I wake up to sixteen unread messages from my girlfriend. Sometimes it’s too easy to call Kat crazy, but I’m probably the reason for her being crazy, so that’s not really fair.

The first ten texts are variations on “where are you?”, the next five “are you okay’s?”, and the last one says “Call me.” I hate “call me’s”, ‘cause they mean having to lie through your teeth to someone you care about. Kat cares a lot; I’m just struggling to keep up.

Skye’s nowhere in the room but even if she was I’m pretty sure I couldn’t find her.

She has no floor, her running shoes are mismatched, and her jerseys are hanging off her bedposts like a bomb went off. The only thing clean about the place is the walls. They’re pearly white on all sides. No posters. No pictures, just sparkly white paint.

I always took Skye for a closeted girly-girl, but the most she has in the way of decoration are her trophies and medals. She’s got them set up over her desk perfectly, like they’re the only calm in the rest of her chaos.

I look for her before even trying to find the rest of my clothes. Maybe that reads a little desperate but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. My best friend JJ says the secret to being suave is slipping out unnoticed, acting like you hook up all the time, and that you don’t care where your girl goes.

But I woke up on the wrong side of lonely this morning, and as stupid as it sounds, sleeping next to her for a couple more hours would’ve been more than okay with me.

Skye’s door’s cracked open and I can hear her screaming at somebody on the phone downstairs. Couldn’t be Miles. He’s a silent fighter, like a military drone. By the time you figure out he’s mad, he’s already caught you in a twenty-minute lecture you didn’t even see coming.

I can’t even imagine him being pissed at Skye. But if there’s one thing he hates, it’s inconsistency and she didn’t head back to our house last night. Neither did I.

            Shit.

I grab my phone and punch in and excuse to Miles hoping to God it’s still too early in the morning for him to put two and two together.

            Me: Crashed at dad’s, be back later.

Anytime I need an excuse to disappear my dad’s place is ideal. He hardly talks to Miles or me so lying about seeing him always works. Miles has this picture perfect family, so he thinks it’s great whenever I try to work shit out with my dad.

He thinks everything can be resolved with a conversation, so he’s always over the moon when he sees that I’m “trying”. I stopped trying with my dad a long time ago, but Miles still believes in the impossible anyway. His text lights up my screen.

            Miles: Cool. Thanks for taking Skye home last night.

The last part stings like hell. I never should’ve kissed her, or slept with her, or woke up without her. The weird thing about consequences is, you don’t feel them till the morning after.

Skye comes flying up the stairs like a bat out of hell with nothing but a track t-shirt and yesterday’s panties on.

            “Disappear,” she says.

I try to pretend that her telling me to evaporate doesn’t bother me but it does. She can’t burst into her room, hair messy and early morning beautiful and tell me to disappear.

            “Didn’t you wanna get breakfast or something?

            “Miles is ten minutes away.”

My heart bottoms out and gets stuck somewhere between my throat and my stomach. Skye scrambles to cover my tracks, I pocket my empty condom wrapper, but making my cologne disappear from her bed sheets is a whole other problem. I try to help Skye pull off her blankets but she shoos me out my car so I can bolt out of her driveway before Miles pulls into it.

I shoot out Ventura Blvd, think I spot Miles’ red Mustang turning onto Skye’s little side street in the rear view, and book it towards the freeway. I don’t check the mirror again ‘til there’s a good few miles between me and Skye.

 My escape plan finds me on the 101 North towards my Dad’s place. My adrenaline’s still kicking and screaming from Miles almost seeing my car at Skye’s, and him almost kicking my ass. The rush felt good for a little while, like the high off getting caught was almost as good as spending the night with Skye, but it died off in the zombie crawl of rush hour traffic.

Nobody’s moving.

LA’s the only place in the world where people can’t remember how to accelerate for extended periods of time. I feel like shit, ‘cause I realize that last night slimmed the degrees of separation between me turning out decent, and me turning into my Dad.

