The past, or the future?
Let go of Joy, or keep her memory close?
Crossroads aren’t easy for chickens. Especially the ultra-mega ones.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Mom, let go of my face.” I pry my mother’s hands off the sides of my head as people pass by in the busy airport. “Dad, tell Mom to stop.”
My dad, aka “Mr. Khakis and Golf Shirts,” chuckles and holds up his phone to snap another photo. “Man up, Huff. And stop moving so I can get a good shot of her kissing your cheeks.”
While he laughs, I feel like diving into the nearest trash can for cover, and Mom goes in for a final round of kissy-cheeks. So cool of her to wear her neon-orange tracksuit so no one can possibly miss seeing us. “Mua! Mua! Mua! I’m going to miss you so much, Hudson.”
It’s funny how I tower over her at over six feet tall, but I still feel two feet shorter. At least Dad doesn’t baby me in public. Just lots of photos and a good ol’ handshake.
Like men.
Not that I feel or look like a man. He got me a set of weights for my twentieth birthday, and I’ve been working out in the garage just about every day, only to produce biceps the size of an egg.
A quail egg.
My legs are twigs, and my ass is nonexistent. Almost like Mother Nature decided to stretch me out but forgot to add the rest of the equipment.
At least my dick isn’t bad. According to the internet, it places a solid average for both length and width. In my world, average is normal, and anything normal about me goes right into the “shit I don’t have to worry about” pile.
Finally, Mom lets go and hands me a brown paper bag. “I packed you a ham sandwich, no crust, with some apple slices.”
I hate sandwiches. She knows that.
Two cute girls, probably about my age, walk by in shorts, giggling at my sad, pathetic self.
Fuck. This is embarrassing. “I have to go. Don’t want to be late to the plane. Thanks for the sandwich.”
Mom’s blue eyes tear up.
No. Please no. Do not cry, Mom. Not here.
“I’ll call as soon as I land,” I say, hoping to stave off another one of her meltdowns. Not that I don’t get it. I do. We’ve all been through a lot, and the baggage is still massive. It’s hard to explain, but losing Joy pulled us all together and then slowly started breaking us apart. And now I’m leaving. But the truth is I hardly talk to Kyle anymore because all we do is fight. My parents constantly bicker. And me? I’m tired of feeling numb just to get through the day.
“Okay, sweetie.” Mom pulls me in for another hug. “Don’t forget to also text when you get to campus. Those Uber people—you don’t know who they are.”
“Honey,” Dad grabs my arm to free me, “he’ll be fine. He’s a grown man now.”
Mom whisks a stray tear from her cheek. “Yep. Yep. I’m being too emotional again. I know,” she says with a bite.
And that’s my cue. My parents are about to fight. Mostly because Dad is in favor of me going to school out of state—says it will be healthy to get out on my own. Mom argues that the university two hours away would be a better choice so they can keep an eye on me.
Again, I get it. She worries what will happen, and maybe I do too, but River presented a compelling argument: being close to her again.
I haven’t seen my best friend in over two and a half years, when she came for my high school graduation. She knew it was going to be tough because of my sister. Joy never got to graduate, and preparing for my ceremony brought back dark memories for everyone.
River, though? Fucking amazing. The best friend I could ask for. Her school had let out a week before mine, and she was right there, holding my hand through the entire thing. Not the graduation ceremony, but living through the roller coaster of emotions with my parents.
I can get through anything with River by my side, which is why when she got on my ass about applying to her university, I scraped together enough courage to do it. When I got accepted with a full scholarship, River pushed me to make the move into a reality.
I give one final hug to Mom and suck up another firm back-pat from Dad.
“We’re only one flight away if you need anything,” Dad says.
“That’s right, honey. If you need us, we’ll be there faster than you can say ‘one-way ticket.’ And you have your emergency credit card if you want to come home. For any reason.”
“Thanks. Bye.” I try to offer a reassuring smile, but my lips are stuck in a grimace. I turn away and start the long march through the maze of ropes leading to the security checkpoint. A familiar wave of ice-cold chills rolls down my back, and my heart begins to tighten like it’s hunkering down for a dangerous journey.
You will not have an anxiety attack. You will not have an anxiety attack. River is waiting on the other side. River is waiting on the other side. Obviously, she isn’t in either airport, but all I have to do is make it through this flight, grab a ride at the airport, and I’ll be safe. The chicken will have his best friend by his side to help him acclimate to the new roost.
I can do this.
“All right, Mr. Ferris. Morty will take you to get your luggage.” The flight attendant helps me into a wheelchair just outside the arrival gate.
“Thanks.” I hang my head, brushing a few locks of hair down over my forehead. I’ve never been so humiliated. They almost had to make an emergency landing two hours into the flight because I lost my shit.
Around takeoff, I’d gotten cocky and felt proud of myself for getting on the plane without incident. But just after that, something about the roar of the engines pushed me inside my head. Then the dark thoughts started. Then the heavy breathing and waves of nausea showed up.
I kept telling myself to sleep, because when I woke, I’d be there. New city. New life. But my insides felt like they were being pulled apart and something was trying to drag me back to that town.
About to puke, I got up to use the restroom and passed out in some guy’s lap.
Fucking embarrassing.
When I came to, I thought I was back home in my bedroom and kept asking for Mom. When the fog cleared, it took ten minutes to convince the flight attendants I was okay—I’d only hyperventilated from flying nerves.
Really, I’m not okay. My insides are a mess.
Now I’m in a wheelchair, about to face the other passengers at the baggage claim. This is not how I imagined starting my new life.
Please let the rest of this day go smoothly. No more panic attacks, no more humiliating crap. I just need to get to River, and everything will be all right.
CHAPTER FIVE
My dorm room is two times smaller than I imagined, with dark gray carpet and plain brown furniture. Very drab. And cramped. There are two small desks, one closet, and a sink and mirror for brushing teeth and stuff. Another full-length mirror is stuck to the back of the door, but it’s all chipped around the edges.
“What a dump,” I mutter and look up at the ceiling, noticing a giant blue stain. Kind of like someone blew up a Smurf.
My eyes move to the other bed, and I realize the housing people totally disregarded the comment section in my application.
I said no football players. No jocks. Only serious students. But from the pile of sports magazines on the nightstand and the gear piled up on the other bed, two things are clear: This guy is into sports, and I need to find another roommate.