~~~~~ Emery’s Pov ~~~~~
I was still curled against Calloway’s shoulder, half-drifting somewhere between exhaustion and the particular, hard-won peace of a day that had finally settled into something good, when my phone buzzed against my thigh again.
I almost ignored it.
Almost let it go to voicemail the way I had been doing with everything that wasn’t Priya or Calloway all evening.
But something about the timing—late enough that it felt wrong, insistent enough that it buzzed twice more before I could reach for it—made me sit up and grab it properly instead.
The screen showed a number I didn’t recognize, a local area code, and beneath it, in smaller text, the name of the diner where my mother worked, the number apparently saved from some old order I had placed months ago without ever thinking I would need it for something like this.
My stomach dropped before I’d even answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Emery?
Emery Hale?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar, brisk but not unkind, the sound of the restaurant’s kitchen clattering faintly behind her, a radio playing something upbeat that felt jarringly wrong against the tension already coiling tight in my chest.
“Yes.
This is Emery.”
“Hi, sweetheart, this is Donna.
I manage the diner your mom works at.
I’m so sorry to call so late.
Your mom’s not feeling well.
She got really dizzy about twenty minutes ago, almost went down near the register.
We got her sitting down.
She’s conscious and talking, but she’s pretty shaky, and she asked me to call you instead of an ambulance.
Is there any way you can come get her?
I don’t think she should be driving herself home tonight.”
Every other thought in my head went completely silent.
“Is she okay?
Is she actually okay right now?”
“She’s stable, honey.
Just weak, a little pale.
I think it might just be low blood sugar or exhaustion.
She mentioned she skipped lunch, but I really don’t want her driving alone in that condition.”
“I’m coming.
Tell her I’m coming right now.”
I ended the call and was already on my feet before I’d fully processed standing, my hands fumbling for my bag, my jacket, anything, my heart hammering somewhere up near my throat.
“Emery?” Calloway’s voice, sharp with sudden alarm, cut through the panic clouding my head.
“What happened?”
“My mom.
She’s sick—dizzy, at work.
They think it’s low blood sugar, but I don’t know.
I need to go.
I need to get to her—”
I was already moving toward the door, my jacket half on one arm, when Calloway’s hand caught mine, gentle but firm enough to actually stop me.
“No.
I’m fine.
I’ll take the bus.
I’ll figure it out—”
“Emery.” She stepped closer, her expression steady despite the urgency in mine, holding my hand like she had no intention of letting go until I actually looked at her.
“The bus will take too long.
Please.
Let me drive you.”
I stared at her for a long moment, panic and pride warring somewhere behind my ribs, the same stubborn instinct that always made accepting help feel harder than it should.
But underneath the panic, some small, exhausted part of me recognized, plainly, that she was right, that arguing about it was only wasting time I didn’t have.
“Fine,” I said finally, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
“Please.
Yes.
Drive me.”
Something in her face eased with relief, and she was already moving, rushing toward the small table by the door where her keys sat tangled with a spare hair tie.
She pulled her jacket off the hook in one fluid motion, still in the same soft T-shirt and shorts from earlier, not stopping to change into anything more practical.
“Give me thirty seconds.”
It felt like longer.
I stood by the door, bouncing slightly on my heels.
My phone was already in my hand as I typed out a shaking text to my mother.
*Mom, I’m coming.
I’m on my way.
Please be okay.*
Even though I knew, logically, she probably wasn’t in any state to read it yet.
My mind kept circling back to Donna’s voice, calm and careful in the particular way people got when they were trying not to alarm you further, and I hated how much that carefulness scared me more than panic would have.
Calloway reappeared a moment later, keys in her hand.
She slid her feet into a pair of sneakers by the door without bothering to fully lace them, and I was already moving before she’d fully caught up, pulling the front door open and heading straight for the street where I remembered her car was parked.
She fell into step right behind me, unlocking it with a quick press of her thumb, and we both climbed in at nearly the same moment, the doors shutting in near unison.
“Which diner?” she asked, already starting the engine, her voice calm and steady in a way that helped ground me even through the panic still buzzing under my skin.
“The one on Fifth.
Near the old theater.”
