Текст книги "A Little Too Much"

Автор книги: Lisa Desrochers

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Fourteen

I WOKE UP for a sec when Brett rolled out of bed and left for the airport at ass o’clock this morning. The next thing I know, it’s three hours later and Creed’s “My Sacrifice” is blasting out of my phone. I reach for it on the nightstand without opening my eyes—which is stupid, ’cause all I manage to do is knock it onto the pile of dirty laundry on the floor. The clothes muffle Alessandro’s ringtone and I think about letting it go to voice mail, but then he’d probably just call again. Why is he calling at nine freaking o’clock in the morning, when any normal person should still be sleeping? Is he canceling on me? I roll onto my stomach and drag myself to the edge of the bed, scooping it off the mound. I hit connect and lift the phone to my ear. “What?”

“I obviously woke you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I croak. “Are we still on for today, or what?”

“We are,” he says. “But I’m going to need you until four. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Where are we going?”

“You know I’m not going to tell you that, but I will tell you it’s on the Lower East Side, not too far from Club 69.”

“I’ll just bring my work stuff. Eleven, still? At Argo?”

“Yes. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

WHEN I WALK into the Argo Tea with my tiny white Filthy McDermott’s T-shirt and ass shorts in my bag, Alessandro is waiting at a table near the window.

He pushes my cup toward me. “We need to leave in a few minutes.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” I say, throwing up a salute.

That gets a smile. “Sorry if I sound like a drill sergeant.”

“Well, you do. You’ve been barking orders at me all morning.” For some reason that comes out sharp, even though I thought I meant it as a joke.

His brows press together. “Are you okay?”

Am I? I feel this antsy, frustrated feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t really know why. “I don’t know.”

“Anything I can help with?”

I haul a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

He bites a corner of his bottom lip. “If it’s about me, Hilary, you know all you have to do is ask and I’ll leave you alone.”

Is it him? Or is it everything else? Honestly, when I’m with him is the only time this feeling seems to go away. “I’ll let you know.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Your boyfriend was home this week?”

I nod and sip my tea so I don’t have to look at him, because, at his words, the frustrated knot in my stomach contracts painfully.

“How was your visit?”

My eyes slip to him and his gaze is intense, like he’s trying to read my thoughts. “Fine. It was fine.”

He nods slowly and I’m not sure whether the expression that slips over his face in that second is relief or chagrin.

I finish my tea and stand, needing to move. “Lead the way, Captain.”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, we climb out of the subway onto Grand Street, and I can’t help but flash back to the last time we were here, after Club 69. I remember how mad I was at him then . . . at everything really, and I realize how much that anger has melted away in the month since then. Is that my problem? My anger fueled me, kept me strong. Am I losing my edge?

Or was my anger just a crutch—a way of keeping people at arm’s length so no one would ever know how broken I am?

He guides me down Grand Street with a hand on my back. “I never told you how impressed I was with your composure that night,” he says as if he was hanging out in my head, a casual observer of my thoughts.

I bark out a laugh. “Because a couple of kids thought I was a hooker? I looked like a whore.”

“You looked stunning.” His voice is low and thick, tightening all the muscles below my waist.

I remember wanting him to want me that night. It was a totally ridiculous plan, but I wanted to punish him and I didn’t know how else to do it. Now I’m not sure what I want to do with him. Because I also remember feeling that same tightening in my groin then and thinking I might actually follow through.

Would I? If Alessandro made a move, showed interest, would I sleep with him again? I know I told myself I wouldn’t, but . . . I really don’t know. My heart simultaneously pounds and aches with the thought.

All that tingling . . . that’s just sex. That’s me getting hot for a really hot guy. That doesn’t mean anything. But this . . . this feels like it’s turning into something else. Something that I promised myself I wouldn’t feel ever again—especially for him.

Because last time it nearly killed me.

“Almost there,” he says, his fingers gliding up from my low back, following the trail of butterflies that he can’t possibly see under my clothes, as if he’s memorized it. As we cross Ludlow, just a block from where those kids jumped me, he wraps his arm over my shoulders.

“I’m really fine, Alessandro.”

“I know,” he says, tightening his arm on me.

He slows near the bus stop just across Essex, and I think maybe this has all been some big diversion and we’re getting on a bus to go somewhere totally different, but then he turns and opens the door next to us and the appetizing scents of yeast and oregano waft out.

“What is this?”

He gestures up at the red awning over the door with a secret smile.

I look up. Pizza for the Masses, it says. Divulging family secrets since 1999.

