Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
JULIE
I'm at work doing inventory Monday afternoon when my phone buzzes against the stainless steel counter. Devon's school. I answer immediately.
"Mrs. Stevens? This is the attendance office at Lakeside. Devon is experiencing some bad anxiety and would like to go home."
My stomach drops. "Is she okay? Does she need medical attention?"
"She says she just needs to leave. Can you come pick her up?"
"Of course. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I find her in the attendance office, sitting in a wooden chair with her backpack on her lap. Her eyes are red. Her hands are shaking. The attendance secretary gives me a sympathetic look as I sign Devon out.
"Come on, honey," I say. "Let's get you home."
She doesn't speak during the drive. I keep glancing over, trying to gauge how bad it is. Her breathing seems normal. She's not crying. But she's staring out the window with her arms wrapped around herself.
When we pull into the garage, she gets out of the car without waiting for me.
By the time I walk into the kitchen, she's already upstairs.
I give her space. Make myself tea. Answer emails on my laptop at the kitchen island.
An hour later, she comes downstairs wearing different clothes.
Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair is in a messy bun. She looks completely fine.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Better." She opens the fridge and pulls out a LaCroix. "I just needed to get out of there."
"Do you want to talk about what happened?"
"Not really." She cracks open the can and takes a long drink. "It was just overwhelming. I don't really know anyone at that school—I haven't been there long enough. First I was the new girl whose stepfather was one of the richest men in the world, so people were curious. Now I'm an orphan."
She pauses, staring at the can. "Girls have always had a problem with me, no matter what school I was at. I learned not to expect to fit in or whatever. Since the accident, I feel like everyone is staring at me and whispering. And today was a lot. Too many people. Too much noise."
"That makes sense. You've been through a lot."
She shrugs. "I'm fine now."
And she does seem fine. Not fragile or shaky or on the verge of tears. Just normal. Maybe even a little dismissive.
"I'm going to do homework in my room," she says.
"Okay. Let me know if you need anything."
"I won't."
There's a tone I don't like and a flash of smugness in her expression as she takes her drink and leaves.
I sit and stare at my laptop screen, trying to shake the feeling that something about that whole interaction was off.
But she's grieving. Teenagers are unpredictable. I'm probably reading too much into it.
On Wednesday, I'm at the shop again, this time helping Jamie restock the retail shelves. The school calls again. Devon needs to go home.
Jamie sees my face when I hang up. "Again?"
"Yeah."
"Is she okay?"
"They said she's having anxiety." I grab my keys from behind the counter. "I need to go get her."
I drive to the school. Sign her out. Same routine. When I ask if she's okay, she just nods. When I ask if something specific triggered it, she says she doesn't want to talk about it.
Fine. I can respect that.
We get home. She goes upstairs. I make myself another cup of tea and try to get some work done remotely. Thirty minutes later, she's back downstairs. Hair down now. Makeup touched up. Scrolling through her phone like nothing happened.
"Feeling better?" I ask.
"Yeah." She doesn't look up from her screen. "I'm going to make a snack. Did you pick up any of those protein bars I like?"
"Yep, they’re in the pantry."
She finds them. Takes one. Heads back upstairs without another word. I watch her go and feel that same nagging sensation. When it's just the two of us, she's fine. Not anxious. Not fragile. Just a normal teenager who barely acknowledges my existence.
But I push the thought away. She's grieving. She's allowed to have bad days. I need to be supportive, not suspicious.
Friday morning, I notice Devon's Mercedes is still in the garage when I leave for work. She didn't drive to school. Which means Asher took her.
I think about the first call. Monday. The Mercedes was in the garage that morning too. And the second call. Wednesday. Same thing. This is the third day this week she hasn’t driven to school. Both of the other times Devon didn't drive, the school called me. I wonder if they'll call again.
My phone buzzes two hours later. It's not the school. It’s Asher.
Leaving work early. Devon called. She's having a rough day. Going to pick her up from school.
She called him. Not me. Him. For a second, I let myself think it: Is she planning these? Then I immediately feel guilty for thinking it. She's seventeen. She just lost her mother and stepfather. She's grieving. She's not orchestrating panic attacks to manipulate her stepbrother. That's crazy.
Except she didn't drive on any of those days. And this time, instead of waiting for the school to call me, she called Asher directly. She knew exactly who to call to get exactly what she wanted.
I text back:
Is she okay? Do you need me to come home?
No. I've got it. See you tonight.
That's it. He's got it. I don’t hear anything else from him. At six, I leave the shop and drive home. When I walk in, the house is quiet. Asher's briefcase is on the counter. His suit jacket is draped over a chair.
I find them in the living room. Devon is curled up on the couch with a blanket, watching TV. He's sitting beside her, feet on the ottoman, scrolling through his phone. So she didn’t scurry off to her room to avoid talking to him the way she did with me. They both look up when I walk in.
"Hey," Asher says softly. "How was work?"
"Fine." I set my bag down. "How are you feeling, Devon?"
"Better now." Her voice is small. Fragile. Nothing like the dismissive tone she uses when we're alone. "Asher came and got me. I didn't want to bother you again."
