3. Sophie
SOPHIE
Pull yourself together. You’re?—
Still standing in the kitchen, staring at the door Trent just slammed behind him.
The room is silent in a way that’s somehow worse than yelling.
I blink. My lips are pressed so tightly it hurts, and I try to remember what I was doing before the world caught fire.
Then I will myself not to let this break me.
My fingers are numb. I uncurl them one at a time, as if defusing a bomb.
The memory of the hurt on his face is etched behind my eyelids.
I want to call him. I want to chase after him—God, I want to erase the last five minutes and start over.
But I don’t know what the alternative would’ve been, except maybe beating him home.
Instead, I stand there, breathing like my ribs are too small for my lungs. Then, slowly, I fumble for my phone.
No new messages.
So, I type one instead.
Me: Just let me know you’re safe. Please.
He won’t write back. I know he won’t. I wouldn’t have at his age, either.
I send another text, this one to June, because maybe that’s the next best thing.
Me: If Trent turns up at your place, can you let me know? He just left here. Not happy.
It feels insufficient. Like words pressed into a cement wall.
I type out another message, this time for Meredith.
Me: Sorry for the late text. Can you tell me if you see Trent? He stormed out.
I’m not sure whether to move or wait, so I do both. I wipe down the kitchen, pretending the routine might somehow summon him home, then abandon the rag in the sink.
I pace. The living room is cluttered with snack wrappers, sofa pillows tossed haphazardly, and the shadow of everything we said still hanging in the air.
I check my phone.
Nothing. Which doesn’t surprise me.
I open the front door and peer outside, half-hoping Trent might be huddled on the step. But there’s only the empty porch and a couple of moths flailing at the light.
I close the door and drift to the couch, unsure what to do with myself.
Sitting on the edge, I think about calling him.
I imagine his voice—furious and fragile.
I imagine waking June or Meredith and having to explain what just happened.
But maybe it isn’t them I’m worried about. Maybe, for once, it’s me.
The weight of the last few weeks drags at my shoulders. Every nerve is strung tight, but the rest of me feels limp.
I try the phone again.
Nothing.
I type and delete messages to Trent. Countless attempts at connection, or maybe vindication, or even justification. Some are angry. Some are gentle. Others I might’ve sent if I weren’t so afraid of making things worse. None of them survives long enough to be sent.
It takes a while to realize I’m shivering.
I’m not cold; it’s exhaustion, mixed with the kind of panic that simmers beneath the skin.
He’s never done this before. Sure, he’s left when he needed a breather—but always with a quick text, a see-you-later, or a door shut with intention instead of collapse.
I try not to think of all the places he could go. The dock, where he and Danny sometimes loiter until curfew. Davon’s house, where his dad is always home and would call if anything seemed off. June’s, where there’s always food in the fridge and someone willing to listen.
I try not to think about what it looks like if he doesn’t want to be found, which is how this is starting to feel, since I’ve gotten nothing but silence from everyone in Trent’s life.
My head drops back against the couch cushions. The living room is inky except for the pale glow of my phone. The cushions cradle my spine, but there’s no comfort there. Grief settles into my ribs like an unwelcome stranger.
The phone buzzes. My body lurches.
June: Got it. I’ll check in with you if he turns up. Want me to drive around?
My thumbs tremble as I type.
Me: No, let’s not make a thing of it. He’s probably just blowing off steam.
It’s the probably part that lodges in my throat.
I text again, just in case.
Me: Thank you. I’ll keep you posted.
The silence afterward is deeper than before.
I burrow into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to my chest, a blanket draped over my lap.
My head is heavy, my eyes burn, but I force them open.
If Trent texts—or the phone rings—I have to be awake.
I hate that it feels like I’m living on the edge of sanity, like I could tip over at any minute.
Every time the clock jumps forward fifteen minutes, I check my phone. Each time, there’s nothing new. I scroll through social media, skim headlines, stare at the same photos over and over. Nothing distracts me.
There’s a picture of Mom and the three of us from when we were little.
She’s holding a tray of lemon bars. June is elbow-deep in flour.
I look like I haven’t slept in a month. Meredith’s arms are crossed, like she’s already planning her escape.
I stare at Mom’s smiling face and feel something inside me crack.
