shadow across Korey’s face. His voice is hard, cutting. I look down at my phone, realizing I clicked on Creighton’s profile, on a post about the upcoming Group Five spring-break trip, a drive down the East Coast to visit historically black colleges, even staying on campus.

It all sounds like fun. Real fun. I barely remember what that is.

“I’m not. It’s . . . um, Will and Willow’s page.”

Korey’s face is unreadable. He snatches my phone, shoving it in his pocket.

“You don’t need this anymore anyways. We’re going home.”





Chapter 46


Glass Jar




The house is a glass jar of French vanilla pudding in an Atlanta suburb. Everything is cream, white, and stone. Cream curtains, cream sofa, cream carpet, and dining table. The only spot of color is the black wrought-iron railing snaking up the double staircase.

“Welcome home,” Korey says, his arms spread wide under the giant crystal chandelier that hangs from an impossibly high foyer ceiling.

Nothing about this place screams home. It screams museum or mausoleum, smelling as if it was dipped in bleach. It burns my nose the moment I step inside.

“Shoes off,” he orders, holding a gold champagne bottle.

I set my bag down, unlacing my sneakers and take in the surroundings.

No pictures. No memorabilia. Nothing that says this place belongs to anyone specific. It could almost double as a model home I’ve seen on those real estate commercials.

I suddenly miss the smells and tight quarters of my house. Burning sage, roasting rosemary, and Daddy’s aftershave. I even miss sharing a room with Shea. But I can’t go back home. Parents probably wouldn’t let me through the front door. The only place left for me is with Korey. Plus, he loves me. He needs me.

Love is complicated.

“How long will we be here?” I ask, noticing a tiny security camera on the ceiling.