Текст книги "My Life Next Door"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Uh well, hey,” he says. “Nan’s a pain in the ass and I like to screw with her and generally make her life miserable—but she is my sister.”

“She is my mother.”

“It’s different,” Tim mutters. “See, I already was a fuck-up. I didn’t cheat on papers, but I did every other shitty thing that occurred to me. Kinda seemed like karma that I’d get cheated from. But you’re not like that. You know who you are.”

“A mess.”

He looks at me. “Well…kind of. But if you blow your nose again, maybe brush your hair a little…” I can’t help but laugh, which makes my nose run more and adds, I’m sure, to my general charming appearance.

Tim rolls his eyes, straightens up, and hands me the entire roll of paper towels. “Have you talked to your mom? Mr. Garrett’s got some infection now—this high fever, and things are just all messed up.

Maybe if she knew how bad this shit is.”

“I tried. Of course I’ve tried. It’s like talking to a wall. It happened, it’s over, resigning won’t do the Garretts any good, blah blah blah.”

“Suing her ass would do them some good,” Tim mumbles. “What about the police? What if you gave them an anonymous tip? No, they’d need proof. What if you talked to Mrs. Garrett first? She’s cool.”

“I can barely stand to look at their house, Tim. I can’t talk to Mrs. Garrett.”

“Then start with Jase. The guy’s wrecked, Sam. Working at the store all the time and going to the hospital and keeping up with that crazy-ass training and trying to keep it together at home…all while wondering what the fuck happened to his girl—if you couldn’t deal, or if he did something wrong or if you think his family’s just a train wreck you don’t want to handle.”

“That’s Mom,” I say automatically. “Not me.” My theme song still.

But…it is me. Staying quiet, pretending. I am doing exactly what Mom has done. I am, after all, just like her.

I stand up. “Do you know where Jase is? At the store?”

“Store’s closed, Samantha, it’s after five. I don’t know where he is now. I locked up. But I have my car and his cell number. I’ll get you to him. Not stay or anything. This has to be between you two. But I’ll getcha there.” He crooks his elbow out, offering his arm, like some courtly nineteenth-century gentleman.

Mr. Darcy. In somewhat unusual circumstances.

I take a deep breath, wrap my fingers around his elbow.

“And, for the record,” Tim adds, “I’m so fucking sorry, Samantha. I’m fucking, fucking sorry about all this.”

Chapter Forty-seven

From that first day, I’ve walked right into the Garretts’ without knocking. But now when Tim puts his hand on the screen door handle, I shake my head. There’s no doorbell, so I tap loudly on the metal of the doorframe, rattling it. I can hear George’s husky voice talking on and on in another room, so I know someone’s home.

Alice comes to the door. The smile drops off her face immediately.

“What do you want?” she says through the screen.

“Where’s Jase?”

She looks over her shoulder, then comes out onto the steps, slamming the screen door behind her. She’s wearing a white bikini top and a pair of faded cutoffs. Beside me, I feel Tim’s focus disappearing faster than helium from a burst balloon.

“Why?” Folding her arms, Alice settles herself firmly against the door.

“I have something I have to—say to him.” My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat. Tim moves a little closer, either in support or to peer down Alice’s bikini.

“I’m pretty sure it’s all been said,” she says flatly. “Why don’t you go back where you came from?” The part of me used to doing what I’m told, toeing the line, my mother’s daughter, runs down the driveway in tears. But the rest of me, the real me, doesn’t budge. I can’t go back where I came from. That Samantha’s gone.

“I need to see him, Alice. Is he here?”

She shakes her head. Since Mr. Garrett’s accident, she hasn’t kept up with her constant hair transformations, and now it’s wavy brown with blond highlights growing out badly. “I don’t see any reason to let you know where he is. Leave him be.”

“It’s important, Alice,” Tim cuts in, evidently regaining focus.

After fixing him with a withering stare, she turns back to me. “Look, we don’t have time or space for your dramas, Samantha. I’d started to think you were different, not just another private school princess, but looks like that’s exactly what you are. My brother doesn’t need that.”

