The restaurant grows very quiet—so quiet I could hear a pin drop as all the patrons stop and stare at our table. I pause, letting my gaze rake over everyone staring at me. I'm instantly embarrassed. Making a scene is not my first choice, but it happened. Shyly, I apologize to everyone as Zeke grabs my hand and gently tugs me back down into the booth beside him. Smiling gently at me, he places his hand on my leg; I'm not sure if it is meant to comfort him or me. His demeanor is calm compared to the storm inside me, where my insides still feel like they are spiraling and my adrenaline keeps spiking. Calm is not in my vocabulary at the moment; chaos and turmoil are, and they are overwhelming.
Zeke's composed demeanor is the complete opposite of mine; his gaze is steady, and his relaxed posture contrasts sharply with my stiff demeanor and frantic energy. Sitting in the booth beside him, close to the wall with no outlet, is inconvenient. It makes me feel confined; every part of me urges me to leave and go home. But how? I can't push him aside; that would be rude. Crawling under the table feels strange, plus uncomfortable for everyone, and he isn't moving. He is standing his ground, making me eat. This makes me question whether I am like a caged animal or just overreacting because of recent events. No, that couldn't be right—I'm not that dramatic. Or am I? That's a lie. I can be very dramatic, but I refuse to admit it, especially when his calmness only makes my internal chaos more intense.
He is freaking me out; he should be worried, too. This is everything we have found or collected so far about my family's disappearance. All I can do is stare at him, trying to decipher how he stays so calm. My face must betray my confusion—eyebrows raised, lips pressed tight—as I try to figure out how he found his zen. Scenarios start to run through my head: maybe he is an alien? That one has me smirking. Definitely not an alien. Did he fall and bump his head last night? No, that didn't happen either. I am running out of reasons to explain his relaxed attitude. He must notice my puzzled expression, which probably looks like a mix of suspicion and curiosity, because he chuckles at my face. I'm told my face is pretty expressive, which often gives away my emotions without me realizing it. What is the expression? Oh yeah, they can read me like a book, I think, feeling exposed.
"Rocky, eat first. Then we will head to the house, I promise." His voice is very gentle, with a trace of humor as he says the words. It almost feels like he is trying to calm down a scared animal or child, as if I could spook at any moment and bolt. I take a deep breath to calm myself down and then face him, hoping I can reason with him. We need to go home; I need to be there.
"Z, I can't eat. All I can think about is going home and retrieving the paperwork," I state as calmly as possible, hoping he will give in. My voice must betray me, because it still sounds stressed. He nods, letting me know he understands, but he isn't budging. We stare at one another, each of us trying to get the other to back down. Neither of us is backing down. Our standoff lasts until the waitress brings the food and sets it down in front of us.
Sharon breaks the silence. "Roxanne, honey, listen to Zeke. He's just worried about your health, and you two have been through so much lately. We all need you to take care of yourself," she says, with Andy sitting beside her and nodding in agreement. Obviously, I'm not going to win this argument; no one will listen to me until I meet their demands. Reluctantly, I pick up my fork and eat my omelet and half of the pancakes I ordered. When I say I eat them, I mean I shovel them down. My great idea is that the faster I eat, the quicker we can leave. Not the most graceful moment of my life, but it doesn't matter now. My thoughts are consumed with my house; this obsession can't be healthy.
"Slow down, kid," Andy says with a laugh. At first, I don't realize he is talking to me until I see the horrified yet concerned look everyone is giving me. Embarrassed, I stop mid-bite and lower my fork, placing it on my plate. Instantly, my face feels hot and probably looks like a cherry tomato, making me turn toward the wall in humiliation. I can only imagine what is running through their heads at my unladylike eating. For a moment, I hide my face, trying to calm myself down enough to face them. I'm not sure whether I need to laugh it off or cry, but either way, I have to face them. After a deep breath, I reluctantly turn to them, and they're smiling at me, holding in their laughter. Instead of dwelling on the embarrassment, I laugh with them, which brings me relief. My eating pace slows, even though my nerves never calm. The overwhelming need to go home keeps wracking my body.
After breakfast finally ends, they decide we can head back to the house. We need to assess the damage caused by the intruders and the deputies. The sheriff's department also asked us to check whether anything was stolen so they can add it to the report. Although the ride to the house is only fifteen minutes, it feels like an eternity. My body feels like it is on edge the entire time, as if at any moment disaster could happen. Not the most incredible feeling.