I wasn’t even drunk and I jumped Skye like Kat didn’t exist, and like Miles wasn’t important enough to factor into the equation. I should drive back to Skye’s place and apologize. I should let Miles kick the shit out of me until he feels better.

I should call Kat and break up with her because she deserves better, but I don’t. My hands stay knuckle-white-tight around the steering wheel, ‘cause I’m scared that if I move everything will fall apart.

I open the window to keep from puking, but the seventy-degree smoggy air hits me in the face and makes everything worse. Seeing my dad won’t fix anything, but it’s not like Miles’ parents will be up for an early morning chat about why I cheated with their son’s girlfriend.

They love her, they love Miles, and they love me, but they shouldn’t. I’m somebody else’s mistake and that somebody else makes a point never to see me.

Dad says I can come see him anytime I want, but it’d be nice if he meant it. He’s slaphappy with his new wife, Val, and new his car, and his new kid, but I like dropping by sometimes to remind him that he’ll always be lying to himself.

He won’t wanna talk, not about anything real, anyway.

But I don’t need a genuine conversation, I just figure talking to somebody with the kind of future I don’t want will keep me from setting myself up early. Even if we don’t talk at all, I’d see him just so some part of what I’ve said to Miles in the last twenty-four hours is true.

The Agora Hills exit pops up over the freeway in between an army of Mercedes dealerships. How many fucking options do rich people need? The brand screams “asshole” no matter what model you drive.

I pull into the Shell station and fill my non-Mercedes with four-dollar and fifty-cent gas that’s $3.47 in the Valley. I hate it here. It reeks of trophy wives, dirty business, and over priced perfume, but this morning there’s nowhere else to go. Not for a couple more hours anyway.

I park on the street ‘cause my dad’s new kid, Xander, is shooting hoops in the driveway. He came along with the marriage, but my dad treats him better than a brand new car.

He gets everything.

Dad gets irritated when he has to pay for a burger and fries lunch at In-N-Out with me, but Xander’s got it made. I’m pretty sure the Mercedes G-wagon in the garage in his too. I’m driving dad’s old Honda, from his old life, and Xander gets a G-wagon. I’m sticking to my Mercedes theory.

He’s a year younger than me, but unfortunately tall and unfortunately ginger. Don’t ask me how that happened. On one of our few awkward “family” dinners together, Val showed me and my Dad old photos of her ex-husband on her iphone.

Why she keeps things like that will never make sense to me, but the guy was straight Italian, black hair, dark eyes, and basically the car dealership version of Sylvester Stallone. Val’s blonde, one of few the natural ones left in Agora Hills, so Xander’s a mystery.

I think he knows he’s the product of an affair, but nobody talks about it. Not at the dinner table, anyway.

He waves to me when I get out of the car and smiles just wide enough for me to catch the gap between his front teeth. He probably caught a lot of bullying for that, but Xander’s not a bad guy.

He’s friendly, doesn’t make me feel like total alien, but he always looks at me like he’s still figuring out how not to be awkward around the kid who saw his mom kill herself.

We don’t even go to the same high school and people in his neck of the woods know who I am. Some people would be flattered to be rumor famous, but nobody wants to be talked about because of something like that.

 The thing is, I didn’t see my mom commit suicide. I saw someone else, who wasn’t my mom anymore commit suicide. A couple days after it happened, some kids at school were whispering things like, “Bet he'll quit like his mom did.” I should’ve knocked their teeth out.

My mom never would’ve just quit. She never quit anything or let me get away with quitting anything I did, and I’ve got terrible habit of not finishing things. Dad’s genes, I guess. Even back in elementary school when she put me in soccer, and I was miserable at it, she helped me not quit, because  “finishing what you start, and leaving things better when you go,” was important to her.

That was her mantra. That was her everyday thing. But I’m still trying to understand why she didn’t finish, why she left things in pieces when she went, ‘cause I was a better person before she died but lately I just kinda feel like quitting.

“Sup, Ty?”

Xander drops his hand out of orbit to slap me a high five. He’ll probably end up getting drafted to the NBA when he’s older, but right now he’s just linguini lanky. I can’t see him getting laid anytime soon, but his future on Lakers will make up for it. 

