The Inmate (18)

Any negative feelings from work today and the shock of seeing Shane after so many years (and knowing I’ll have to see him again in a week to take out the sutures) fade away as I contemplate a night out with Tim. It will be nice to hang out with him again. Growing up, Tim was always my favorite person in the whole world.

I feel bad that I shut him out for nearly eleven years. But it wasn’t like I had a choice.

I get into the house, and this time Josh doesn’t come running when I call his name. I take it as a good sign though. If he were clingy, that would be worse. But he’s got a few days of school under his belt now, and he seems more confident.

I reach the kitchen, where Margie is pulling another of her delicious concoctions out of the oven. It looks like some sort of lasagna. It’s bubbling hot when she lays it down on the kitchen counter.

“Hey, Margie,” I say. “That looks great. You don’t have to cook every night though.”

“Oh, I like it!” she says. “When my kids were growing up, I had a home-cooked meal for them every night. Home cooking prevents cancer, you know.”

I’m not so sure about that, but I’m not going to say anything else to dissuade her from cooking for us. I am obscenely grateful that she does it.

“Listen,” I say, “do you think you could watch Josh one night this week? I was going to go out for a drink with a friend. It shouldn’t be long.”

Margie’s eyes light up. “A friend or a man?”

Oh God. I had a feeling when I hired this woman that she was going to be a bit of a yenta. “Just a friend.”

“A male friend?”

“Yes…”

“So it’s a date!” She claps her hands together. “That’s wonderful, Brooke! A young single woman like you should be dating.”

“It’s not a date,” I say through my teeth. “He’s a friend. An old friend.”

“Whatever you say.”

I don’t like the knowing look on Margie’s round face. “It’s not a date.”

“Well, why not?” She blinks at me. “Is he ugly? Ugly men are good in bed, you know.”

Oh God. “Margie…”

“I’m just saying,” she says, “there’s nothing wrong with going on a date. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

Weirdly enough, she has hit the nail on the head. I already feel like I am spread thin, between work and motherhood. “It just doesn’t feel like it’s fair to Josh for me to be dating.”

“Don’t think that way,” she says. “That boy could use a father.”

I bristle at her comment—she touched a nerve. I have always tried to be enough for Josh. Mother and father. But I see this longing in his eyes when we’re at the park and we spot a little boy playing with his dad.

“Is tomorrow okay?” I ask Margie.

“Absolutely,” she says. “And stay out as late as you want. Josh and I will make chocolate chip cookies.”

There’s a part of me that sort of wants to blow off Tim and instead stay home to make chocolate chip cookies with Margie and Josh. But Margie is right. I deserve to have a night out to have fun. So as soon as Margie takes off, I shoot off a text message:



Tomorrow night okay?



Tim responds a second later:



You got it.





Chapter 12


ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER




“We’re going to play Never Have I Ever.”

Chelsea makes the declaration after we all have a couple of pizza slices in our bellies, and Brandon has mixed us all cups of something called “screwdrivers.” Apparently, they are a mix of vodka and orange juice, and they taste like paint remover.

We have gathered in the living room, seated in couples around the rickety coffee table. Shane and I are squeezed onto the tiny loveseat. Everyone else is crowded onto the old sofa, which burped up a bunch of stray feathers when they sat down. Tim is by the armrest and Kayla is squeezed in so close to him that their thighs are wedged together. Chelsea has her legs on Brandon’s lap, and they’re all lovey-dovey, even though Chelsea confided in me that she is sick of him cheating on her and she’s going to break up with him after the next big game.

“What’s Never Have I Ever?” I ask.

Chelsea clutches her chest in shock at my na?veté. “Brooke, seriously?”

I shrug, trying to ignore the hot feeling in my cheeks. I’m not as experienced at drinking or partying as my friends or boyfriend are. This is only the second time I’ve had alcohol and I’ve never been drunk before. To be fair, my parents barely let me out at the beginning of the year because they were so panicked after that girl Tracy Gifford was found dead.

“It’s very simple,” Chelsea explains. “So I say something I’ve never done, and anyone in the circle who has done that thing has to take a drink. For example, if I said, ‘Never have I ever gotten a hundred on a math test,’ then you two nerds”—she looks pointedly at me and Tim—“have to take a drink. Got it?”

Brandon runs one of his large hands over the curve of Chelsea’s thigh. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds fine.” Even though I am terrified this game is going to reveal my embarrassing lack of experience with just about everything. The best I can say is that I don’t have any secrets.