“What your brother doesn’t need is you fighting his battles.” I wish I were taller and could intimidate her by looming imposingly, but Alice and I are the same height. All the better for her to shoot her death-ray glare straight into my eyes.

“Yeah, well, he’s my brother, so his battles are my battles,” Alice says.

“Whoa, you two.” Tim moves into our midst, towering over both of us. “I can’t believe I’m actually breaking up a fight between two hot babes, but this is fucked up. Jase needs to hear what Samantha has to say, Alice. Put away your bullwhip.”

Alice ignores him. “Look, I know you want to do that whole make-yourself-feel-better routine, la-la-la, you never meant to hurt him and you’d like to stay friends and all that garbage. But let’s just skip all that.

Go. You’re done here.”

“Sailor Supergirl!” says a happy voice, and there’s George, pushing his nose into the mesh of the screen. “I had an Eskimo pie for breakfast today. Do you know that it’s not really made by Eskimos?

Or”—his voice drops—“out of Eskimos. Did you know that Eskimos make their ice cream out of seal fat?

That’s kinda yuck.”

I bend down, away from Alice. “George—is Jase home?”

“He’s in his room. Want me to take you there? Or go get him?” His face is so alight and alive seeing me, no reproach for my disappearing act. George of the forgiving heart. I wonder what the Garretts—

Jase—told him—told anyone—about me. As I watch, though, his expression clouds over. “You don’t think they make the ice cream out of baby seals, do you? Those little white fluffy ones?” Alice pushes herself more firmly against the door. “George, Samantha was just leaving. Don’t bother Jase.”

“They would never make ice cream out of baby seals,” I tell George. “They only make ice cream out of…” I have no idea how to finish this sentence.

“Terminally ill seals,” Tim intervenes. “Suicidal seals.”

George looks understandably confused.

“Seals who want to be ice cream,” Alice tells him briskly. “They volunteer. There’s a lottery. It’s an honor.”

He nods, digesting this. We’re all watching his face to see if this explanation flew. Then I hear a voice behind him say, “Sam?”

His hair’s sticking out in all directions, shower-damp. The smudges beneath his eyes are deeper and his jaw sharper.

“Hey, dude,” Tim says. “Just bringing your girl by, admiring your bodyguard, all that. But,” he says, backing down the steps, “goin’ now. Catch you later. Feel free to call anytime to set up that mud-wrestling match, Alice.”

Alice reluctantly moves aside as Jase pushes open the screen door, then shrugs, heading back into the house.

Jase steps out, face expressionless.

“So,” he says. “Why’re you here?”

George returns to the screen. “Do you think it has flavors? The ice cream? Like chocolate chip seal or seal with strawberry swirl?”

“Buddy,” Jase tells him. “We’ll check it out later, okay?” George backs off.

“Do you have the Bug? Or the motorcycle?” I ask.

“I can get the Bug,” he says. “Joel’s got the cycle at work.” He turns back to the door and shouts, “Al, I’m taking the car.”

I can’t quite hear Alice’s response, but I’m betting all the words have four letters.

“So, where are we going?” he asks, once we get into the car.

I wish I knew.

“McGuire Park,” I suggest.

Jase flinches. “Not full of happy memories right now, Sam.”

“I know,” I say, putting my hand on his knee. “But I want to be private. We can walk out to the lighthouse or something if you want. I just need to be alone with you.” Jase looks at my hand. I remove it.

“Let’s do McGuire then. The Secret Hideaway is a safe bet.” His voice is level, emotionless. He reverses the car, hitting the gas harder than he usually does, turning down Main Street.

It’s silent between us, the kind of awkward silence that never used to happen. The well-trained (Mom’s daughter) part of me wants to fill it with babble: So, lovely weather lately, I’m fine, thank you, and you?

Great! How about them Sox?

But I don’t. I just stare at my hands on my lap, stealing glances at his impassive profile from time to time.

