The Handoff (Big Play #3) by Jordan Ford Page A

pass the phone along to me. I’ll be away all break,” I quickly add, hoping it’ll be enough to appease her.
    Mom tuts. “Can’t believe you lost your phone again. You can’t do that Find My Phone thingy?”
    “It didn’t work when I tried. I’m sorry, okay?”
    “You know Martin doesn’t like you guys not having a phone. We’ll sort it out as soon as you get back.”
    “Th-thanks.”
    “He really cares about you two, you know. Even in spite of the way you treat his son.”
    My nostrils flare, a black look sweeping over my face. I can tell it must be pretty strong because Finn leans down into my line of sight and gives me a worried look.
    I flinch away from his gaze and go for a breezy goodbye before my voice gives out. “Okay, so I’ll see you guys when I get back.”
    “Alright, sweetie. Have a good time.”
    I hang up before she expects me to say, “I love you.” I can’t do it right now. Seriously, I don’t think I could possibly form the words. I mean, I do love my mom, but I just wish she’d see my side for once…and until she does, it’s going to be really hard to tell her how much she means to me and how much her lack of belief hurts.
    Passing back the phone with a feeble sniff, I murmur, “Thanks for doing this.”
    “That’s okay.” Tori’s smile is a mixture of kindness and concern. It’s totally going to make me cry, so I turn away from it, shifting around in the bed so I’m facing away from everybody.
    No one says anything and it’s really awkward, but I hold my ground until I hear the shuffling of feet and bodies moving out of the room. Closing my eyes, I let slow tears trickle down my nose and try to ward off the building sense of nausea roiling in my stomach.

 
    #16:
    Raw Shame
     
    Finn
     
    Layla’s been sick for over two days. She spent most of Saturday night throwing up. Mom stayed with her, cleaning up her messes and being the perfect nurse. I found it really hard to sleep. Her loud heaving would wake me, and I’d lie in bed listening to her retch and then whimper. On Sunday, the stomach cramps kicked in and she lay in bed shaking and moaning.
    Mom tried to make me stay away, but I couldn’t. I found myself finding all these excuses to go upstairs and walk past her door. I needed a book. I forgot my phone. I wanted to use the upstairs bathroom instead of the down. Every time I walked by, I’d steal a glance inside, my stomach twisting with pity. She looked a wreck.
    And it did something to me.
    On Monday morning, I slip into her room to check on her. She’s muttering in her sleep, her face bunched tight. Pressing my fingers against her forehead, I wonder how long it will take for her fever to break. Mom has been giving her meds that make her temperature drop but then it inevitably spikes again. It’ll break eventually, but it’s being a stubborn little bastard. At one point, I suggested we take her to the hospital, but her fever’s never gotten high enough for Mom to feel anything more than mild concern.
    “It’s just a bad case of the flu, no doubt amplified by whatever stress is plaguing her at home,” Mom told me. But her eyebrows rose as she said it and she gave my father a knowing look.
    “What is going on at your house?” I whisper to Layla. She’s still in delirium land so she can’t really hear me.
    She whimpers, her eyebrows bunching together. And there go my insides again, squeezing tight with this feeling I don’t recognize.
    Picking the damp cloth off the floor, I take it into the bathroom and rinse it under cold water. I ring it out, then walk it back to her and gently press it against her forehead.
    She lets out a relieved sigh and continues to mutter. I turn to let her sleep, but I can’t quite make myself leave the room. Her soft whimpers are tugging at me, so instead of leaving, I pull the rocking chair from the corner and nestle into it to watch her sleep.
    Whatever torment she’s battling is showing on her face. It’s killing me just