“Pizza for the masses?” I squint a question at Alessandro.

“They will teach us to make the perfect pizza from the ground up.” He sweeps a hand toward the door, which he’s still holding open.

I step through . . . and God it smells good.

He comes up behind me and slips off my jacket, hanging it on a coat tree there, then lays his hands on my hips, his breath in my hair as he says, “You said you like to cook, and I know you like pizza, so I thought . . .” His lips just brush my ear as he trails off. I rub my arms to disguise my shudder.

A pretty woman with dark hair, wearing a black T-shirt and black apron, comes out of the back. “Are you here for the class?”

“Yes,” Alessandro says, stepping away from me and pulling a folded paper from his back pocket, handing it to her. “We’re on your list. Alessandro Moretti.”

She unfolds the paper and looks it over. “There are two of you?”

Alessandro nods. “Yes.”

She smiles up at us. “The class will be starting soon. Follow me.”

We follow her back to a large, cheery pizza kitchen. In the middle of the room is a long wooden table with a wide metal shelf smack in the middle that runs down the entire length. On the shelf are squeeze bottles with what looks like olive oil, rolls of paper towels, shaker jars with Parmesan cheese and crushed red peppers, wooden spoons, spatulas, and other various utensils. Six grinning people in red aprons are already gathered on either side of the table, talking among themselves. On the back wall are ovens and a large stainless-steel refrigerator, and the walls are cluttered with pizza paddles, spice racks, and shelves of pizza boxes.

The woman hands Alessandro two red aprons. “We’re expecting two more, so go ahead and put these on, then find a spot at the pizza counter. We’ll get started as soon as everyone’s here.”

“Thank you,” Alessandro says with a warm smile.

I expect him to hand me an apron, but instead, he pulls me closer and loops it over my neck, then spins me gently by the shoulders, his fingertips tracing the line of butterflies down my back again as he lowers them to tie my apron at the waist.

Damn, it’s hot in here. And I don’t think the pizza ovens are even on yet.

“You’re ready to cook,” he says, low in my ear. But I’m already cooking. Scorching, more like.

I step away from him before I spontaneously combust and press my cool palms to my flaming face. On the wooden counter are ten marble slabs, five on each side. We take the last two places on the right side of the counter and the woman next to me smiles and says, “You ever done anything like this before?” in a Southern twang that reminds me of Jess.

“No,” I answer.

She leans a little closer and giggles. “Personally, I think the best part’s gonna be eating the results.”

My stomach growls loudly. Other than the tea Alessandro bought me, I haven’t eaten today, and suddenly, between the delectable smell and the thought of a piping-hot pizza, I’m starving.

The last couple shows and settles into the spots across from Alessandro and me, and we spend the next four hours learning how to create a culinary masterpiece. We start by measuring everything we need for the dough into stainless-steel bowls. When Alessandro leans in as I’m kneading it together and peeks in my bowl, I flick flour in his face.

“Mind your own business. I’m not screwing it up yet,” I say, turning to face my Southern tablemate and shielding my bowl from Alessandro’s view. But when I look down at my ball of dough, there’s a cockroach on it. “Shit!” I scream and everyone looks up.

“Sorry,” Alessandro says, lifting a hand at the instructor, a good-looking guy with dark hair in his thirties, who started out by telling us to call him Vic. He’s up front, at the end of the table, in the same black T-shirt and apron as the woman, sending us an unsure smile. Alessandro reaches into my bowl and plucks the cockroach out. He holds up the rubber bug for everyone to see. “Just a little prank.”

I spin on him and glare a dagger. “Jerk.”

He pockets the roach and goes back to kneading his dough, but he’s fighting to keep a straight face. Seeing him struggle to keep it together, I feel laughter forcing its way up my throat. The next second it sputters out through lips that I’m biting together to contain it, and when the damn breaks and it bursts out, everyone looks at me again.

“You two are having way too much fun back there,” Vic says with a grin and a wink.

We go back to work, and when we’ve all kneaded our dough into submission, we leave it to rise while we learn about what goes into authentic pizza sauce. Vic lays out all the ingredients and we slice and dice and throw it all into pots, then season to perfection. As the sauce simmers, we learn to stretch our dough onto pizza paddles and Vic talks us through toppings.

“Almost anything goes,” he says, then his eyes flash to me and he grins. “Except cockroaches. We frown on that.”

I roll my eyes, but crack up again.

Soon after, our first pies are in the oven. Alessandro has topped his with basil and tomato. “A classic Margherita,” he says.

