You and Everything After (Falling #2)(73)

“I’ll take them, thanks,” I say, pulling the sheets from her hands. She holds on tightly to the pillowcase though, worming her way into the chore. She’s not leaving.

“So,” she starts. Great, we’re going to feign small talk. In my head, I pretend she’s going to say what she really wants to say…. “How’s the Cotterman situation? How’s your disabled boyfriend? Why couldn’t you just join a sorority or something like your sister…?”

“How is practice going?” she asks.

Okay, I didn’t plan for that one.

“Good,” I say, with caution. There’s a but coming somewhere. I wait for it, and wait for it. Mom keeps folding and tucking, and says nothing else.

“Okay, well, your sheets should be set. I’ll wash the dusty ones and you can take them back to campus if you need an extra set,” she says, smiling and moving to the door with my pile of dirty linens. She pauses right before she pulls the door closed behind her. “I’m glad practice is going well.”

All I can do is blink. She was neither fake nor genuine—and nothing about the conversation felt like a mother and a daughter. All I’m hit with is an unbearable weight of sadness over this relationship I somehow don’t have with her. Crawling under my freshly tucked blanket, I pull out my phone and slide through the few photos I have of Ty and me, and I think, for just a moment, about going to find my mom to show them to her.

But I don’t. Instead, I just pull out my ear buds and play my favorite playlist while I scroll through Twitter looking for naughty photos and good jokes.

After an hour of noodling around on my phone, I give in and join my family in the living room. The sun is setting, and the sound of the local news makes me nostalgic. My dad is out on the grill, and he slides the patio door open and closed a few times before finally calling us all to the table.

“What did he make?” Paige whispers to me. I shrug, both because I don’t know and because I still don’t want to talk to her.

“Fish?” I say, looking at a long, thin, grilled…something on my plate. We never eat fish. And I don’t think I really like fish.

“Salmon,” my mom says, pulling out her chair to sit at the table. “We’ve been eating a lot of it lately. It’s good for you.”

Paige starts cutting hers right away, so I make a few cuts to mine to taste a small piece. It’s fishy, but if I dip it in the salad dressing running from my lettuce, I can almost stand it.

“So,” my mom starts. The same way she started her last question. This all suddenly feels rehearsed. “Tell us about this Ty fellow.”

And here it is. I focus all of my energy on the fish meat on my fork. Heavy dipping in dressing. Long, drawn-out chewing. Hold my finger up to make my family wait for my response. And then, give them nothing of value. “What about him?”

My mom’s shoulders slump at my response, and I feel a little bad. Maybe she is trying, and not just picking?

“He’s nice,” Paige answers for me, and I can’t help but shoot her a glare. One, she doesn’t like Ty. I can tell. And two, she is the last person I want talking for me right now.

“Ha!” I say. I dip a bigger slice of fish—dip, dip, dip, and chew.

“What does that mean?” she asks. My parents disappear from my reality, and I put my knife and fork down slowly, place my napkin on my lap, and prop my elbows on the table. I stop short of cracking my knuckles.

“You can’t stand him. You know you can’t! And that’s why mom thinks what she thinks of him—whatever the hell that is. Because you just had to talk shit about him to someone, so you called up mom and gave her gossip before I got a chance to introduce him to her the right way,” I say, and the feeling of freedom in my chest, of letting this go, is f*cking fantastic.

Paige tosses her napkin on the table, whispers an apology to our mom, and then slides her chair out to leave.

“Ohhhhh, so now you’re going to leave? We’re just getting started, aren’t we? Don’t you want to stay and talk about the Cotterman issue next? Maybe you can bring up all of those boys who called me Easy Owens in high school. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about how I must have a thing for older men, how I’m a homewrecker, how I slept with Kyle Loftman, and broke up his marriage…”

“I never said you slept with Kyle Loftman!” she interrupts, her fist heavy as it pounds on the table so hard it vibrates the water from our glasses. “I didn’t even know about him until mom told me!” This, of course, makes my mom squirm in her seat. My dad, though—he’s still cutting his meat, watching us talk—oblivious to the part he played in any of this. “What do you think, that I’m really out to ruin my sister? That…that I have some secret agenda to spread rumors about you? Seriously?”

“Girls, that’s enough,” my mom tries to stop our flow, but we barely even acknowledge her. This has been building in me, and it needs to come out.

“I don’t know, Paige! Somehow, when the rumors find their way to me, I always trace them back to you!” I practically shout.

“That’s because I’m the one trying to tell the real story! God, Cass…I’ve been trying to fix this since I embarrassed you by yelling at those *s who treated you like shit in high school. I never meant for it to start anything, I only wanted them to apologize—to not get away with using you,” she says.