An orchestral cover of Lana Del Rey's Salvatore is playing from my computer's speakers when I hear the sound of the front door opening then closing.

That means Dad and Lucas are back from practice.

I click one of the side buttons on the phone to read the time. 8:03.

I don't remember time passing by so quickly. Last I checked, it was four, I'd just woken up from my after school nap and I was creating a study guide with what I've learned in my biology class so far–I like making them early so that I don't have to sort through all my notes for the dreaded tests.

It's just now that I'm noticing the dark blue skies and the hollow feeling in my stomach.

"Indi!" My dad yells from downstairs. "Come eat!"

I get up from my desk chair with a small smile on my face.

It's not until I'm halfway down the stairs that I remember Lucas's new friend. My steps come to a halt and I wait for some kind of clue as to whether or not he's here.

It's not like he hangs out with me, but for some reason, I still get socially exhausted when other people come over and part of me gets filled with dread as I begin walking again, this time much slower than before.

"I'm gonna go shower real quick," I hear my brother say.

"Hurry," Dad replies. "The food's going to get cold."

"It's a salad, Dad," Lucas's voice gets closer to the stairs. "The worry should be about it losing its coldness."

"The worry should be about losing its coldness," my dad mocks in a high-pitched voice causing another person to let out deep chuckles.

Of course.

That rumbling laughter is one I've become familiar with because even when he's over, my dad still makes me eat at the dinner table.

Lucas comes into view and rushes up the stairs, brushing past me as if I'm not even here.

"Excuse you," I mutter in frustration.

"Indi," Dad says once I enter the kitchen. "Come hold Honey while I go out and water the garden. He won't stop following me everywhere."

For a foster dog that had just come to live with us two weeks ago, Honey has quite the attachment issues. She follows my father like she's his own personal shadow.

I let out a sigh, ignoring the presence of the other guy in the room as I lean down to grab the golden retriever's green collar.

Dad steps out into the backyard, leaving me and Ezra awkwardly alone.

"Not a big fan, huh?" Ezra's tired voice cuts through the air.

I look up from Honey to see him sitting at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen. He's still in his baseball uniform. White pants covered in the brown dirt that comes from the field, as well as the team's black jersey and a Mariners baseball cap on his head.

There's four chairs and he is currently sitting in mine–as he always does because I've yet to correct him.

"You're fine," I say, straightening up without sparing a glance in the dog's direction.

Ezra grins. "Not of me." His eyes shift to the golden retriever.

I furrow my eyebrows, walking over to the table. "Honey? She's...she's fine too, I guess."

I've learned not to get attached to the dogs over the years. My dad has fostered at least twenty, each gone within six months. It took four for me to realize that none of them were going to stay. I didn't get it at first–why he would want to put himself through that heartbreak–but I realize now that it's because of his ruthless selflessness.

He has every right to be overfilled with pride–he broke countless records during his career in the MLB, has millions of dollars to his name, and is a great father–but he's the most humble guy I know.

This house is the beginning of the proof. We live in Seattle, in a suburban home and he sends his kids–Lucas and me–to a public school.

I've only ever heard him use his fame and money as a high ground once and...well, that's a memory I've kept hidden away for a reason.

I take a seat across from Ezra, who still has a small grin despite the fact that Honey is now pawing and whining at the door. I try not to be annoyed by the dogs that my dad takes in, but it's that or get my heart shattered.

"She's actually a he by the way," Ezra says.

"Huh?"

"Honey." He tilts his head towards where the dog is. "He's a boy."

My face scrunches up, but I don't say anything about how Honey is a girl's name because it's a dog. Nobody cares about naming rules when it comes to animals.

"Is there a reason you don't like him so much?" he asks.

I take a long breath, trying to think of a way to answer his question in a way that will make him understand. "Do you have any pets?"

He nods, folding his hands on the table. "A cat. Her name is Katniss."

A cat named Katniss? I blink three times before shaking my head, choosing not to say anything about it. "And do you remember how you felt about her three months after you got her?"

His fingers unfold from his knuckles as if he's counting. "Well, I've had her for about four months now."

"Right." I nod. "Now imagine this. You have that same love for her, but you've known all along you wouldn't be able to keep her. Or him. I don't know these days." My gaze darts to his lips for the quickest second when his smile widens. "Someone comes along and takes this...Katniss away from you and you can't be upset because, one, you knew this whole time it was going to happen, and, two, she's going to a better place."