I’ve gone with bell peppers, red onions, olives, and pepperoni. My favorite.

They come out of the oven and Alessandro slices his and pulls up the first wedge, turning it for me to take a bite. “Try it.”

I bite off the tip, and between the dough and the sauce and the blend of cheeses, it’s really amazing. “Wow.”

“Sometimes less is more,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him and glower. “Are you dissing my pizza?”

“Certainly not,” he says with feigned indignation.

I pull up a wedge and turn it for him to take a bite. He does and as he chews, his eyebrows arch and he smiles. “And sometimes more is more,” he says after he swallows.

We each take the rest of our dough and make another pizza, and this time I go for the anchovies. I actually like them, but I don’t usually order them because, if I’m sharing with Brett or Jess, no one else is going to touch them. But when I look at what Alessandro is doing, he’s got anchovies on his too.

“No way,” I say.

He looks up at me, then down at my pizza and smiles. “Great minds . . .”

By the time the class is over, I’m stuffed and have two pizza boxes full of pizza to take home with me. “God, I don’t want to go to work,” I lament as Alessandro holds the door and I step through onto the sidewalk. I’d seriously consider calling in sick, because I can’t think of anything more depressing than going to the bar after this, but I can’t afford to skip.

“Can I come with you?”

When I look up at Alessandro, there’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite read. “Why?”

He takes my pizza boxes and stacks them on top of his then tucks them all under his arm. “I had a nice time today, and I have nowhere else I need to be at the moment. I guess I’m not ready for the day to end just yet.”

My stomach kicks, because what I realize just this second is that frustrated, wrong feeling I had waking up next to Brett is gone. As a matter of fact, everything feels right for a change. “Only if you promise to check your cockroaches at the door.”

He smiles. “Done.”

We walk into the bar and Alessandro finds a stool as I head to the bathroom to change. I’m a little embarrassed for him to see me in my Filthy’s getup, but there’s not much I can do about it. When I come out five minutes later, he’s deep in conversation with Jerry, who’s scarfed slice of pizza from Alessandro’s box. There are two other groups in the bar, clustered into booths, and Bill-Bob and a buddy at the end of the bar. As usual, Jerry’s got the stereo blaring over the TV, which has a NASCAR race on at the moment.

“There’s not a welterweight that’s gonna touch Velasquez,” Jerry is saying as I head behind the bar.

Alessandro’s eyes catch on me as I pass, and I see them widen before he answers Jerry. “I think Jackson can give him a run for his money. And possibly Brady.”

“A friendly wager?” Jerry prompts, dollar signs dancing in his eyes.

“I’m not much of a gambling man,” Alessandro tells him with a smile.

“Stop trying to swindle the customers, Jerry,” I say, brushing him aside. I set a bar napkin down in front of Alessandro. “What do you want?”

I see him trying and failing to keep his eyes on mine instead of letting them slip down the front of my skintight T-shirt to the Filthy’s logo over my chest. Seeing his struggle sends a shiver through me. I feel my nipples harden with the rush, and I know he notices when his face flushes through his olive skin. “What’s on tap?”

“Jerry only carries the good stuff,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster, looking right at him. “So your choices are, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Coors, or Samuel Adams, which is the only thing we have on tap worth drinking, in my humble opinion.”

Alessandro leans into the bar and smiles, and in the dim lighting I see a spark in his eye. “I trust your humble opinion. Sam Adams, please.”

Jerry smirks and heads into the office while I grab a mug and pour Alessandro’s beer.

“I’m considering interviewing for the director of Teen Services position at the Catholic youth center.”

I set his beer on the bar in front of him as my heart skips. Does this mean he’s staying? “That would be amazing.”

He pulls the mug closer and my eyes are glued to his hand as he traces the handle with the tip of his index finger. I catch myself wishing that finger were tracing something else. Something attached to me. “The nun mentioned it when I was in there Monday and I dismissed it, but I’m having second thoughts. Throughout my seminary training, children have always been my passion. I’ve established youth centers in Corsica and at my parish in Rome. This just feels right—like a way I could make a difference for other kids like Lorenzo and me.”

My heart feels like it might explode. I think this could really help him. “Alessandro, I think you would be perfect for that. You should definitely interview.”

He lifts his mug, drawing a long sip, then sets it down, locking me in his gaze. “Thank you for making me walk through those doors. I never would have found it in myself to go back to the Church on my own. Being unable to follow through on my vow is one of my great failures. But, now . . . maybe I have another chance.”