He reaches out automatically to help me as we jump from stone to stone to the tilted rock in the river. The clasp of that warm strong hand is so familiar, so safe, that when he lets go as we reach the rock, my own feels incomplete.

“So…” he says, sitting down, wrapping his arms around his legs, and looking, not at me, but out at the water.

There may be proper words for this situation. A tactful way to lead up. A convincing explanation. But I don’t know them. All that comes out is the unvarnished, awful truth.

“It was my mother who hit your father. She was driving the car.” Jase’s head snaps around, eyes wide. I watch the color leach from his face under his tan. His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I was there. Asleep in the backseat. I didn’t see it. I wasn’t sure what had happened. For days. I didn’t realize.” I meet his eyes, waiting to see astonishment turn to scorn, scorn to contempt, telling myself I’ll survive. But he just keeps staring at me. I wonder if he’s gone into shock and I should repeat it. I remember him giving me a Hershey’s bar after that ride with Tim because Alice said chocolate was good for shock. I wish I had some. I wait for him to say something, anything, but he just looks as though I’ve punched him in the gut and he can’t breathe.

“Clay was there too,” I add uselessly. “He was the one who told her to drive away, not that it matters, because she did it, but—”

“Did they even stop?” Jase’s voice rises, harsh. “And make sure he was breathing? Tell him help was coming? Anything?”

I try to pull a full breath of air into my lungs, but can’t seem to manage. “They didn’t. Mom backed up and drove away. Clay called 911 from a pay phone nearby.”

“He was all alone there in the rain, Samantha.”

I nod, trying to swallow the barbed wire caught in my throat. “If I had known, if I’d realized,” I say, “I would have gotten out of the car. I would have. But I was asleep when it happened, they just backed away

–it happened so fast.”

He straightens up, turning to stare out at the water. Then says something in a voice so low, the river breeze carries the words away. I move next to him. I want to touch him, to bridge this gap like that, but he’s stiff and still, a force field around him, holding me back

“When did you know?” he asks, in that same low tone.

“I had a feeling when you talked about Shore Road, but—”

“That was the next day, ” Jase interrupts, loud now. “The next day when the surgeons were drilling holes in Dad’s skull and the police were still acting like they were going to figure this all out.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walks away from me, away from the flat part of the rock to the jagged side that slopes into the water.

I follow, touch his shoulder. “But I didn’t really know. Let myself know. Not until I heard Clay and Mom talking a week later.”

Jase doesn’t turn toward me, still looking out at the river. But he doesn’t jerk away either.

“That’s when you decided it was a good time to break up?” No emotion in his always expressive voice.

“That’s when I knew I couldn’t face you. And Clay had threatened to rescind all these contracts Mom’s campaign has with your dad’s store, and I…”

He swallows, absorbing this. Then his eyes flick to mine. “This is a lot. To take in.” I nod.

“I haven’t been able to get that picture out of my head. Dad lying there in the rain. He landed face-first, did you know that? The car bumped him and threw him through the air. Ten feet, probably. He was in a puddle when the EMTs got there. A few more minutes and he would have drowned.” Again, I want to just run. There’s nothing to say and no way to fix anything.

“He doesn’t remember anything about that,” Jase continues. “Only noticing it looked like rain and then fade to black until the hospital. But I keep thinking he must have realized at the time. That he was alone and hurt and there was nobody there who cared.” He wrenches his body toward mine. “You would have stayed with him?”

They say you never know what you’d do in a hypothetical situation. We’d all like to think we’d be one of the people who gave up their lifejackets and waved a stoic good-bye from the slanting deck of the Titanic, someone who jumped in front of a bullet for a stranger, or turned and raced back up the stairs of one of the Towers, in search of someone who needed help rather than our own security. But you just don’t know for sure if, when things fall apart, you’ll think Safety first or if safety will be the last thing on your mind.

