There was a point in time when I treated my iPhone like a baby.

OK,  so I wasn't necessarily singing lullabies to Siri all night, or like, cradling my phone to sleep (Though I'm not going to lie: Sometimes when I plug it in my charging dock it really feels like I'm tucking it in for the night and that seems kind of sweet). But I was always worried about dropping it, constantly concerned for its general safety. Once I even fell down the stairs in the Red building at THS and twisted my ankle because I was too busy clutching my phone in the air, ensuring that my iPhone wouldn't break in the fall. But that was before I deleted all traces of myself from social media and cleared up gigabytes of app space on my phone. And you know what? I didn't miss the endless stream of Amaro-filtered sushi or sky-streaked sunsets and all of those uninformative status updates. Not at all.

When you don't have any friends left, you'd be surprised by how useless your phone becomes: It's functionality serves only as a calendar or a clock, and if it is one of those rare times you hear it ringing, you know it's just your parents or a telemarketer, because seriously: Who else is making phone calls in this day and age?

So when I looked at my phone this morning, all that registered was the time: 6:00 AM, and the lack of any other kind of notification was as expectable as the generic image of an ocean I set as my background. And when it rang an hour later, I knew without checking caller ID that it would either be my Dad, Mom, or a stranger with some type of information or product to peddle.

"So I have some not-so good news," I cautioned my Dad, answering without the formality of hello. Observing the time, he must've been calling me from his commute. His voice filtered through sounding muffled, confirming I was on speakerphone as he navigated his way through the hellacious Boston traffic.

"I'm too young to be a grandfather," he deadpanned.

Maybe before last night, I would've thought his Dad joke was funny: In the past, that was always his go-to jest to lighten the mood when I informed him of any possible bad news. My level of responsibility would prevent something like that from ever happening, and Dad knew that. Now, I just thought of the ultrasound, and the word father, how he was going to be someone else's Dad too-I was going to be someone's sister. The amendments were still being made in my family, and I was still getting used to it.

His voice brought me back to the conversation. "Is everything OK, Thea? Is it your Mom?" A pang of guilt developed low in my stomach after hearing the concern in his tone.

"Yeah, everything's fine. It's just that there were some mechanical issues with the car."

"What do you mean? Did you get into an accident?"

"No," I paused, trying to remember exactly what Sherlock had said. "I guess the engine seized. It's caput," I repeated, stealing his description word for word. I glanced down at the number he'd written on my hand before he towed Jaws away. "It's at a shop downtown; The driver said we could call them until 7 pm."

Dad was silent on the other end, which was never a good sign. Just like the calm before the storm, he always took a second to attempt to gather his thoughts before he spoke of his frustration.

"You've had the car for less than a year, Thea. I don't understand. You've kept up with your oil changes, right?" By the eerily calm tenor of his voice alone, I knew I was in the Danger Zone.

I thought of the little blue sticker on the lower left hand corner on Jaws' dashboard that indicated when my next oil change should be, and how the number on my odometer kept getting higher and higher than the one written in sharpie by the mechanic at my last service appointment. Then, I thought about all of the nights I couldn't sleep and I found myself miles away from home, the sun dripping into the horizon, only to realize I had driven purposelessly with just the radio blasting, just to do anything other than stare up at my ceiling, waiting for sleep that never seem to came when I wanted it to. When I needed it to.

I decided to go with the honest route; I always felt too guilty after lying to my Dad. "I may have missed a recommended appointment or two."

"When's the last time you went?"

"September," I responded meekly.

His sigh was nuclear, and he took another moment to gather his thoughts. But when he spoke, he was speaking in the Everyone Is Just Worried About Thea octave I loved ever-so dearly, and I felt slightly irritated-even though I knew that I was the one technically in the wrong.

"Thea, I know you've had a tough time, adjusting to," he fished, for that euphemism-"everything. But you need to be more responsible. Having a car at your age is a privilege..."

Dog bless selective hearing. When he was done with his speech, Dad asked for the garage's information, making me go over one more time exactly what Sherlock had said. He explained that since the car was under warranty, the deductible wouldn't be too bad, but he required me to contribute to the funds of getting the engine repaired. I braced myself for the obligatory So how's it going with your Mom? as we changed topics, but his words surprised me instead.

"Front pocket. Pink duffle bag."

