In the morning, Liam was gone, but his scent wasn’t. I breathed in my pillow, the smell of his cologne and shampoo reminding me of his warm skin and soft hair. I longed to feel him again, to be held by him. So much for my aversion to touch.
I wondered when he’d left. It was Saturday, so he probably had early-morning practice or something. I hadn’t even asked if he’d won his game last night. It didn’t seem like it mattered at the time, but now my omission just felt rude.
My stomach rumbled. It had been nearly a day since I’d eaten anything. I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen. The smell of coffee not only alerted me to my mom’s presence but also spiked my awareness of a possible confrontation with her. I almost went back up to my room to search for a granola bar in my backpack when I heard her voice.
“Is that you, Rue-girl?”
I gulped and shuffled into the bright light of the kitchen. I felt like I needed sunglasses just to enter this side of the house. Maybe I had some kind of hangover from last night’s horror.
“Hey, sunshine,” she said.
“Hey, Mom.” I went straight to the fridge without looking at her. As I searched for the quickest and easiest nourishment, I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She put down the paper and watched my every move. Why was she just staring at me without her normal assault of judgment or cross-questioning? She knew something.
“Good night’s sleep?” she asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said, grabbing the orange juice.
“Not too tired this morning?” she prodded.
“Nope.” I filled up a glass and sipped the juice while studying the fruit bowl for something I could grab and get out of there with. But damn it, the bananas were too ripe and the oranges looked a day or two past edible.
I turned to the cabinet to snatch some bread instead while Mom continued staring. Had she seen Liam in my room—or had she seen him sneak out this morning? Did she know something about what I’d done last night?
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” she pushed.
We were exceeding our spoken word limit for the day. I didn’t have time to toast this bread. Butter and jam would have to be enough.
“Not that I can think of,” I said, throwing a fake smile in her general direction.
She took off her reading glasses, sat back in her chair, and crossed her legs. One of her signature D. A. moves that meant, OK, I’m getting serious now. I bet it worked great on unwitting criminals ready to plead out, but it wasn’t working on me. At least, I was trying not to let it work on me. It would be a lot easier trying from my room. I started to go, but then she said, “Ruby, why do you lie to me?”
I skidded to a halt. I didn’t even know which lie to cover for.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, turning and accidentally making eye contact.
“How long has this been going on?” she said.
What? Stalking people, killing murderers, or having sleepovers with a boy? “Could you define what you mean by ‘this,’ counselor?”
“It’s not a game,” she said, standing up and making her chair scrape against the tile floor. “You could be jeopardizing your future.”
I needed a few more specifics. Everything I did lately was jeopardizing my future. “Seriously, Mom, just tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Well, we’ve never had this conversation, and it is probably overdue…” She put her arm around my waist and led me back to the table.
Two horrible “overdue conversations” sprang to mind: Either she’d found out about the deaths piling up around me or she actually wanted to have The Conversation. Yeah, like at seventeen I didn’t already know about the birds and the bees.
I honestly couldn’t decide which discussion would be worse.
I sat down at the table with my bread and butter as my only defense against her attack, jamming in mouthfuls of food so she couldn’t expect me to speak first. She sat down across from me.
“I don’t know exactly how to say this,” she said, “but I hope you at least used protection.”
As much as I suddenly longed for her to be talking about the gun and the knife, I knew she meant something else. And I wished she did know about Father Michael. Then she wouldn’t feel the need to torture me with this awful subject.
“The last thing you need right now is to bring a child into the situation,” she said, now talking more to herself than to me. “Believe me, a mistake like that would be devastating, not just for you—but everyone involved.”
I stared at her, trying to read where this was coming from. Something in her eyes made it seem like she wasn’t talking about me anymore. Like she was alluding to someone else. Maybe even herself. But that didn’t make any sense. She was in her thirties when I was born. Right about the same time she admitted to her affair with—
“Please don’t tell me that Martinez is my real father.” I closed my eyes, unable to look her in the face.
“Ruby! Of course not. No, that’s not it at all.” She paused, speechless.
I reopened my eyes to make sure she was telling the truth.
“I’m talking about you,” she said, straightening her posture to regain control.
“What about me?”
She hesitated. So un-Jane Rose. She was rattled, flustered. I’d never seen her thrown, so completely off her game.
“I know about you and that boy.” Those words practically spurted from her mouth, oozing with disdain. “I asked him to leave this morning. I didn’t wake you because I wanted to know if you would be honest enough to just tell me the truth. And apparently, the answer is no.”
“Really?” I asked, cocking my head. “This is so interesting coming from someone who lies for a living.” I set down my bread. I no longer needed it to defend myself. “You lie to the press, lie to the Court, lie to your only child—and you’re accusing me of lying!”
“Young lady—”
“You promise the world to everyone,” I said. “Promise the community to be tough on violent offenders and then cut them deals or allow enough incompetent mistakes to let them off.” I ripped that one straight from Bill Brandon’s talking points. I knew I should stop, but the words kept bubbling up.
“You promise your family that you’ll be there for us, and you aren’t.” Just mentioning the “us” brought flames to my heart. There was no “us” anymore. Just her and me in our glorious isolation. At least she couldn’t cheat on Dad again. But I didn’t dare mention that. “So please remind me, Jane, where I was supposed to learn honesty.”
“This discussion is not about me, Ruby, and I will not let you attack me to protect yourself. Don’t think I’ve forgotten this is how you work. Dr. Teresa has told you over and over that this is not an appropriate way to communicate.” She smoothed out her hair and narrowed her eyes. “I am the mother. You are the daughter, and you will treat me with respect. And you will tell me whether or not you are sleeping with that boy under my roof.”
“OK, you want the truth? You want respect?” I said, narrowing my eyes right back. “No, I am not sleeping with that boy. We’ve never had sex. I’ve never had sex. He slept in my bed last night, but nothing happened. We didn’t even kiss once.” Part of me wished I had slept with him, just to throw it in her face. “And since you brought her up, Dr. Teresa is more of a mother to me than you’ve been in a long time. At least she accepts me and tries to understand me. She never bails on me.” Well, except for yesterday, but that was unheard of.