I look into Jase’s eyes and tell the only truth I have. “I don’t know. I didn’t have that choice. But I know what’s happening now. And I’m choosing to stay with you.”

It’s not clear who reaches for whom. Doesn’t matter. I have Jase in my arms and mine hold him tight.

I’ve done so much crying that there are no tears. Jase’s shoulders shake but gradually still. No words for a long time.

Which is fine, because even the most important ones– I love you. I’m sorry. Forgive me? I’m here—

are only stand-ins for what you can say better without talking at all.

Chapter Forty-eight

The drive back to the Garretts’ is as silent as the drive to the park was, but a whole different kind of silence. Jase’s free hand intertwines in mine when he doesn’t need to shift gears, and I lean across the space between our seats to rest my head on his shoulder.

We’re pulling into the driveway next to the van when he asks, “What now, Sam?” Telling him was the hardest part. But not the end of the hard parts. Facing Alice. Mrs. Garrett. My mom.

“I only got as far as you.”

Jase nods, biting his bottom lip, shifting the clutch into park.

His jaw tightens and he looks down at his hands. “How do you want to do this? Are you going to come in with me?”

“I think I have to tell Mom. That you know. She’s going to be—” I scrub my hands over my face. “Well, I have no idea what she’s going to be. Or do. Clay either. But I’ve got to tell her.”

“Look, I’m gonna take some time to think. How to say it. Whether I start with Mom or…I don’t know.

I’ll have my cell. If anything happens, if you need me, call, okay?”

“Okay.” I begin climbing out of the car, but Jase catches hold of my hand, stopping me.

“I’m not sure what to think,” he says. “You knew this. From the start. I mean, how could you not have?” Kind of a crucial question.

“How could you not have realized that something terrible had happened?” Jase asks.

“I was asleep,” I answer. “Longer than I should have been.” I know Mom’s home when I get there because her navy blue sandals are outside the door, her Prada purse slung on the lowboy in the hallway, but she’s not in the kitchen or living room. So I head upstairs, to her suite, feeling this sense of trespassing, even though I’m in my own home.

She must be deciding what to wear to some new event, and indecisively, because there are piles of clothes tossed on the bed…a rainbow of florals, soft pastels, and rich ocean colors, starkly contrasted by her power-suit whites and navies.

The shower’s running.

Mom’s bathroom’s huge. She’s renovated it a bunch of times over the years. Each time it’s gotten bigger, more luxurious. It’s fully carpeted with a couch and a sunken bathtub, towel warmers and a glass shower with seven nozzles spraying from every direction. It’s all done in a color my mother calls oyster, which looks like gray to me. She’s got a vanity and a little upholstered bench set up in the corner, with a parade of perfumes and lotions, glass bottles, squat jars, and miles of makeup. When I crack the door open, the room’s filled with clouds of steam, so thick I can barely see. “Mom?” I call.

She gives a little shriek. “Don’t do that, Samantha. Don’t walk in when someone’s taking a shower!

Haven’t you seen Psycho?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“I’m exfoliating.”

“When you’re done. But soon.”

The shower squeaks off abruptly. “Can you hand me a towel? And my robe?” I unhook her apricot silk robe from the door, where, I cannot help but notice, a navy blue man’s robe also hangs. She reaches out around the shower door and clutches at the silk.

Once the robe is knotted neatly around her waist and the plush oyster-colored towel wraps her hair like a turban, she sits down at the vanity, reaching for her skin cream.

“I’ve been considering a little Restylane between the eyebrows,” she says. “Not enough to look ‘done,’

just to take away that little crinkle here.” She indicates a nonexistent wrinkle, then pulls her forehead taut with both hands. “I think it would be a smart career move, because lines in your forehead make it seem like you’re fretting. My constituents shouldn’t think I’m concerned about anything—that would undermine their confidence, don’t you think?” She smiles at me, my mother with her convoluted logic and her towel crown.

I have chosen the Road of No Small Talk. “Jase knows.”

