The Art of Losing(15)

Her lips were tight, as if she were keeping a secret.

“He’s sorry,” she said. “He just wanted you to know that.”

“Why are you even relaying his messages?” I demanded, trying to shake off the flare of anger at Mike’s apology. “You hate Mike. You wanted me to dump him over a year ago.”

“I still do,” she said defensively. “I’m not protecting him or advocating for him. I’m just the messenger.” Her eyes were wide, innocent. And tired. The shadows under her eyes had only grown darker over the last few days. “And maybe I feel like you should just talk to him. Just once, to break up with him for good, and then I can stop deleting messages from your phone for you.”

I sighed. “Fine.” I pulled my phone from my bag and opened the string of unanswered text messages he’d sent since I last had Cassidy do a purge. I didn’t read them; I simply wrote: I’m coming over.

I fumed all the way to Mike’s house. My knuckles were stiff from squeezing the steering wheel. How dare he use Cassidy to get to me? My rage was at fever pitch when I pulled up in front of the town house, parking in the visitor’s spot that I had always thought of as mine. Not anymore. A moment later, I was banging on the door.

Mike’s mom opened it.

I hadn’t been expecting her. Her nose and eyes were red, and her hair, normally cut into a tidy bob, was frizzy and mussed, as if she’d been running her fingers through it. Ms. Baker reached out for me, and I flinched away instinctively.

“Hi, Ms. Baker,” I said.

“Oh, honey,” she said. Her face crumpled.

I felt a little guilty that I couldn’t be more sympathetic toward her. She worked hard and raised her son by herself, deliberately. She had gone to a sperm bank after breaking up with her girlfriend of ten years who hadn’t wanted children. She told me it wasn’t revenge; it was that she had finally decided she would rather have a child than a partner, if that was the choice she had to make. And as a result, she had doted on Mike, indulging his every desire. And maybe expecting a little too much from him, pinning her happiness on his.

“I’m so sorry,” Ms. Baker said. Her voice trembled.

I stepped closer and let her pat my arm. That was the best I could do.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. “It’s been a tough few days.”

“It hasn’t been easy for Michael, either,” she said.

Now I wanted to scream. He couldn’t even begin to know what I was feeling. But she was already crying again, so I bit my tongue.

“Is he here?” I asked, even though I knew he was.

Ms. Baker stepped back into the hallway to allow me to enter. “He’s in his room. I’ve barely let him out except to use the bathroom and meet with our lawyer since Sunday.”

I took a deep breath before climbing the stairs. Mike must have heard us because he was waiting for me in his bedroom doorway. His round face was in shadow, but I could see the dark bruise under his left eye. His hair was matted.

I stopped a few feet from him.

“Come inside,” he whispered. “Please? I don’t want to do this in the hallway with my mom listening downstairs.”

I didn’t especially care what he wanted, but I relented. I didn’t want his mom listening in, either.

His bedroom was cleaner than I’d ever seen it. I guess he’d had time on his hands.

Mike sat on his bed while I hovered near the dresser across the room. I could see now that the shadows under his eyes weren’t all bruises; his skin was dotted with acne. He was wearing a wrinkled lacrosse tournament T-shirt and mesh shorts. His socks were nearly falling off his feet.

“Just in case it’s not clear,” I said, “we’re done. We’re broken up.”

“This wasn’t—”

My glare stopped him.

He shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“I heard.”

“Harley, I never wanted to hurt you.” His voice was weak. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“I don’t really care,” I said, before he could go on. “You could have killed my sister. She might never wake up and—” My voice caught in my throat. I put my hands up. “Stop calling me, stop texting me, stop reaching out to my friends. Just stop.”

I turned to walk away.

“I’m going to rehab,” he called after me. “For thirty days.”

That stopped me.

“Good,” I said, my eyes on the hallway carpet. “I hope it helps you realize what an ass you are.”

I paused. I hated that I still felt sympathy for him. But I had lived my life around him, about him, for him, for so long. Seeing him so miserable was jarring.

“How much trouble are you in?” I asked.

“A lot,” he said. “The rehab is court-mandated. It was that or thirty days in juvie. And I have to do community service. And my license is suspended.”

And there it was: the familiar disappointment. I spun to face him. “I was hoping you’d actually made the choice to go to rehab on your own,” I said.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” he said. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. “I’m seventeen. How could I be?”

I shrugged. “I’m not saying you are, but I don’t think there’s an age restriction on being an alcoholic,” I said. Audrey once told me that Drew Barrymore believes she was an alcoholic and an addict by the time she was twelve. She’s been sober since she was a teenager. So clearly it’s possible. “And I hope you quit drinking anyway, since you could have killed yourself and two other people.”