“Can I get another one down here?” Bill-Bob calls from the end of the bar, jiggling his empty mug in the air and reminding me why I’m here.

But, even still, it takes me a second to free myself from Alessandro’s gaze. “Got it,” I yell back, flipping a fresh mug off the rack.

I feel Alessandro’s eyes on me as I fill it and I’m suddenly embarrassed. He spends his days at the Y helping inner-city kids try to make something of themselves, and I spend mine strutting around in ass shorts and getting old guys drunk.

I pour the foam off the top of Bill-Bob’s mug. “Welcome to my glamorous life. Just so you know, this isn’t my real job.” I say it, but then laugh at myself, realizing that’s kind of like those stupid bumper stickers on the backs of twenty-year-old Ford Fiestas that say My other car is a Porsche. “I mean . . . it’s not what I want to do.”

“Broadway,” he says.

I nod. “There’s a part I have a real shot at. The audition is Tuesday.”

When I glance up at him, he’s tapping his index finger on the side of his mug as if thinking, but his gaze is locked on me. “There is nothing wrong with your job, Hilary,” he finally says, like I just need to accept that this is the best I’m ever going to do.

I walk the length of the bar and slam Bill-Bob’s beer down in front of him, sloshing some over the rim, then storm back down the bar to Alessandro. “I will get a part.”

“I’m quite sure,” he says, tracing the rim of his mug with his index finger, and I realize my anger is misdirected. I’m really just frustrated with myself. And scared.

I blow out a sigh. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No need.”

I pick up the bar rag to go clean up the mess I made in front of Bill-Bob, and scream when a giant cockroach flies out of it. It lands on the counter below the bar and I start beating on it with the bottom of a beer mug.

But it just bounces around. No guts.

And then I realize.

“You bastard,” I mutter, picking up the rubber bug and slipping it into my pocket before anyone else sees it and thinks it’s real. When I look up, Bill-Bob and his buddy are staring at me. “False alarm,” I say with a wave of my hand. And when I turn to look at Alessandro, he’s got a smug smile plastered to his face.

I glare and spin to wipe up Bill-Bob’s mess, and when I come back, Alessandro is gone, his half-full beer still on the bar.

I’m pissed, but I didn’t really want him to leave.

I pick his mug up off the bar, but just before I dump it I notice his jacket still draped over the barstool. I set the mug back down as he comes out from the hall to the restrooms.

“I thought you left,” I say.

He tips his head at me as he slides back onto his stool. “I thought you’d want me to.”

“I do. Sort of.”

“Hmm . . . sort of,” he purrs through his accent, his eyes gliding over me again. “That’s tricky. Because the thing here is, if I stay, you’ll wish I’d left, but if I leave . . .” He trails off, leaving the thought dangling.

When I finish the sentence in my head, it comes out something like: I’d be really bummed. “You can stay, but I’m confiscating all your cockroaches,” I say, holding out my hand.

He slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and comes out with the other one. I take it and tuck it into my pocket.

He sips his beer. “Tell me about your audition.”

I spend the next hour, when I’m not pestered by customers, telling Alessandro about the part. And then I can’t stop talking. I catch myself telling him things I’ve never told anyone, dreams I’ve barely dared to think, let alone say out loud. “I’m good, you know? I know I can prove that if I can just get my foot in the door. I know someone will see me and I’ll get my break,” I say, wiping down the bar between Alessandro and me for the twentieth time.

As I say it, the last of that frustrated tension slips out of my shoulders. I look up at him and his gaze is deep and steady, as if he’s looking into my soul, and nothing he sees there surprises him. I’m suddenly transported back to the group home. He’s on top of me in my bed, his sixteen-year-old eyes looking down at me just like that.

I shake the memory out of my head. That was a lifetime ago. This is now.

“It’s just hard waiting,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his.

“Keep the faith, Hilary.” His voice is low and sure and somehow he makes me believe it will happen—like maybe because he was almost a priest, he has more pull upstairs.

Because, let’s face it, I need all the help I can get.

Chapter Fifteen

“HILARY MCINTYRE HERE to see Roseanne McIntyre,” I tell the guard at the counter, a long slender woman with a horse’s face who has her dark hair all tucked up under her guard’s cap.

“Sign in.”

I do.

“ID,” she says, holding out her hand.

I jump through all the usual hoops and sit in a chair while I wait for them to “announce” me. It’s ten minutes later that the guard calls over the desk, “The doctor says she’s not well enough for visitors.”

I push out of my seat and stare at her. “What?”

“He says she’s weak from the chemo and you should come back later in the week.”