If she were here, she’d know what to do. She’d wait like this—calm as a port in a storm—and Trent would come back, shuffling his feet, hungry, not quite sorry but willing to be caught. She’d offer him food, a story, or just the chance to be mad without consequence.
I’m not sure I can do it the way she did.
My legs twitch with the urge to get up, to move, to do something. Anything. But the room stays still, and the world outside remains dark.
The next time I blink, my phone says it’s two in the morning. Still nothing.
At some point, I let myself lie down. The blanket slips over my toes. My hand cramps around the phone—just in case. I watch the numbers tick forward until they blur.
Four-thirty-something.
I make it to five, but now the words on the screen barely make sense. Just for a second, I tell myself. Just one blink.
But when I open my eyes again, I’m drenched in sunlight. It spills across the living room, glinting off the glass. My phone is still in my hand, and the first, immediate agony is in my wrist. My fingers are clenched so tightly that the edges have left marks.
The next agony is the memory of last night.
A swipe, a blinking haze, and my notifications swim into view.
Nothing from Trent. Nothing from Meredith or June. However, there is an unread message from a number so familiar it stings. I don’t even have to think twice.
Caroline: Hope this isn’t too early! Trent left his soccer bag at home. Can you bring it to the school field for morning training? 8am sharp. See you there!
For a stupid second, I just stare.
He’s okay. He’s not in a ditch, halfway to L.A., or sleeping on a park bench.
Relief and embarrassment tumble over each other.
When I push upright, my head feels full of sand. The kitchen clock reads seven twenty-four. I have thirty-six minutes to look like a functioning human, dig through the laundry for Trent’s stuff, and get to the field without mowing down three cyclists and a couple of angry seagulls.
It can be done. I’ve done worse.
I stagger into the hallway, rubbing grit from my eyes. My tongue is coated with regret, my hair’s a mess, and the shirt I’m wearing might be inside out. When I think about what that means—that I wore it that way to see Noah—all I can do is groan.
I find the soccer bag by the stairs, right where he leaves it every day. It still smells like gym floor and the weird energy drink he likes, but it’ll have to do. I double-check the contents, then haul it over my shoulder, wincing at the weight, and stagger toward the kitchen.
Toast is a lost cause. I grab a banana and a couple of granola bars, shove them into a Ziploc, then into Trent’s bag because nutrition is for people with time.
I nearly forget to pee, drop my keys twice, and then lurch back into the hallway because I didn’t brush my teeth.
And then back again because I need my sunglasses.
Somewhere in the chaos, I remember to swipe on deodorant, check my jeans for stains, and turn my shirt the right way around.
The clock is ruthless. Ten till eight. But I made it.
I throw open the door, curse at the harsh sunlight, and sprint for the car. The bag thumps against my side as I slide into the driver’s seat.
The engine coughs, then catches. I steer with one hand and text with the other. I shouldn’t—I know that—but today isn’t a day for law-abiding perfection.
Me: On my way! See you at the field.
I almost add a string of heart emojis, then think better of it.
At the first stoplight, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror—hollow-eyed, splotchy-cheeked, something close to the walking dead staring back. It’s a look that says, Go ahead. Ask how I am. I dare you.
I try for a smile. It doesn’t work, but at least I look alive, which I couldn’t have said five seconds ago.
When I reach the school, I coast into the parking lot like I’m auditioning for a reality show called Barely Holding It Together. It’s mostly empty except for a couple of battered minivans and a Prius with a bumper sticker about saving the whales.
The field stretches beyond the chain-link fence. The impossibly green grass still glistens with dew, and the goalposts blink white in the morning sun. The air is crisp—not cold exactly, but enough to sting my eyes.
Kids crowd the sideline, stretching, jostling, lacing their cleats. I spot Trent instantly. Maybe it’s instinct, or maybe it’s the way his shape punches through everything else. He’s at the far end, facing away, bent over as he yanks his laces tight.
For half a second, I just stand there, the bag heavy on my shoulder, watching.
Then I lift my hand. “Trent!” I call, maybe a little too loud.
He straightens—I know he hears me—but instead of looking over, he pivots, grabs a ball, and launches into a nearby drill without acknowledging me.
My breath catches. The sting is immediate. I want to call again, louder, but the crowd of kids and chattering parents makes me hesitate. Apparently, I’m not invisible to everyone.