"You're not a bother."
But she's already looking back at Asher, her expression grateful and adoring. "Thank you for coming. I know you were busy."
"You're more important," he says, and the tenderness in his voice makes my chest tighten.
I stand there feeling like an intruder in my own living room. "I'm going to start dinner," I say.
Neither of them responds. It’s like I’m fucking background, an invisible dust mote floating through the air.
I go into the kitchen and pull ingredients for stir fry with more force than necessary.
Chicken. Vegetables. Rice. I can hear their voices from the other room.
I can't make out the words, but I can hear her laugh softly at something he says.
I feel crazy because all I can think is that she got what she really wanted.
Asher's attention.
The next call from the school comes on Monday.
"Mrs. Stevens, we wanted to reach out about Devon. The anxiety episodes over the past week that required her to leave school early also seem to be affecting her ability to focus in class. We're concerned that she's struggling to manage the traditional classroom environment right now."
I'm in the car, on speaker, driving back from a vendor meeting. "What are you suggesting?"
"We have an excellent online learning program. It would allow Devon to complete her coursework from home at her own pace, which might reduce some of the stress she's experiencing. Given everything she's been through, it might be the best option for her mental health."
"I appreciate that. Can I discuss it with my husband and get back to you?"
"I'd hoped he would have told you that we discussed it with him on Friday. I thought bringing it up with you would help move it along because we do think sooner is better. The longer she struggles in the classroom, the harder it will be for her to catch up academically."
I'm flabbergasted that he didn't mention it to me. What the fuck? When I get home, Asher is already there. Early again. He's in the kitchen with Devon, making her tea.
"Hey," I say. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure." He hands Devon the mug. "I'll be right back."
We go into his office and I close the door. "The school called," I say. "They said they discussed online school with you last week. You didn't think to mention this to me over the weekend?"
He doesn't bother to look regretful. "Yeah. I was thinking it over. I was going to tell you."
"When? After you'd already decided? Because that's what it sounds like." My voice is sharper than I intend. "They said they haven't heard back from you. So you talked to them, and then you just... what? Forgot to tell your wife about a major decision regarding our household?"
"It's not a major decision. It's?—"
"It is a major decision, Asher. Devon lives in our house. She's part of our family. And you discussed a major change with the school and didn't include me in that conversation."
He crosses his arms. "Because I knew you'd want to keep her in the traditional classroom. I knew you'd want to debate it endlessly. So I called Dr. Reeves to get a professional opinion first."
That’s weird. It was weird that he took the initiative to find a therapist for her to begin with.
But I figured he felt like it was his duty.
But calling the therapist to talk? That’s so out of his wheelhouse, it boggles the mind.
Asher is not that guy. At least not any version of him that I know. It’s completely out of character.
"You called her therapist? And you did it before you talked to me?"
"Yes. I wanted to make sure this was actually the right move before we discussed it."
"Before we discussed it?" I repeat, my voice hollow. "You mean before you informed me of your decision."
"That's not what I mean."
"Isn't it? You talked to the school on Friday. You called the therapist at some point. You've already made up your mind. And I'm just finding out about it now because the school called me wondering why you hadn't responded."
I can feel the anger rising in my chest, but underneath it is something worse—a cold, clear realization. "I'm not part of this, am I? You didn't even consider me in any of this."
"That's not true."
"Then why am I always the last to know? Why are you making decisions about our home, our household, without even consulting me?"
He uncrosses his arms. "Because she's struggling, Julie. And sometimes you need to act instead of analyzing every option in the way that you do."
It's like a bucket of cold water. "I'm not asking you to analyze. I'm asking you to include me. There's a difference."
His jaw tightens. "I didn't make a decision. I gathered information. And now we're discussing it."
"It doesn't feel like a discussion. It feels like you've already decided and you're just informing me."
"Stop it. We are making decisions together. Right now. And I'm telling you I think this is what's best for her."
"What about what I think?"
"What do you think?" He glares at me. "That she should keep going to school and having panic attacks? That we should force her into an environment that's clearly not working? That she should suffer because you want to think about it?"
"No. I just think we should take our time. Maybe see if things improve. Talk about medication and coping mechanisms. Not rush into isolating her at home."
"She's not being isolated. She'll still see her therapist. She'll still have us. She'll just be in a less stressful environment."
“But–”
“No. Not buts. You’re being ridiculous. I’m so fucking tired of not meeting your impossible standard. You’re perfect, I suck. I get it. Thanks for the constant motherfucking reminder.” He stalks toward the door.
"You know what, Julie? Sometimes you’re a real fucking cunt. So fuck this and fuck you. I've already decided. She's doing online school. It starts next week."
He walks out and slams the door behind him before I can respond. The sound reverberates like a cannon. He’s never spoken to me like that. Not ever. He’s never slammed out of a room like that either.
Physically, he didn’t scare me. But what he said and the way he said it felt like a slap or a punch. Like abuse.
Like my father.
I can’t be here. I can’t do this, whatever it is. Shaking, I walk into the kitchen, grab my purse and keys, and leave.