Call It What You Want(10)

She stabs at her food and eats a bite. “That’s kind of devious.”

I’m not sure if that’s an insult. It kind of sounds like one. “That’s me,” I say flatly. “Nothing but trouble.”

She either ignores my sarcasm or she doesn’t pick up on it. She holds out a hand to gesture. “Here. Give it to me.”

I do. “You’re going to call now? In the restaurant?”

“No. I’m going to check his Instagram.”

I can’t tell if she’s serious. But when I lean over, I see she’s tapping on the app for Instagram, typing in his name. @DavidLitMan LitMan. Is that a marijuana reference? Or something else?

Samantha stabs her fingers at the phone.

Then she stops. Her face goes pale.

She slams it down on the table and bursts into tears. She’s quiet about it, but her shoulders are shaking, her elbows pressed into her abdomen.

I pick up my phone.

The top photo is a man and a woman. Kissing in front of the sun. Streaks of light span the photo. Their eyes are closed. The man has dark hair and a thin beard. The caption reads, I love you more every day.

The woman is not Samantha.

“He has a girlfriend,” I whisper.

“A wife,” she says.

I almost choke on my breath. A wife.

Holy crap. “Does Mom know?”

“No!” My sister’s eyes turn fierce again, somehow made more threatening by the tears hanging suspended on her lashes. “And you’re not going to tell her.”

There’s been too much in the last hour. My brain can’t process all this. “Sure. Okay.”

Married.

I don’t even know what to do with that. We both sit there breathing, inhaling the steam from our dinner.

Eventually, Samantha picks up her fork and digs in, so I do the same. We eat in silence for a while, and eventually the tension gives way.

“How old is he?” I ask.

Her voice is nasally from all the crying, but she keeps her voice as low as mine. “Twenty-nine.”

I almost choke on my food. Samantha is eighteen, so she’s legal, I guess, but that’s … that’s a man. A married man.

Then she adds, “He’s my literature professor.”

DavidLitMan.

Samantha shovels food into her mouth. “Stop staring at me like that.” Her voice breaks again. “I know, okay? I was so stupid.”

“Samantha.” My hand lifts. I want to touch her. To hug her. To help her.

I wish she would tell Mom. But now I understand why she hasn’t.

“Stop judging me,” she says. “You’re not the only one who can screw up, okay?” She’s crying again.

I flinch. “I’m not judging you.”

“Of course you are. I’m judging mys—” She stops short. Her hand slaps over her mouth.

She jumps up. Runs for the restroom. I can hear her throwing up before the door swings closed.

I stare after her. She’s right. I am judging her.

I’m also pitying her.





CHAPTER NINE

Rob

Dinner is breaded chicken over linguini and cream sauce. It sounds fancy, and it is, but Mom was always a good cook. It’s not like they can sue away her culinary skills. It’s not organic cream and free-range chicken anymore, but it still tastes good.

Dad sits at the other end of the table and gets his through a tube. He used to obsess over how well his Vitamix made kale smoothies. He’d probably love that it’s doing triple duty on all his meals now.

“Anything happen at school today?” Mom says to me.

I think of Maegan and her judgmental eyes. I think of how badly I wanted to punch Connor in the back of the head. I think of Owen Goettler and his million-piece cheese sandwich.

I stab a slice of chicken. “No. Anything happen at work?” My voice isn’t surly. Mom’s the only person who doesn’t treat me like a walking felony.

“One of the senior partners asked if I know how to file alphabetically.” She makes a scoffing noise.

My fork goes still. I glance up. She’s sitting across from me, which means Dad is at the end of the table, a zombie in my peripheral vision. I can never decide if that’s better or worse than sitting directly across from him. I always want to do a double take.

“The guy was asking if you know the alphabet?”

“Yes.”

I snort. “Prick.”

She smiles. “My words exactly. Well. My word.”

Once upon a time, she might have criticized my using that word. Not too harshly—Mom has always said that words are words, and it’s more about how we use them—but she would have made a comment about it. Especially at the dinner table. In front of my father.

She certainly wouldn’t have used a word like that herself.

When Dad pulled the trigger, it completely toppled our family dynamics.

I spin pasta on my fork.

“Come on,” she says. “Talk to me. At least my own son knows I know the alphabet.”

“I’ve heard you can read, too,” I say.

“Sometimes I have to look up the big words.” She’s kidding. Mom has her master’s in business management. It’s ridiculous that she’s stuck temping, but it’s a tough balance being able to take care of Dad and still put in a full day’s work.