The House in the Pines(75)

Maya insisted on stopping by his parents’ house on the way back to Boston. The longer she went without clearing the air, the weirder it would be the next time she saw them. She knew that now. She cared too much about Dan to let his parents think she was a mess.

His father, still on winter break, was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table when they walked in. “Maya!” he said warmly, standing to greet her. He looked almost as concerned as his son. “Dan told us a little about what happened. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m doing a lot better now,” she said. “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure how Dan had explained the situation with Frank but knew he hadn’t told his parents about why she was sick at dinner. They still didn’t know why she’d run off so early in the morning, and she had worried they would assume it was out of shame.

But if Carl thought that, he didn’t let it show.

“We just thought we’d stop by since you’re on our way back east,” Dan said.

Carl offered coffee and biscotti, and Maya gratefully accepted both.

“Is that Danny I hear?” His mom swept in from her office down the hall, draped in a turquoise pashmina. The delight in her voice gave way to a fleeting, involuntary frown the moment she saw Maya, but Greta was quick to recover. “What a surprise!” she said, looking questioningly at her son.

Then she turned to Maya, her sharp hazel eyes magnified by the reading glasses perched on her nose. “How are you doing?”

“Much better now,” Maya said.

“Good,” Greta said. “Good.” Her face and voice were pinched. She brewed herself a cup of green tea and joined them at the table. When Carl offered her the plate of biscotti, she waved it away.

The four of them sat in the same positions as they had just last week, with Greta across from Maya, and although it felt like years had passed since then, and though her brush with death had really put things in perspective, Maya still felt nervous. She reached for her biscotti. “This is really good,” she said.

“Wish I could take credit,” said Carl, “but they’re from the Black Sheep.”

“You’re looking much better,” Greta said, gazing at Maya over the rim of her cup, her voice brimming with all the other questions she was too polite to ask. Like her husband, she seemed concerned, but perhaps less about Maya’s well-being than about Maya in general. The fact that she was dating her son. The idea that Dan could be dragged into her mess.

“Thank you,” Maya said. “I’m sorry for leaving in such a hurry last time I was here.”

“Don’t worry,” Carl said. “The important thing is you’re better.”

Maya smiled, grateful. She saw in Carl his son’s instinct to smooth things over. Now she knew where Dan got it.

It wasn’t from his mom. “Were you able to see a doctor?” Greta asked.

“Yes,” Maya said. She saw Dan’s posture straighten, ready to shut the whole subject down if he needed to.

“So, what was it—if you don’t mind my asking.”

Maya had been hoping Greta wouldn’t ask. She had wanted only to apologize, to clear the air, but of course she’d known his parents might have questions. Especially his mom. Maya glanced at Dan, who was looking at her wide-eyed, as if to say, You don’t have to do this.

“It’s what happens when you stop taking Klonopin,” she said.

“Klonopin?” Greta didn’t know what it was.

“Antianxiety medication. I’d been taking it for the past few years, and then I—I had to stop. And it ended up being pretty hard to quit, insomnia, anxiety, that sort of thing. That’s why I wasn’t feeling well that night.”

“Ah,” Greta said. “I was worried it might have been the daiquiris.”

“Mom,” Dan said.

“What? Your dad makes a strong daiquiri.”

“It’s true,” Maya said, her face burning. “Probably shouldn’t have been drinking so much either.”

Dan leapt to her defense. “Maya’s been through a lot lately.”

Carl sipped his coffee. Dunked his biscotti.

“Of course,” Greta said. “I can only imagine . . . What was it that your ex-boyfriend did exactly?”

“Now, honey,” Carl said. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about that.”

“It’s okay,” Maya said. And it was. She understood why Greta was alarmed, and though the questions were uncomfortable, they were nothing compared to the crushing ache of holding it all in. Of pretending she was all right.

“When I was seventeen,” she said, holding Greta’s gaze, “I briefly dated an older man named Frank, and he—” She almost choked. “He murdered my best friend.” It was hard to say, but then, once she had, Maya felt lighter. There was something freeing about stating it so matter-of-factly.

Greta softened. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Maya. I am.”

Dan reached over, took Maya’s hand. The moment was tense, but this was still going better than Greta’s birthday dinner.

“I just hope,” Greta said, “that my son—”

“All right,” Dan said, “that’s enough.”

“I just want him to be safe.”