I walked to the door where I had thrown my bags yesterday, and opened the zipper on the duffel bag. There, tucked inside, was a paper package I hadn't packed myself. I tore it open and found a stack of CDs, rare imports: Radiohead, Pearl Jam, The Pixies.

"Had to fight off two hipsters at the record store for those. It wasn't hard though, because their skinny jeans were too tight and it limited their mobility. Such are the costs of being hip."

I smiled, glazing over the track lists. "Says the guy who still wears Chucks with a suit and tie."

"Don't get it twisted kiddo, I never claimed to be a real grown up. Or learned how to adult. I hear you kids have been using that noun and adjective as verb on the reg."

"Thanks for the CDs, Dad," I said pointedly, ignoring his last statement but hoping he could hear my eye-roll through the speakerphone static anyhow. For a fleeting, whimsical moment, I even daydreamed about going back to Townshill and popping my new music into the stereo system in the home office while he worked on drawings and I flipped through magazines-something we used to do as regularly as brushing our teeth. But then I remembered Jaws's current state of grace(lessness). And that my Dad's residing in the exact place I needed to get away from. And that everything was going to be different from now on, anyways, so would that even be something we'd even still be doing together in another seven months?

"Thanks for not having terrible taste in music. Although that band that sounds like a bad internet connection from a dial-up modem you play in the middle of the night often has me questioning your level of coolness."

"Want to talk about the first concert you ever went to again?"

"Touche. Miss ya, kiddo. I hope you and your mom are having a good time."

"I miss you too, Dad."

I walked over to my laptop, which has been the first and only thing I've unpacked since arriving in Samoset , and started importing the first CD into my iTunes library. Then, with the speakers on blast and a little help from the chords, I let the music in my ears drown out the sour aftertaste left in my mouth from missing something.

From missing everything.

Day Number 2 of my Summer Captivity: I've noticed almost immediately that there's no central air in the beach house. Not even a window unit. No portable ones in my lines of vision, either. As a passionate advocate of AC, I wasn't the biggest fan of this fact, bad pun intended. I opened the windows in my guest room, hoping the sea breeze would alleviate the humidity, but it was a hopeless failure. Tried watching Netflix on the beach from my iPad, also a hopeless failure. My mother continues to pop in to whichever room I'm in "coincidentally" enough, like a stealthless cat stalking a mouse. I must learn of her work hours, and use them to my advantage.

Day Number 3 of my Summer Captivity: Slept most of the day, passing out into a dreamless coma from a lack of sleep from the prior 72 hours. Found my Mom pacing around the kitchen, plotting an invitation for me to join her for dinner. I politely declined and watched three seasons of Parks and Recreation in my room instead.

Day Number 4 of my Summer Captivity: Still wide awake at 4:00 am, I gave up on sleep and found the French press. Tiredness hit me like a high as I curled up on the couch in the kitchen, and watched the sun's growth over the sea through the open screen door. For a reason I couldn't understand, I swallowed a lump in my throat as I watched the ocean change colors with it too. Still haven't had a beach day, or a swim in the ocean. I hung dark navy towels I found in the bathroom over the windows in my room as makeshift shades, and stayed in the guestroom all day until I finished the last four seasons of Parks.

Day Number 5 of my Summer Captivity: My duffel bag, laundry basket, and music accessories are still near the door. Got an email from Dad informing me I was going to have to come up with one thousand dollars for the deductible, which tainted the tone of the already strange movie I was watching on Netflix. Napped a little, ate as much wilting fruit as possible, craving something other than the abundance of health food my Mom had brought home at the beginning of the week. Oh. My. Dog. Has it already been five days? Went running for hours at twilight as an inconvenient excuse to listen to music. Can't remember if I slept or not.

It wasn't until Day Number 6 of captivity that I was able to successfully map out a loose work schedule for my Mom. She left the house early in the morning, always toting a camera bag tucked over her shoulder and a thermos of coffee in her free hand. But even when I applied my best efforts when it came to dodging her in those short interims of awkwardness(by starting my runs later or finishing them earlier)-it took me only six days to realize that whenever we were under the roof at the same time, she was certainly going to make a habit of showing up wherever I was.

This morning, as I was drinking my cup of coffee on the back deck, wondering why hot beverages didn't quench your thirst and flipping through a magazine whose cover featured a former child star who shaved her head and locked herself in a dressing room for hours, I heard the screen door in the kitchen open. Next, I smelled the gardenia.