“Chemo . . . ?”

She squints at me. “You knew, right? That your mom has cancer?”

I shake my head.

“Oh . . . sorry.”

“Is she . . . ?” My dry throat clicks as I swallow. “Is she dying?”

“She’s receiving the best care there is, courtesy of the State of New York. That’s all I can tell you. You’ll have to talk to your mother if you want any more information.”

“What kind of cancer?” I ask, slowly getting my mind around what she’s saying.

She shakes her head once. “I’m sorry. I can’t share any information without your mother’s consent.”

I just stand here a minute longer, trying to think. “If I leave a message, could she call me back?”

“Yes. She’s allowed phone calls.”

I step up to the desk. “Do you have something I can write on?”

She pulls a scrap of paper and a pen from the drawer and slides them over the counter.

“Thanks.” I pull them toward me and just stare at the paper for a long time. What am I supposed to say?

Mom,

Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? I came for our visit today, but they said you’re weak from the chemo. Please call me as soon as you can.

Hilary

I slide it back to the guard. “Can I get into the visitors’ room? I just need something from the vending machine.”

She holds out her hand. “What do you need?”

I fish in my pocket and hand her a dollar. “An Oh Henry!”

She nods and brings the bill to the door, where she hands it through to the guard inside and mutters something that I can’t hear. A minute later, the guard is back with an Oh Henry!, passing it through the door. The guard at the desk hands it to me and I wrap my note around it.

“Can you make sure she gets this?” I ask.

She nods. “I’ll have someone bring it right in for her.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning for the lockers.

“She’s really proud of you, you know.”

I look back at her. “What?”

“She talks about you all the time . . . says you’re going to be a big Broadway actress. She’s even petitioned for a furlough for your opening night.”

I just stare at her. She’s got to have Mom confused with some other inmate. “My mom is Roseanne McIntyre.”

She squint-smiles, like she thinks she’s said too much. “I know.” She holds up the Oh Henry! wrapped in my note. “I’ll make sure she gets this.”

I collect all my stuff and turn for the door in a daze. Mom has cancer. I knew she looked bad over the last few months, older every time I saw her, but cancer? My insides pull into a hard knot.

Mom has cancer . . . and she’s proud of me.

I walk back to the train station thinking about my audition on Tuesday. If I get this part . . . if they give Mom the furlough, will she be around to come to my opening night?

I have to get this part.

“You want me. I know you do,” I say, deciding to rehearse my lines again.

I pause where my male counterpart will respond that, yes, he wants me, and mime unbuttoning the top button of my blouse.

“Then take me,” I say with an air of desperation.

Mime unbuttoning another button as he responds that it’s not right for us to give in to our desire. There are other people we need to consider.

A tear in my eye. “Who cares what’s right. We need each other like oxygen. I can’t live another day without you.”

Unbutton. We must exercise restraint, he responds.

“No! I can’t! I can’t wait for you another day. Tomorrow will swallow us whole if we let it.”

Unbutton.

“We can either live life scared,”

unbutton,

“or live life.”

Unbutton.

“There are no other choices.”

Slide shirt off shoulders.

Mom has cancer.

I hang my head and blow out a long white breath that trails behind me in the cold December air. Last time I was here she said something about if I loved her I’d have brought her cigarettes. I remember thinking that I didn’t. I was wrong. Pretending I didn’t really care—that I was just visiting out of some family obligation—felt safer, I guess. But the truth is, regardless of everything, she’s my mother and I love her. I feel the threat of tears and swallow them.

When I make the train station, I have a half hour till the next train back to the city. I go over my lines again, but I can’t focus.

Dev blasts out of my bag and I grab my phone, thinking it must be Mom, but when I look at the screen, it’s Jess. I press the call button, and even before I say anything Jess is already screeching in my ear, “Igotthepart Igotthepart Igotthepart!”

“Wow, Jess! That’s fabulous.” And I really am happy for her. Really. “Tell me the whole deal.”

“Well, you know how we auditioned for those chorus spots, right?”

“Yeah.”

“One of the secondaries bagged out . . . got offered something else off-Broadway, so they offered me her part!” She squeals the last word.

My heart leaps out of my chest. It’s what every one of us hopes for, some fluky thing that will be our lucky break. “Holy shit, Jess! That’s amazing.”

“I know! I have lines and everything!”

“Solos?”

“Only one small one as part of a bigger piece, but it’s something.”

I breathe out a breath and sink deeper into my seat. “That’s a hella lot more than something, Jess. That’s huge. Holy shit.”