She pales beneath her face cream, then her brows snap together. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Mom springs up from the upholstered bench so quickly, she knocks it over. “Samantha…why?”

“I had to, Mom.”

She paces across the room, walks back. And for the first time, I do notice the lines across her forehead, the long grooves parenthesizing her mouth. “We had this conversation, agreed that for the good of all, we would put this behind us.”

“That was the conversation you had with Clay, Mom. Not the one with me.” She stops, eyes shooting sparks. “You gave me your word.”

“I never did. You just didn’t hear what I really said.”

Mom deflates onto the bench, shoulders slumped, then looks up at me, eyes wide and beseeching. “I’ll lose Clay too. If there’s a scandal, when there’s a scandal, and I have to resign—he won’t stick around.

Clay Tucker plays for the winning team. That’s who he is.” How could Mom even want to be with a man she knew that about? If trouble comes, babe, I’m outta here. I’m glad I don’t know my father. Sad, but true. If he and Clay are how my mother thinks men are, I can only pity her.

Tears glisten in her eyes. Knee-jerk, tired guilt kicks in, but doesn’t coil in my stomach the way saying nothing did.

Mom pivots back to the mirror, propping her elbows on the counter and staring at her reflection. “I need time to myself, Samantha.”

I put my hand on the door handle. “Mom?”

“What now?”

“Can you look at me?”

She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Why?”

“Face-to-face.”

With a gusty sigh, Mom turns around on the bench. “Yes?”

“Tell me to my face that you think I did the wrong thing. You look at me and say that. If that’s what you really believe.”

Unlike my own eyes, flecked with gold and maybe green too, Mom’s are an undiluted blue. She meets my gaze, holds it for a beat, then looks away.

“I didn’t tell anyone yet,” Jase says when I open the window to him early that evening, the sun hanging low in the sky.

Worn out from talking with Mom, I’m simply glad I don’t have to confess anything to anyone else or deal with anyone’s reactions to anything.

But that selfish thought only lingers for a moment. “Why not?”

“Mom came home and went up to take a nap. She’d stayed all night last night because they had to intubate my dad because of this infection thing. I thought I’d let her sleep. But I did think about what to do next. Seems to me the talking stick is the way to go.”

“The what?”

“The talking stick. It’s this piece of driftwood Joel found and Alice painted when we were really little.

Mom had this friend back then—with these insane kids—I mean ‘climbing the curtains and swinging from the rafters’ insane. The friend, Laurie, kinda had no idea how to handle them, so she used to follow the boys around shouting, ‘This is will be a topic next time we use the talking stick.’ I guess they had family meetings and whoever was holding the stick got to talk about something that was ‘affecting the family as a whole.’ Mom and Dad used to sort of laugh about it, but then they noticed whenever we all tried to discuss something as a family, everyone spoke at once and nobody heard anyone else. So we made a talking stick of our own. We still bring it out when there’s some big decision to be made or news to be told.” He laughs, looking down at his feet. “Duff once said in show-and-tell that ‘every time Dad brings out the big stick, Mommy’s having a baby.’ They had to have a teacher conference about that one.” It feels good to laugh. “Yikes.” I plop down on the bed, pat the space next to me.

Jase doesn’t sit. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets, tilting his head back against the wall.

“There’s this one thing I was wondering about.”

I feel a shiver of apprehension. There’s a note in his voice I don’t recognize, something that stains the sheer pleasure of having him this close to me again.

“What?”

He flips up a corner of the rug with the toe of his Converse, then edges it back down “It’s probably nothing. It just occurred to me, thinking about you coming over before. Tim knew what you had to say.

You told him. First. Before you told me.”

Is that unfamiliar note jealousy? Or doubt? I can’t tell.

“He basically shook it out of me, wouldn’t let up until I did. He’s my friend.” Staring at Jase’s bowed head, I add, “I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you think.” He looks at me then. “I think I know that. I do know that. But aren’t you supposed to be most honest with the people you love? Isn’t that the point?”

I come closer, tip my head to scan his clear green eyes.

