Don't Let Go(73)

“Mark, I would’ve liked to have met you a different way, but since I didn’t, let me fill you in. Becca isn’t allowed to skip class. Don’t know if you are, but she’s not. You aren’t allowed in her room. Ever.”
Echoes of my mother’s voice rang in my head, but I was too far gone to think about that.
“You will respect those things, and keep all your personal property in your pants, and we will get along just fine.”
“Mom!” she yelled, tears fully streaming down her face, black eyeliner coming with it.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” Mark said, his words barely heard over Becca’s carrying on.
“You can go, Mark,” I said.
“I drove,” Becca said through her sobs.
“He looks like he can handle a six-block walk, Becca,” I said. “Mark, have a good day.”
He wheeled around with big eyes and briefly squeezed her hand as he passed. Didn’t make it three more steps, however, before Seth deftly plucked an object from the side cargo pocket of the baggy jeans.
“Don’t think you’re quite old enough for this,” Seth said.
A stainless steel flask. Joy. Becca’s face contorted as if she’d seen death up close and personal.
“Unless you have lemonade in here—” Seth unscrewed the top and sniffed. “Whoa, most definitely not lemonade.”
“Hey, that’s mine,” Mark said, attempting to bow up with whatever he had under the three-sizes-too-big clothing.
“Really?” Seth said, holding up the flask. “Yours? You bought this yourself? I’m impressed. You must have one hell of an ID.”
“I’m twenty-one,” Mark said.
Seth laughed. “Yeah, I can see that. Why don’t we call the school and see if maybe they have something different.”
“Shit,” Mark muttered. “Okay, it’s my dad’s. Just—can I have it, please? I’ll leave.”
“Sure,” Seth said. “Kitchen?” he asked me in passing. I pointed, and he walked around the corner, leaving a perplexed kid in the entryway. I heard the sound of liquid going down a drain, and then he was back. “Here you go,” he said. “Tell your dad he has good taste.”
“You have no right acting like this,” Becca said. “You’re not family.”
To his credit, he only faltered a second. Me, on the other hand—I saw ten shades of red.
“You’re right,” he said, putting a hand on my arm before I could say a word. “But I am an officer of the law, so . . .”
“You’re a prince,” Becca said, acid dripping from her tone.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said, opening the door for Mark.
When he closed it back, I focused on Becca. On her hate, her embarrassment, and my own disappointment and absolute mortification that the meeting with Seth went so sour.
“Drinking, Bec?” I said, my voice cracking. “Seriously?”
“We hadn’t even had any yet,” she said.
“Yet,” I echoed. “Where’s your head?”
Her fists went up in her hair, like she wanted to pull it out. “Oh, my God, I wish I was anywhere else but here!”
“You were supposed to be. Clean yourself up and get back to school,” I said, feeling all the inflection go out of my voice. I was so angry that she’d blown my trust. Again.
She swiped at her face, essentially just smearing black around. “Are you kidding me? There’s like an hour and a half left.”
“Then you’d better hurry it up,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes and scoffed and wheeled around in disgust. “I can’t believe you,” she said on her way up the stairs. She stopped and I had the feeling something profound was coming. “You humiliated me today.” Or that.
“Ditto,” I said through my teeth.
Becca glanced at Seth and back at me. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Awfully high and mighty on the subject of boys, aren’t you—since your stellar example of restraint is standing here?”
I felt all the blood drain from my face, and the quiet was deafening. I saw it—the moment that passed through her brain when she knew she’d gone too far. I had a fleeting thought through the pounding in my ears that that was at least proof she still had a conscience. Then I turned and walked to the kitchen.
I pulled two glasses from the cabinet and started to fill them with ice when I heard footsteps behind me. Heavier footsteps than Becca’s. Slower.
“I have sweet tea, water, and orange juice,” I said, opening the fridge. I stared at the pitchers without seeing them and grabbed one of them without feeling it in my hand.
“Sweet tea is fine.”
I turned to look at my son. A man. Standing in my kitchen. Not too many days back, I was in awe of seeing his father occupying that same space. It was surreal.
He pointed at the pitcher I was holding. “That’s fine,” he reiterated.
I looked down at it and realized it was the tea. “Okay,” I said, pouring into both glasses.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. I wasn’t. I was numb. I was standing in my kitchen, talking to my son. Talking to my son. A miracle of all miracles. And I was mortified and horrified and distraught. Where had I gone wrong with her? How could she talk to me that way? How did it get this far?
“Juliann—I mean—” Seth stopped and let out a wary breath. “I just realized I haven’t called you by anything yet. What do I—”
“Most people call me Jules,” I said. “Your gran—” Yeah, I was doing it, too. “My dad gave me that nickname when I was little and it stuck.”