Four Of A Kind

Chapter 148: [3.50] Diana Angelo

The parking lot emptied around me while I sat in the Lexus like a statue commissioned by an artist who gave up halfway through.

My hands stayed on the steering wheel. Ten and two. Perfect driving position for someone who wasn’t actually driving.

The engine was off. Had been for approximately fifteen minutes.

Students walked past. Some glanced at the car. A few lingered, probably trying to figure out if I’d died or was just having an existential crisis.

Both, honestly.

My phone sat in the cupholder. Face up. The screen had gone dark three minutes ago, but I could still see the notification count glowing through the black glass. Seventeen unread messages.

I knew what most of them said without looking.

Felix asking if I wanted ramen. Harlow checking if I was okay after snapping at Cassidy in the hallway. Vivienne reminding me about the tailor appointment at three. Sabrina with probably just a single emoji that somehow communicated an entire paragraph.

And five messages from an unknown number.

My mother.

Diana Angelo.

The woman who gave birth to me eighteen years ago and decided twenty months ago that California sounded better than Philadelphia. That a new boyfriend mattered more than her daughter. That a text message qualified as sufficient notice for abandoning your children.

I stared at the dashboard. The leather grain. The way sunlight caught the chrome trim around the vents.

This car cost more than everything I’d owned in my entire life combined.

I was sitting in it because four billionaire sisters decided I was interesting enough to keep around. Because one of them kissed me on her front steps. Because another one asked me to sleep in her room. Because the third one adjusted my collar three times yesterday and her fingers lingered. Because the fourth one hugged me so hard after solving a math problem that I felt her heartbeat against my chest.

My life was a circus fire and I was the guy selling tickets.

And my mother wanted to know how I was doing.

I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound came out wrong. Hollow. Like something you’d hear in a horror movie right before the protagonist realizes he’s been dead the whole time.

My phone buzzed again.

I picked it up. Unlocked it. Scrolled to the unknown number.

Five messages.

hey baby. its mom. i know its been a while.

im sorry for how things went down. i needed space to figure myself out.

are you and iris okay? is the apartment still working out?

i miss you both. can we talk?

please isaiah. i just want to hear your voice.

My jaw hurt. I’d been clenching it for the past three minutes without noticing.

Figure herself out.

She needed space to figure herself out.

I’d been figuring myself out since I was ten years old. Figuring out how to cook eggs without burning the apartment down. Figuring out which bills got paid first when money ran short. Figuring out how to explain to my baby sister that mom went away for work again and would be back soon, we just had to be good and quiet and not cause problems.

Iris stopped asking when mom was coming home around the time she turned nine.

That’s when I knew we’d lost her for good.

My phone buzzed again. A new message.

i know youre reading these. i can see the read receipts. please talk to me.

I typed fast. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.

What was I supposed to say?

Thanks for abandoning us, hope California is nice, by the way I’m raising your daughter alone and she’s turning out way better than either of us deserved?

Or maybe: Hey Mom, guess what, I work for four billionaire sisters now and one of them kissed me but I don’t know which one because they’re identical and also I might be catching feelings for all of them which is definitely a healthy coping mechanism for parental abandonment issues?

I locked my phone. Shoved it in my pocket.

The parking lot was almost empty now. Just me and a silver BMW three rows over. Some senior making out with his girlfriend against the hood. Her laugh carried through the closed windows.

I should go inside. I had AP Psychology in seven minutes. Ms. Brennan would give me that look if I was late. The one that said she could see straight through my bullshit and was tired of pretending otherwise.

But I couldn’t move.

Because here’s the thing about ghosts. You can ignore them for months. Years, even. Pretend they don’t exist. Build walls. Lock doors. Tell yourself you’re fine without them.

But the second they reach out, the second they say your name, all those walls turn into tissue paper.

And you remember.

You remember being six years old and trying to wake her up because you were hungry and she wouldn’t open her eyes. You remember being eight and realizing she forgot your birthday for the third year in a row. You remember being twelve and finding her crying in the bathroom at two in the morning because another boyfriend left and you didn’t know how to help so you just sat there on the cold tile until she stopped.

You remember being sixteen and coming home from your shift at the Velvet Room to find Iris asleep on the couch with the TV still on because mom said she’d be home by nine and it was midnight and she still hadn’t shown up.

You remember the text.

Met someone. Going to California. You’ll be fine. You always are.

Three hundred dollars. Gone from the emergency fund I kept hidden in a coffee can under the sink.

She didn’t even take her clothes. Just grabbed the money and disappeared like we were a hotel she’d checked out of.

I closed my eyes.

Breathed in. Held it. Counted to four. Breathed out.

Dr. Reyes taught me that. Freshman year, after she found me sleeping in the library for the third time that week because I’d missed the train home.

It was supposed to calm you down. Center you. Give you control.

It wasn’t working.