His eyes scan my face for a long moment before he replies. "I mean, yeah, I'd be upset, but I'd still be able to look at her without sighing."

"Okay, now imagine it happens–" I count all the dogs over the years on my fingers, running out of room on my hands and having to switch to mental math. "–thirty-two times. Would it still be worth all that sadness?"

"You are so cynical, Indigo." He shakes his head and I ignore the way him calling me Indigo irks me. "What do you get out of hating the dog?"

"I don't hate him, Clancy."

He narrows his eyes at me. We're both well aware that his last name is just as bad as my first name. I, of course, have the upper hand because I don't have to wear the name Clancy on the back of my team's jerseys for the rest of my life. Not that I'm even on a sports team to begin with.

"I'm just saying that pets could benefit you," he says, the frustration in his eyes from before is gone. "Personally, petting Katniss is all I need after a long, stressful day."

I let out a choked out laugh, imagining him as one of those evil step-mother's petting a prissy feline in his arms.

To my surprise, Ezra doesn't get defensive about me laughing at him. He just watches with an amused gleam in his eyes.

The only thing that gets him to look away is when my dad comes back inside.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

I'm almost done with the salad when the feeling hits me.

My heart rate speeds up, a chill runs down my spine, and I suddenly feel very distant from the table. The guys are loudly laughing–including my dad right beside me–but it's almost as if I can't hear them.

I try to mentally run over my to-do list.

Creating the Biology study guide. Done. The short essay I had due for my English class. Done. Reading the assigned chapters for AP World History. Done–and ahead. My self-portrait for art. It isn't due until Friday, but I've gotten pretty far from what I can remember.

Ah, who am I kidding? I should probably get it out of the way.

In fact, I should probably do it now.

I push my chair back and try to make a silent exit, but I'm barely able to stand up before my dad's voice stops me. "Everything okay, Indi?"

I nod, nervously meeting his eye. "I have homework I need to do."

Lucas and Ezra come to silence and I feel them look at me. "You're such a goody two shoes," Lucas says, throwing his napkin at me. "There's no way you haven't already gotten your homework done."

Beside him, I see Ezra glance at him through the corner of his eyes. A look that I can't decipher because I'm enveloped inside my storm cloud of nerves.

What if there's an extra assignment that I forgot about? One that I didn't write down in my planner?

I think my father sees the anxiety written in my eyes because he nods. "Okay. You know I'm proud of you, right? You're doing so good in school."

There's a smile on my lips, but I feel my legs weaken with anxiety. "Thanks, Dad. I'll see you in the morning." Before anyone can stop me, I'm up the stairs.

I remind myself not to be so dramatic as I grab my phone and start scanning through all my school related apps.

No surprise assignments.

A sigh of relief leaves me as I open up my sketchbook, still standing up. When I flip open to the page of my self portrait, I realize that I'm already done, there just needs to be some color, which I prefer adding in class anyway.

It's crazy how much I get done when I'm simultaneously working and listening to the conversations that happen around my table.

When I shut the sketchbook, the dread hits me.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not this early.

The stress, I mean.

It usually gets to me around the end of the first quarter when I'm checking my grades every second of the day to make sure I'm not missing anything.

It's the Monday of the second week and it's already eating at me.

Wearily, I look at the running shoes in front of my closet and decide that I'm going to have to revisit my old coping mechanisms early this year.

For some reason, I rush as I throw off my sweatpants and t-shirt, getting into athletic shorts and a tank top. I put on a grey zip-up for good measure before lacing on my running shoes.

I took track last year for PE credits so I know a thing or two about running, but it doesn't mean I look forward to it.

It's what needs to be done, though.

I'm as quiet as possible as I make my way back down the stairs and to the front door. The sound of erupting laughter is my cue to leave without making a sound.

With wireless earbuds in, playing my old hype? playlist, I do a quick round of stretches. I've had enough by the time the second song begins playing.

Chase Atlantic softly plays through my ears as I go down the porch steps and exit through the gate door.

There's little hesitation when my feet begin bouncing off the ground.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

I last a three miles before I decide I'm done. My calves burn and my breaths are extremely shallow, but the quick bout of anxiety from earlier is thankfully gone.

And I've been looping around the same few blocks which makes the walk back home much shorter.

As I make my way back to the house, I try to ignore the unease that lingers.