Straight to voicemail.
I tried again and again, pacing the kitchen while mom just went back to flipping pancakes like I was some annoying background noise.
“He’ll be fine,” she said. “Stop making everything into a crisis.”
Dad came downstairs mid-aru, and I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d back me up.
But no.
He rubbed his eyes, glanced at me, and said, “Lucas, you need to stop treating your brother like a criminal. He’s just a kid having fun. Quit being so controlling.”
That word again.
Controlling.
I went back to my room, fists clenched, chest heaving, and slammed the door.
My sanctuary didn’t even feel like mine anymore.
I kept replaying it in my head.
Mom walking into my room, taking my keys without asking, handing them off to Aaron like my hard work was nothing.
Like I was nothing.
As the hours ticked by with no word from Aaron, I felt panic mixed with rage.
What if he wrecked the car?
What if he got pulled over?
The insurance was under my name.
Everything would come back to me.
The weight of that hit me like a brick.
Legally, I was responsible for every reckless thing Aaron was about to do.
That was the moment something in me cracked.
Up until then, I had tried to argue, reason, explain, even plead.
But this, this was betrayal in its purest form.
My own family, the people who should have had my back, had gone out of their way to undermine me, to strip me of control over the one thing I had worked so hard for.
And as the sun started to set that night, with still no word from Aaron, one thought began to burn hotter and hotter in my mind.
If they were going to treat me like I didn’t matter, then maybe it was time to show them what happened when I finally stopped playing nice.
By Sunday evening, the panic had eaten me alive.
Every time a car drove past the house, I rushed to the window, thinking maybe, just maybe, it was Aaron bringing my car back in one piece.
But the driveway stayed empty.
My texts went unanswered.
My calls rang and rang before going to voicemail.
I even tried messaging some of his friends on social media, only to be left on Reed.
Meanwhile, my parents carried on like nothing was wrong.
Mom cheerfully cooked dinner.
Dad watched his shows.
And neither of them so much as acknowledged that my car, my car, had been missing for nearly 2 days.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, every muscle tight with rage and helplessness.
I kept imagining the worst.
Aaron joy riding with his friends, drunk behind the wheel, laughing as he tore down the highway.
The thought of my car, my insurance, my future being trashed because of his recklessness made my chest ache.
I had worked so hard for that car.
I had skipped vacations, picked up extra shifts, even lived leaner than I wanted to just so I could afford it.
And in a single weekend, all of that felt like it had been stolen from me, not just by Aaron, but by my parents, too.
Monday morning came and still no sign of the car.
I tried confronting my mom again, but she didn’t flinch.
“You’re overreacting. He’ll bring it back when he’s ready. Stop pacing like a madman.”
Dad chimed in from the living room.
“If you spent half as much energy on being a good brother as you do on that car, maybe things wouldn’t be so tense in this house.”