Left At The Airport By My Family

My phone vibrated against the dust-covered kitchen counter. The screen lit up, flashing a name I had spent thirteen years running toward.

Ryan.

He was calling. He was actually calling.

"You going to answer that?" Caleb asked. He leaned against the exposed wooden studs, a fresh bottle of water in his hand.

"No," I said.

"He will just call back," Caleb noted.

"Let him."

"He strikes me as the type who demands an audience." Caleb crushed his empty plastic bottle. The noise cracked through the quiet kitchen like a gunshot. "The longer you ignore him, the louder he will get."

"I have spent my entire adult life managing his volume," I replied, my voice hard. "I am done managing."

Caleb studied my face. He tossed the crushed plastic into a black trash bag. "Good. Because we have an errand to run."

"An errand? Now?"

"You want to stay here, you need to know how to secure the place," he said. He grabbed a set of keys from the island. "Grab your coat. We are going to the hardware store."

The autumn wind bit through my thin shirt, carrying the scent of exhaust and damp leaves.

Caleb kept a brisk pace.

"You don't strike me as a DIY kind of woman," he said, not glancing back.

"I hired contractors for the house renovations," I admitted, keeping up with his long strides. "Ryan didn't like the noise. He preferred everything finished while he was at the office."

"Convenient for him."

"He paid the bills."

"You paid the mortgage for five years," Caleb reminded me. "You said so yourself."

I tightened my jaw. "It is a partnership. Or it was."

"A partnership means equal footing. Giving your ticket to his assistant is not equal footing. It is a dismissal."

"I am aware of what it is, Caleb."

He stopped at the corner, waiting for the crosswalk signal. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Are you? Because flipping your phone over is easy. Standing your ground when he eventually corners you is a different game."

"I can handle my husband."

"He is not your husband right now. He is your adversary." The walk sign flashed white. Caleb stepped off the curb. "Act like it."

Caleb walked straight past the front registers and down Aisle 4. I followed, stepping over a stray coil of green garden hose.

He stopped in front of a massive wall displaying brass and steel deadbolts.

"Most people think you need to replace the entire handle when you change a lock," Caleb said. He pulled a small, cylindrical piece of metal from a pegboard. "You don't. You just swap the cylinder."

"And you are teaching me this why?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Because relying on someone else to secure your doors is a bad habit." He handed me the heavy metal piece. "Hold this."

I gripped the cold brass. The weight of it felt solid in my palm. "I know how to lock a door, Caleb."

"Locking a door and owning the lock are two different things," he countered. He pointed a calloused finger at a diagram on the back of the packaging. "You slide the old core out, drop the new one in, and turn the key. Two minutes of work. No locksmith required."

"Seems too simple."

"The best fixes usually are."

My pocket buzzed. A short, sharp vibration.

I pulled my phone out, expecting another missed call from Ryan.

First National Fraud Alert: Transaction Declined. Card ending in 4092.

I stared at the glowing letters. Card ending in 4092. That was Lauren's supplementary corporate card.

"What is it?" Caleb asked, watching my expression shift.

I read the text again. The red letters spelling Declined anchored my gaze. A strange, unfamiliar pull tugged at the corners of my mouth. I tried to suppress it, but the smile broke through anyway.

"Lauren just tried to buy eight hundred and fifty dollars' worth of surfing gear in Hawaii," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Caleb leaned against the shelving unit. "And?"

"And the register declined her."

A short, rough laugh escaped Caleb's chest. "She is standing at the counter right now, holding a stack of wetsuits, looking like an absolute fool."

"Ryan is probably furious," I noted. I tapped the screen to dismiss the alert, but the satisfaction lingered. "He hates looking cheap in front of his employees. He hates cashiers telling him no."

"He hates losing control even more," Caleb pointed out. "You just cut his strings."

"I just protected my credit score," I corrected.

"Sure you did. You enjoyed that."

"Maybe a little."

"Good." Caleb nodded toward the rows of hardware. "Pick a cylinder. We need to get back before the store closes."

I scanned the packaging. I bypassed those and grabbed a basic, heavy-duty Kwikset cylinder from the bottom rack.

"Fifteen dollars," I read the yellow sticker. "This will keep the door secure?"

"Solid brass," Caleb confirmed. "It will hold against a kick."

A teenager with a name tag that read Toby scanned the barcode. He chewed a piece of pink bubblegum with slow, mechanical jaw movements.

"That will be sixteen dollars and twenty cents with tax," Toby droned.

Caleb reached into the back pocket of his faded denim jeans. He pulled out a worn leather wallet and extracted a twenty-dollar bill.

I grabbed his wrist.

He stared at my hand, then shifted his focus to my face.

"Put it away," I told him.

"It is sixteen bucks, Emma."

"I don't care if it is sixteen cents." I pushed his hand back toward his pocket. "I am paying for my own lock."

"You are unemployed and currently sleeping in my sister's dusty guest room."

"I have three hundred thousand miles cashed out into my private savings," I shot back, keeping my voice low but firm. "I can afford hardware."

Caleb held my gaze for a long second. He did not argue. He simply slid the cash back into his wallet and stepped aside, leaving the space open for me.

"Your show," he said.

I pulled my debit card out and tapped it against the card reader. A green checkmark illuminated the small digital screen.

Approved.

"Thank you, Toby," I said.

"You know," Caleb said, matching my pace as we headed back toward the house. "If he calls again, you are going to have to talk to him eventually. You cannot hide out in Oak Park forever."

"I am not hiding," I said, gripping the plastic bag tightly. "I am preparing. I will talk to him when I am ready. Not a second before."

"He will come looking for you."

"Let him look."

We reached the cracked concrete steps of the Victorian house. Caleb pulled his keys from his pocket, but before he could unlock the front door, my phone screen lit up again inside my jacket pocket.

I tapped the screen to wake it up.

A glaring red calendar notification popped up, overriding the lock screen.

Reminder: Oakridge Middle School Orientation.

Time remaining: 72 Hours.