"Summers in the Cape mean one thing for a photographer," Mom said as she joined me on the back deck, the swelling heat diminished only slightly by breeze wafting from the ocean. "Events. Outside. In the blistering humidity. My hair is never going to forgive me."

I knew my Mom was a photographer. Or at least for the moment. For as long as I've known her, she never kept the same job for more than a year--and that's when she even had a job, so to speak. When she left us that October, I was aware that unlike my Dad-who finished his degree, Mom was not nearly as close. I'm sure the fact that she spent many of her early years in college with an infant didn't exactly help facilitate her studies in a speedy manor, but nevertheless, she always seemed to have her nose in a textbook, but never a degree framed next to my Dad's in our living room. All I know is that when she came back two years later, she had a heavy expression permanently tattooed to her face and a tendency to slings promise around with informal intentions of keeping them.

"I bet," I responded in what I hoped was an engaging timbre, flipping the glossy page of the tabloid so I could join in on the judgement of who wore it the most hideously next.

"You know there's a whole library of books in the study that may stimulate your brain more than US Weekly, right? Your grandmother had a passion for reading, I can show you if you'd like."

There was a study? With a library? You truly do learn something new every day. It's mysterious home must be behind one of the many closed doors I've yet taken the time to open. Pretty much, I've spent a lot of time indoors, being a hermit in the guestroom, because let's face it: That's better than an impromptu Meet & Greet with a hermit on the beach.

"I'm perfectly fine with not stimulating my brain this early."

Immediately, it hit me that it was probably the worst thing to say to my mother. Sure enough, when I met her gaze, her hazel eyes flared with that look that usually meant she wanted to lecture me on the importance of higher education, and revisiting the decisions I've already made. Instead, her mouth formed a thin line and her expression carefully changed.

"How was your run?" She asked, placing her camera bag on the porch as she began to loosely French braid her hair, not needing a mirror to complete what looked like a complicated process. Judging by her choice of apparel-an understated sleeveless dress and strand of pearls-I'd guess she was working another wedding.

"Refreshing. Another wedding?" I picked up the water bottle I tossed aside in favor of drinking my coffee first--coffee will always win when my mouth and tastebuds are directly involved.

"It's actually an installation for the new Rotary Club in Hyannis."

I got up and headed inside the kitchen to recycle my empty bottle. Wiping away a dewdrop of sweat from my forehead, I decided that this class of unkind summer heat warranted a cold, outdoor shower: something I also haven't had the chance to test out.

"Well, enjoy" I said, turning on my heel, only to be stopped before my escape.

"I checked with my supervisor, and he said it'd be OK for me to bring a guest. Any interest in joining me?"

That marked the third time this week that she'd asked me to join her on one of her gigs, and honestly? Coming up with a good excuse was getting increasingly more difficult to do. I bent down to unlatch the part of the screen door she propped open before I responded.

"I actually have some reading to catch up on."

She and I both kind of looked in the general vicinity of where I left the tabloid. Maybe checking out the books in the study wasn't such a bad idea: It's not like I had any solid plans for the many weeks still looming ahead. But once I registered her sunken shoulders and the sad puppy dog eyes planted in her expression, I started to feel the slightest bit guilty-and I didn't want to have to deal with this kind of guilt, too.

"Enjoy." She cocked her verbal gun and fired my own words back at me, like all those passive aggressive girlfriends who text their boyfriends they're furious with to have fun. Her smile didn't meet her eyeglass framed eyes. A couple beats later, I heard the sound of her Wrangler backing out of the rocky driveway and just like that, I was alone again-much to my relief.

I set across the deck--my bare feet temporarily charred by the sun warmed slats of wood--and opened the creaky stall door to the outdoor shower. Stripping off my running gear, I ran the water under the coolest temperature setting. There, as I lathered a mint shampoo into my hair, the frosty water from the shower head cooling my body as the June sun melted my face, something became progressively clear.

I was going to have to come up with a grande before I had any chance of getting Jaws back. Also, a convenient way of really avoiding my mother was so simple, I felt slightly slow for not having thought of the solution earlier. The thing was, I was going to have to once again put myself into a situation I had absolutely no experience in.

I was going to have to find a job.