“Nothing—“

I just cheated on my girlfriend with someone else’s girlfriend, you?

“That’s cool. Dad’s—your dad’s outback.”

He tries not to get googly eyed over my Dad in front of me, but I know Xander thinks he’s great. Good. At least one of his sons loves him.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

He goes back to nailing free throws and I head inside.

The problem with Val and my dad’s place is that it’s huge, five bedrooms, four bathrooms, Iron Chef kitchen, huge. But only three people live here. Three. It’s not commune, they’re not housing orphans, the whole thing is obnoxious ‘cause nobody needs a house like the ones on MTV Cribs.

I get lost almost every time I come over. The easiest place to find is the kitchen because Val’s always there, never cooking, just talking on the phone loud enough for me to find her.

She teeters over to me in her however-many-inch-heels and smothers me into one of her hugs. Her boobs feel like rocks ‘cause she works out so much they turned into Fruity Pebbles somewhere along the way. She’s nice enough, but my Mom blew her out of the water.

Val’s got one of those overly tan faces that you’d lose in a Malibu beach crowd easy. Carbon copy Barbie. But nobody looked like Mom. She had these green gold eyes like I’d never seen on anyone. She was a total knock out before she got sick.

Somebody better than dad deserved her, somebody who wouldn’t have left. But Val’s exactly what I think my dad deserves—fake and temporary.

She mouths a quick “good to see you,” before pointing me outside to the deck where my dad’s grilling a couple steaks into submission. He always did make a mean steak.

            “Hey Tyger, you look like hell.”

Always tells like it is. Asshole. We half hug, he’s gotten fatter, and his apron’s got something like barbeque sauce stuck all over it.

            “Thanks, I try,” I say.

            “Sit down, grab a pop. What are you up to today?”

He means, “why are you here?” but he’s gotten better at hiding it. I lean over their million-dollar balcony and stare out at the hills. A spark from Dad’s grill in the wrong direction could torch everything west of Malibu. These people probably have two or three spare houses in case of emergencies.

            “I was just in the area, thought I’d say hi and hang out for a little bit.”

            “It’s good to see you, kid. But Me and Val have plans later so—“

Leave, Ty.

            “I’m not staying, I just wanted I’d drop by for a couple minutes, that’s all.”

            “Sure, you’re welcome to stay for lunch if you want. How’s Miles?”

I don’t want to talk about Miles, but Dad loves Miles so I give him what he wants.

             “He’s great. College visiting.”

And totally out of the loop with his girlfriend.

         “Good kid. What about you? You’re a junior right? It’s probably time to start thinking about your future.”

He says that like I’m the only one who should be concerned about it.  Guess my future isn’t his problem anymore.

         “Yeah, I’m looking at a couple art schools to apply to next year. Mrs. Copeland thinks I’ve gotta pretty good chance at getting in, so—”

Mrs. Copeland is my crazy, hippie, studio art teacher and probably the only reason why I’m still alive. At least she gives a shit about my future. Dad goes back to his steaks like he didn’t hear a word I said. Good to know how he feels about arts school.

            “Any girlfriends in the picture?”

We go over this every time I see him. He still forgets. Five star parent.

            “Yeah, Kat remember? We’ve almost been together a year.”

            “Of course, I just thought I remembered you saying you broke up.”

That never happened, but I’m sure we will after today.

             “How’s she doing?” He asks.

            “Good, but I cheated on her.”

I say it out loud ‘cause I want him to hear me. I want someone to hear me. I want him to turn around and yell at me, or sit me down and help me straighten my shit out, but he keeps staring at his goddamn steaks like he’s married to them.

After a while, he takes off his gloves, runs a hand through what’s left of his grey hair, and looks at me with the what-can-you-do face I can’t stand.

            “It’s high school, Ty. Boys will be boys. She’ll get over it.”

 Really? Mom didn’t get over it. But like he says, boys will be boys.

            “I should call her later,” I say.

            “I’m sure she’ll understand."