“I know it.” She pulled out from the curb smoothly, checking her mirrors with quick, practiced efficiency that made me grateful, suddenly and fiercely, that she was the one behind the wheel and not me.
My hands were shaking too badly right then to trust myself with anything more complicated than holding my phone.
The streets were mostly empty at that hour, streetlights blurring past in long amber streaks as she drove, faster than usual but controlled, nothing reckless about it, just the quiet urgency of someone who understood exactly how much every extra minute mattered right then.
I kept my eyes fixed on my phone, refreshing a text thread that stayed stubbornly unread, my knee bouncing with nervous energy I couldn’t quite still.
“She’s going to be okay,” Calloway said after a few blocks, glancing over at me briefly before returning her eyes to the road, one hand leaving the wheel to find mine where it sat clenched in my lap.
“Low blood sugar sounds manageable.
Scary, but manageable.”
“She skipped lunch.” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to, thinking about my mother pushing through a double shift on an empty stomach because she never wanted to spend money on something as simple as food for herself when there were other bills that felt more urgent.
“She does that.
Skips meals when things get tight, and thinks I don’t notice.” This story is hosted at novelping.com.
“That sounds like something you’d do too.”
I didn’t have a response for that, mostly because she wasn’t wrong, and mostly because I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth left that night to examine exactly how much of my mother’s stubbornness I had apparently inherited without ever meaning to.
“Almost there,” Calloway said gently, squeezing my hand once before returning it to the wheel as the diner’s familiar neon sign came into view up ahead, glowing warmly against the dark street, the same sign I had walked past a hundred times waiting for a bus, never once imagining I would be racing toward it like this.
She pulled into the small lot out front and had barely put the car in park before I was already unbuckling, already reaching for the door handle, my heart pounding too hard to wait even the few extra seconds it would take her to fully stop the engine.
“Go,” she said before I could even ask.
“I’ll park properly and come find you.
Go.”
I didn’t waste time thanking her.
I just pushed the door open and ran, my sneakers slapping hard against the wet pavement, the diner’s warm yellow light spilling out through the front windows, growing closer with every stride, my breath coming ragged and fast in the cold night air.
I burst through the door hard enough that the bell above it jangled violently, and the first thing I saw was my mother sitting in a booth near the back, one hand pressed flat against the table.
A woman I didn’t recognize—Donna, presumably—crouched beside her with a glass of orange juice held out patiently, waiting for her to take it.
“Mom.” My voice cracked, everything in me rushing toward her before I’d even fully processed crossing the room.
She looked up at the sound of my voice, pale, a little unsteady, but her eyes found mine, and something in her whole body seemed to relax at the sight of me, the same way it always did whenever she was the one comforting me instead of the other way around.
“I’m okay, baby,” she said, her voice thin but steady, reaching for my hand the second I got close enough.
“I’m okay.
I just got a little dizzy.
I’m sorry they scared you.”
I dropped into the booth beside her, my hands shaking as I gripped hers, checking her face, her eyes, anything I could actually see for myself instead of taking Donna’s word for it over the phone.
“Did you eat today?
Actually eat, not just coffee and a granola bar?”
My mother’s guilty silence answered the question well enough.
“Mom.”
“I was busy.
I meant to.” She squeezed my hand, offering a small, apologetic smile that did nothing to ease the tight knot still sitting in my chest.
“I promise I’m fine now.
Donna’s been taking good care of me.”
Donna offered a small, sympathetic smile of her own, still holding the orange juice out until my mother finally accepted it, taking a slow sip under both of our watchful eyes.
The bell above the door jangled again, and I glanced up to see Calloway stepping inside, still slightly out of breath from parking and hurrying after me, scanning the diner until her eyes landed on our booth.
She hung back near the entrance, giving us space, but the look on her face was worried, careful, entirely focused on making sure I was okay.
That alone settled something warm in my chest even in the middle of everything else happening.
“Who’s that?” my mother asked quietly, following my gaze.
“That’s Calloway,” I said, my voice softer than I expected.
“She drove me here.”
My mother stared at her for a long moment, something assessing in her tired eyes despite everything else going on, and then, slowly, she smiled.
A small, but real smile.
“Well,” she said.
“Invite her over, then.
I’d like to actually meet the girl who apparently got my daughter here faster than any bus could have.”
“Mom.”