“I know!” she shrieks, and I can almost see her jumping up and down, her ponytail swinging behind her.

If I were there, I’d be jumping with her. “So what’s the deal? When do rehearsals start?”

“After Christmas, and we open in February.”

“We’re going out this week to celebrate.”

“Definitely! I’ve got to go call my mom, but we’ll talk later, okay?”

Something in me warms at the realization she called me first, even before her mom. “Yeah, sweetie. Talk later. Congrats.”

“Bye, Hil!”

I take a breath as I lower the phone and hang up. “Break a leg.”

My mom has cancer.

Damn.

IT’S OVER TWO hours later, and I’ve made all the transfers and am standing at Mallory’s door, but now I find myself hesitating.

She doesn’t even know I’ve been going to see Mom. How am I going to do this?

But she needs to know. If Mom’s dying, Mallory needs to get over herself and go see her before it’s too late. I’ve been stalking my phone, hoping to hear from Mom, but so far, nothing. I don’t even know what the deal is. Maybe she’s fine. Maybe it’s, like, a mole or something that they hacked off.

. . . too weak from the chemo. . .

That sounds like more than a mole.

I press the bell. When no one answers, I pull out my key and let myself in. I’ve no sooner settled into the couch and turned on the TV than I hear the garage door. A minute later, Henri and Max come tumbling through the door into the kitchen, fighting over some Happy Meal toy, with Mallory just behind them.

“Auntie!” Henri squeals, running across the family room and tackling me.

“Hey, buddy. How was school?” I ask, ruffling his sable mop.

“Jeremy Timmons brought his tarantula and we watched it eat a cricket!” he says as Max disappears up the hall.

My stomach squirms a little and I lower myself back onto the couch. “Cool. Was it gross?”

“It ate the whole thing! No guts left over or anything!” he says, clamoring onto the couch next to me.

“I don’t know whether eating the whole thing, or left-over guts is grosser,” I tell him.

Max appears a minute later with a laptop and settles onto the floor on his stomach.

“To what do we owe the honor?” Mallory says, coming out of the kitchen with a sliced apple and peanut butter for the boys.

“We need to talk.”

She looks up at me as she set the plate on the coffee table, and concern flits over her face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Mom, Mal—”

But that’s as far as I get before her hand goes up and her face turns to stone. Her whole posture changes at the mention of Mom, stiffening into something hard and unforgiving. “Henri,” she says, “take your snack and you and Max find something to play with in your room, okay?”

“Are you okay, Mom?” Henri asks.

She nods and tries to smile, but it’s pinched. “I just need to talk to your auntie for a minute, ’kay baby?”

“ ’Kay,” he says. He picks up the plate of apples and tugs at Max’s shoulder.

Max grabs his laptop and Henri gives me a concerned glance over his shoulder as they make their way down the hall.

“Is she trying to get ahold of you?” Mallory hisses the second their door closes. “Because if she is, don’t fall for it. Don’t call her back. She’ll tell you some fancy story to suck you in, but she’s a liar, Hilary. You can’t believe anything she says.”

“She’s sick. I think she may be dying.”

She barks out a bitter laugh and rolls her eyes. “Is that what she said? She so full of bullshit.”

“No, Mallory. She didn’t say it. I just came from Bedford Hills and they wouldn’t let me see her because she was too weak from the chemo.”

Her jaw tightens and I swear she stops breathing. I wait until she says something to know whether it’s me going there that she’s stuck on, or whether it’s that Mom really is sick.

“What were you doing in Bedford Hills?”

“Visiting Mom.”

“Why?”

I slouch back into the couch. “Because I just was, okay? I’ve gone on the first of every month for years—ever since I moved out of here.”

Mallory’s face blanches. “She’s poison, Hillary.”

“She’s sick, Mallory! She’s looked really bad over the last six or seven months, but I just thought . . . I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I just thought she was getting old and all the drinking and smoking was catching up with her.”

“I don’t want you going back there.”

I shove out of the couch. “Tough shit.”

For a full minute she doesn’t say anything, then, “You really think she’s dying?”

“Yes, Mallory. I’m pretty sure she’s dying.”

She sags into the door frame but hate still runs through her voice as she says, “So, what are we supposed to do, just pretend she didn’t abandon you to the system? Just pretend that everything that happened to you there wasn’t on her?”

“She’s dying,” I say, slumping back into the couch. “I think maybe it’s time to forgive and forget.”

“I will never forget,” she says low through gritted teeth, and that’s when I realize this isn’t about me.