As we turn onto our road, the house and driveway gradually come into view. The closer we get, the better I feel. Once we enter the driveway, my anxiety begins to fade, as if crossing an invisible barrier washes away all my nervousness. Suddenly, the tightness in my chest relaxes, shifting from an intense sensation to calmness. It is strange how approaching the house makes me feel more at ease—a feeling hard to put into words. Many might think I've gone crazy; honestly, they might be right, which is how I've felt since moving in here. But everyone's a little crazy sometimes, right? Walking into the house brings a renewed sense of relief. The foyer welcomes me with its warmth and familiarity, and moving through each room feels like a comforting hug from an old friend or loved one.
After walking through the downstairs rooms, we see that a minor cleanup will be necessary. The sheriff's department called Zeke to tell us they didn't believe it was a robbery. They thought the intruders were mainly aiming to kill us because our valuables—our wallets, jewelry, and other expensive items—remained untouched. As I head toward the stairs, I realize I need to check the attic to see if they found the packet of papers. In my happiness at being home, my earlier urge to look for it had gone away. It is back now with a vengeance. Quickly, I head toward the stairs; my only objective is to get to the attic. Zeke notices where I am headed and follows closely behind, knowing I'd be devastated if it were gone.
As soon as I reach the attic door, my body switches into mission mode: my objective is to see if the paperwork is still in its hidden place. Swinging the door open, I quickly run to the floorboard that lifts. Dropping to my knees, I lift it and place it against the wall. Slowly, I reach my hand into the hole until the packet of paper brushes against my fingertips. Grabbing it, I lift it from its hiding space. Seeing it and holding the packet in my own hands makes me sigh in relief; they did not find our hiding spot. Thank goodness. I hand the packet of papers to Zeke, and we head back downstairs to our room. We had just bought a lock box for this reason. After we slide the papers into the box, we each take a key. Zeke carefully picks the box up and slides it under our bed. Hopefully, it will be safe there.
This makes me think of my mom's diary; I still have more entries to read. Opening my nightstand drawer, I see the worn, leather-bound journal lying there, waiting for me to pick it up and read it aloud again. It is a blessing to me. Through this beautiful book, I get to know my mom during her teenage years through her own words. The sacrifices she made for me and the hardships she endured as a single mother for our safety leave me in awe of her resilience. I run my hand over the leather front of the book one more time before shutting the drawer. Zeke stands up from the bed and holds his hand out to me. Grabbing it, we walk back down to the living room. Andy and Sharon are still sitting there on the couch, talking softly. As soon as they see us enter, they both start smiling, happy to see us.
"Is everything okay? Was anything taken upstairs?" Andy asks. We know what he is referring to: the papers.
"Yeah, everything is fine," Zeke replies. "It doesn't look like anything was disturbed upstairs."
"If you don't mind, we thought we could stay at your house tonight with you all and leave early tomorrow," Sharon says hopefully, glancing worriedly at us. "I mean, if that's okay? Sorry, I didn't mean to invite ourselves," she adds apologetically. We aren't opposed to them staying; in reality, we still feel a bit shaken from the previous night. What is the saying? There is safety in numbers.
"Of course, it's fine," I say, delighted they are staying. When we all go to sleep that night, it is quiet—no surprise attacks or strange dreams. Just good, uninterrupted sleep, which we haven't had for a while and so desperately need that night.
The next morning, instead of heading home early, Andy and Sharon decide to spend the day with us and go home either tomorrow or the day after. Throughout the day, Sharon and I clean up the mess while Andy and Zeke replace the locks and install additional cameras outside and in the attic. Even though we are busy, the day drags on, and by evening, we are all exhausted.
Zeke laughs at me as I throw myself on our bed; my legs and arms feel like jelly. I playfully glare at him, which makes him laugh harder. Obviously, I'm not very intimidating. He throws his hands up and walks over to my dresser. He pulls out a pair of sleep pants and then grabs a t-shirt from his dresser. He throws them to me on the bed and blows me a kiss, still laughing as he exits to the bathroom. Lazily, I drag myself into a sitting position and get dressed for bed. By the time he comes back in, I am already under the covers with my eyes closed. The mattress dips as he lies down beside me, pulling me into his arms and nuzzling his face against my throat. We stay like this for a while, just wrapped in each other's arms. It has been a while since we could breathe and enjoy each other's company.
Eventually, we drift off to dreamland, not knowing where it might lead us. As soon as my sleep-heavy eyelids close, I am transported to a beautiful room painted in soft baby blues. A circular white oak table is set in the center of the room with four chairs. Each chair is occupied except one. It looks lonely, empty, as if it has been waiting for me to fill it up. With each cautious step I take toward the table, the faces of the seated occupants come into focus.