“Tim’s used to things being screwed up,” I offer, finally.

“Yeah, well, I’m getting pretty used to that too. Why not tell me from the start, Sam?”

“I thought you would hate me. And Clay was going to ruin the hardware store. I’d already ruined everything else. I thought it was better to leave than to have you hate me.” His forehead crinkles. “I’d hate you because of something your mother did? Or that scumbag threatened? Why? What sense would that make?”

“Nothing made sense. I was stupid and just…just lost. Everything was wonderful and then everything was awful. You have this happy family and it all works. I come into it and something from my world messes it all up.”

Jase turns to look out the window, out over our ledge to his house.

“It’s all the same world, Sam.”

“Not entirely, Jase. I’ve got—meet-and-greets and the griffins at the B and T and pretending everything’s okay when it’s not and just junk. And you’ve got—”

“Debt and diapers and messy rooms and more junk,” he concedes. “Why didn’t you think that if it was your world, if you had to deal with it, I might care enough to want it to be mine too?” I close my eyes, take a deep slow breath, open them to find him looking at me with so much love and trust.

“I lost faith,” I say.

“And now?” he asks quietly.

I extend my hand flat, palm open, and Jase’s hand closes around it. He gives a little tug, and then I am in his arms, holding on. There is no soaring music, but there is the sound of his heart, and my own.

Then my bedroom door snaps open and my mother is standing there, staring at us.

Chapter Forty-nine

“You’re both here,” Mom says. “Perfect.”

Not what I would have imagined her saying when she caught us together in my bedroom. The astonishment on Jase’s face must mirror mine.

“Clay’s on his way,” she continues breathlessly. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Come down to the kitchen.”

Jase glances at me. I shrug. Mom heads downstairs.

Once we reach the kitchen, she turns and smiles, her social we’re-all-good-friends-here smile. “Why don’t we have something to drink while we’re waiting? You hungry, Jase?” Her voice has that tinge of a Southern drawl that has rubbed off from Clay.

“Uh…not really.” Jase is looking at her warily, like she’s an animal whose temperament he’s unsure of.

She’s wearing a bright lemon-yellow dress, her hair neat, her makeup flawless. A far cry from the stunned woman in her robe with the mask of skin cream I left behind just a while ago.

“Well, when Clay gets here, we’ll all go in the office. Maybe I should make tea.” She surveys Jase.

“You don’t look like a tea drinker, though. A beer?”

“I’m underage, so no, thanks, Senator Reed.” Jase’s voice is flat.

“You can call me Grace,” Mom says, missing any sarcasm. Ooo-kay. Not even Nan and Tim, who have known her nearly a lifetime, are on a first-name basis with Mom. Publically, anyway.

She walks a little closer to Jase, who’s standing very still, maybe in case she turns out to be one of those animals who strike without warning. “My, what broad shoulders you have.” My, what a creepy Blanche DuBois vibe you have, Mom

“What’s going on here—” I start, but she cuts in.

“It’s mighty hot today. Why don’t I get you two some lemonade? I think we might even have cookies!” Has she lost her mind? What’s she expecting Jase to say: Are they chocolate chip? With nuts?

Because if so, all’s forgiven! What’s a little hit and run compared to this awesome treat?

I take his hand, squeezing mine, stepping closer as we hear the front door bang open.

“Gracie?”

“In the kitchen, honey,” Mom calls warmly. Clay strides in, hands in his pockets, sleeves of his button-down rolled up.

“Hi there, Jason, is it?”

“I go by Jase.” Now Jase is dividing his attention between two creatures of unknown temperament. I edge closer to him and he moves forward, blocking me behind his back. I circle around, stand beside him.

“Jase it is, then,” Clay says easily. “How tall are you, son?” What’s up with this sudden obsession with Jase’s physique? He shoots me a look that asks: Is he measuring me for a coffin? But still responds politely, “Six two…sir.”

“Basketball your game?”

“Football. I’m a cornerback.”