No, dad, she won’t. No girl ever does.

            “Who’s the other girl?” He asks. He would want to know.

            “I don’t really wanna talk about it, but she’s nobody special.”

I don’t even believe what I’m saying anymore.

            “Well then it’s settled. Just tell Katie you’re sorry—“

            “It’s Kat, dad.”

            “Tell Kat you’re sorry and everything will be fine. Steaks are almost done.”

I’m so nauseated by the situation that the idea of choking on my own vomit sounds better than eating one of his fifty-dollar steaks.

            “I gotta go, but good talk.”

            “Suit yourself. On the way in, would you mind telling Val and Xander that lunch is ready.”

            “Sure.”

I don’t say anything to anyone on my way out, just bolt to the car, pull out a pack of smokes, and light up ‘til I feel better. Nothing feels good about driving halfway across LA just to remind yourself that you don’t really have a family anywhere.

The second I’m back on the freeway, Kat calls. I pick up in the middle of the first ring ‘cause the sound of her calling is more nerve wracking than the sound of her voice.

            “Hey Kat, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back I just—“

            “Did Miles call you?”

            “What? No, why?”

            “His girlfriend Skype’s missing.”

            “It’s Skye, Kat, and what are you talking about?”

        “Well if you’d picked up your phone earlier, I would’ve told you. You could’ve just texted last night saying you were gonna crash at your dad’s. I would’ve understood. But whole ignoring me thing Ty, seriously—”

            “What do you mean, Skye’s missing?”

           “Okay, well, like, an hour ago Miles called me, that’s how I found out you were at your dad’s by the way, for all I know you could’ve been dead somewhere.“

            “Sorry.”

            “Forgiven. But anyway, Skye’s Mom called Miles and—“

Her mouth’s moving a mile a minute, but can’t focus on anything she’s saying or the road.

             “Hold on.”

I switch across four lanes across; nearly get clipped by a Jetta, and exit somewhere near Topanga mall. There are too many people on the side streets, and I just need to stop somewhere so I can listen.

I pull into the first available strip of street parking I see to keep from crashing and possibly ruining someone else’s life because of Skye.

       “Are you okay, Ty? You sound stressed. Maybe we should do acupuncture together this weekend.”

I am fucking stressed, and unless acupuncture fixes cheating or missing girls, I’m not interested.

            “Sure. Um, what were you saying?”

            “Oh yeah. So, Miles said he saw Skye this morning and she was fine after he left—”

She wasn’t fine. Nothing about what we did was fine, but we’re the only ones who know that.

            “—But when her mom came home for lunch or whatever, Skye wasn’t there. She tried calling Skye and she didn’t pick up. She called Miles, he called Skye, and she didn’t pick up, so presto. Here we are. Where are you by the way? We should have lunch.”

My head hurts so badly I can’t focus on what Kat’s saying anymore. I’m trying not to think about how small my windpipe feels and how little air is getting through, but nothing’s working.

I mute the phone so Kat can’t hear me gasping like I’m dying, ‘cause it feels like I’m dying, but the panic attacks haven’t killed me yet, just brought me pretty close.

I keep a bottle of anxiety M&M’s my doctor gives me in the backseat. The second I reach for them, I start thinking about Skye being there less than twelve hours ago and her disappearing in less than two.

I choke down two pink pills and wait for chemicals to work. Kat’s on hold for ten minutes before I pick up again, and when I do I feel like crying. But I’ll never cry in front of her.

            “What happened, babe? Are you still in Agora? The service is so up bad there, no wonder you didn’t answer my texts.”

            “Yeah, sorry. I’m just seeing them now. My dad just called. I left something back his place, so I gotta turn around. I’ll text you later. We’ll get dinner or something.”

Sushi and a couple sake bombs will make her happy, even if the truth won’t.

            “K, babe. Call Miles. Love you!”

            “Okay. Bye”

I hang up the phone to find a text from Skye. It’s short but sweet. At least her texting means she’s not totally missing.

            Leaning over the LA skyline. Find me, xx. -Skye

 Not yet.