What to Say Next(58)

“I talked to Dad about how I was feeling and he dismissed it and told me to get my nails done or go get highlights, which felt so condescending. He said I was making a big deal out of nothing. Things were fine. We were fine. All marriages go through shifts. I don’t know. He wasn’t hearing me. It felt like more than just a lull; I was scared things had permanently shifted. Middle-aged doesn’t mean it’s all over, right?”

I don’t answer. Middle age seems an eternity away.

“Jack was feeling depressed about his divorce, and Dad thought it would be good if he spent more time with us, to cheer him up. Sometimes we’d talk, and he became my friend too. I really needed a friend then. This life can be so lonely. You have no idea.”

I want to tell her she’s being condescending, but I’m too tired to talk. My anger has curdled into something sour. Suddenly I don’t know why I asked my mother to explain. I don’t want to hear about her loneliness. About the truth of adult life. I don’t want to know any of this. I want to ask her to stop, but she keeps going.

“One night while your dad was away at that dental convention in Pittsburgh and you were over at Annie’s, Jack and I had dinner and got stupid drunk. I don’t know, for a moment it’s like I equated your father with my parents. I got that ridiculous adolescent feeling of needing to rebel, needing to shake things up, no matter the cost. I made a mistake. One time. Still, one of us should have stopped. I should have said stop.”

“That’s not a mistake. That’s a betrayal,” I say, finding my voice. “You didn’t just betray Dad, you betrayed me too. Our three-person family. And your explanation doesn’t undo that damage. Lots of people are lonely. Maybe everyone is. They don’t go around—”

“I know. Again there’s no excuse. We were drunk and stupid and thought—no, we didn’t think. We just did. We immediately regretted it and, for better or worse, I told your dad. I had to tell him. I’ve never not told him anything. And that’s when he filed. Before I even had a chance to explain.”

I take a moment to rewrite the story I made up in my head. The old version had my dad coming home early from work one day and finding my mom and Jack in their bed. I imagined tears and punches, soap opera levels of drama. The old version had an ongoing affair, not a onetime drunken hookup. The old version did not leave room for remorse and confession. The old version involved that terrible, terrible word love.

“You’re too young to understand any of this. Look at you. My baby. You are too young to have lost your father, and in such a cruel way. You shouldn’t have to even know about my ridiculous midlife crisis. You are just too young for all of it. I want to throw myself in front of you, I want to stop all this life from happening to you. But I can’t. I just can’t.” My mom wipes her eyes. “I know you will judge me and maybe hate me, and you have every right to. But I love you no matter what. I was stupid and selfish and one day when you’re older you might understand—I think your dad was beginning to—but for now I can’t ask you to understand. I can only ask you for your forgiveness.”

She lifts my chin so I’m staring her straight in the eye. Both of our faces are wet, and our bodies are trembling with pent-up grief and rage and regret. She’s not wrong. I do judge her, I do hate her for what she’s done—but I also love her, and I don’t know how to reconcile those things.

“You know the part that makes me saddest of all? I can’t protect you anymore. I can’t fix this for you. Any of it,” she says.

“I don’t need protecting,” I say. I don’t say I forgive you. I don’t say I love you. Instead I repeat the words again: “I don’t need protecting.”

The trouble is we both know that’s another lie, just like everything else.

—

Later I have a crying hangover. My head aches, my eyes are red and swollen, and my stomach feels hollowed out. With my door closed and my desk chair tucked behind the knob so my mom can’t just waltz in even with her secret key, I take a deep breath and I decide that if I want to keep my friends—and I do—I better reach out. I dart off a quick text.

Me: Congrats on EIC, guys. Really. I should have said it earlier.

Violet: Whatevs re EIC. You totally deserved it too, but thanks.

Annie: TY, K.

Violet: You’ll stay on the paper, right?

Me: Course.

Violet: Phew. Hey, party at Dylan’s on Friday. You in?

Annie: Pls say Y. Pls. Pls. Pls.

Me: Dylan or Dylan.

Annie: Duh,

Me: K.

Annie: Bring your bf, DD.

Me: David’s not my boyfriend.

Violet: Maybe he should be. That beat-down was hot. I’m totally #teamdavid.

Annie: TD! BRING HIM.

Me: I don’t know if he’ll want to come.

Annie: For the eleventy billionth time, BRING HIM.





At 7:57 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I cross paths with Kit just as we make our way into school. She smiles at me and makes the take off your headphones motion, which I do. If I leave my music on and we talk while walking, I’m pretty sure I can still round the corner to a track change.

“Your face looks better,” she says, wincing. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.” My right eye is ringed in blue and my lips are swollen, but my nose has returned to roughly normal dimensions. In the shower I noticed seven small bruises along my torso, and I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my left thumbnail. Meat Boy apparently has two casts. He will have to sit out the rest of the football season. I’m not complaining. I have not received a single threatening text since yesterday. For the time being, my peers are okay with me continuing to live.