“Ah—a key position. I was quarterback myself,” Clay says. “I remember one time I—”

“That’s great,” Jase interrupts. “Could you please tell us what’s going on here? I know what happened, with my dad. Sam told me.”

Clay’s calm, genial expression doesn’t change. “Yes, so I hear. Why don’t we all go into Grace’s office. Gracie, sugar, you lead the way.”

Mom’s home office is more feminine than her work one, with pale blue walls and white linen upholstery on the couch and the chairs. Instead of an office chair, she has an ivory silk brocade armchair.

She settles into this, behind the desk, while Clay sprawls back in one of the other chairs, slanting it onto its hind legs the way he always does.

Jase and I move close together on the long couch.

“So, Jase, hoping to keep on playing football in college, are you?”

“I’m not clear on why we’re talking about this,” Jase says. “My college career doesn’t have much to do with the senator and what she did to my dad. Sir.”

Clay’s expression is still blandly pleasant. “I admire blunt speaking, Jase.” He chuckles. “When your career’s in politics, you don’t hear nearly enough of it.” He smiles at Jase, who returns his look stonily.

“All right, then,” Clay says. “Let’s be honest with one another. Jase, Samantha, Grace…What we have here is a situation. Something’s happened, and we need to deal with it. Am I right?” Since this generic summation could cover everything from the dog peeing on the new rug to inadvertently launching nuclear warheads, Jase and I nod.

“A wrong’s been done, am I right about that too?”

I glance over at Mom, whose tongue flicks out to lick her upper lip nervously.

“Yes,” I say, since Jase has returned to his wary he-could-strike-at-any-moment watching of Clay.

“Now, how many people know about this? Four, right? Or have you told anyone else, Jase?”

“Not yet.” Jase’s voice is steely.

“But you’re planning to, because that would be the right thing to do, am I right, son?”

“I’m not your son. Yes.”

Crashing the chair back to its upright position, Clay inclines forward, elbows on his knees, hands outspread as if in supplication. “There’s where, with all due respect, I don’t think you’re thinking clearly.”

“Really?” Jase asks acidly. “Where am I confused?”

“By thinking two wrongs will make a right. When you tell other people what happened, Senator Reed will assuredly suffer. She will lose the career she’s dedicated her life to, the one where she serves the people of Connecticut so well. I’m not sure you’ve thought through, though, how much your girlfriend will suffer. If this gets out, she will, as they say, be tarred with the same brush. It’s a pity, but that’s what happens to the children of felons.”

Mom flinches at the word felons but Clay continues, “Are you prepared to live with that? Everywhere Samantha goes, people will be speculating about her morals. Thinking she must not have all that many.

That could be a dangerous thing for a young woman. There are men who won’t hesitate to take advantage of that.”

Jase looks down at his hands, which have balled into fists. But on his face there’s pain, and worse—

confusion.

“I don’t care about that,” I say. “You’re being ridiculous. What are you even saying—that the whole world will assume I’m a tramp because Mom hit someone with her car? Give me a break. They must have handouts with better lines than that at Cheesy Villain School.” Jase laughs and puts his arm around me.

Unexpectedly, Clay laughs too. Mom’s impassive.

“In that case, I guess offering you two hush money in unmarked bills isn’t going to fly, huh?” Clay stands up, ambles behind Mom and begins massaging her shoulders. “Fine, then, where do we stand?

What’s your next move, Jase?”

“I’m going to tell my family. I’ll let my parents decide what they want to do, once they have all the information.”

“You don’t need to be so defensive. Hey, I’m from the South. I admire a man who stands up for his family. It’s commendable, really. So you’re going to tell your folks, and, if your folks want to call a press conference and announce what they know, you’re fine with that.”

“That’s right.” Jase’s arm tightens around my shoulder.

“And if the accusations don’t bear weight because there are no witnesses and people think your parents are just crackpots out to make a buck, that’s all good with you too?” Uncertainty returns to Jase’s face. “But…?”