“Something else happened, or is happening. My mom came to support group with us. Twice. She and my dad are talking about meeting with someone together, too. I’m really proud of her. She’s not, you know, instantly better or anything, and she hasn’t talked at any of the meetings yet, but she was better than me the first time I went. She sat in a chair and everything. I mean, that’s good, right?”
My stomach sank and I had to look down so he wouldn’t see my face crumble. “Yeah.”
“And my dad’s been coming to dinner nearly every night. I don’t know if they’re specifically working toward reconciling, or if they’re just trying to see how they feel around each other again. But today, when my mom watched Jeremy and me drive away, it was the first time she didn’t cry. This is what I wanted from her, from both of them—to try.” He shrugged and looked at me.
I tried to return his smile but it wobbled.
“That isn’t what I wanted us to talk about. Or not the only thing.”
Warning lights started flashing in my head and I let Adam see a chill shake through my body. “I didn’t think to wear my sleeping bag. I’m going to have to head in and thaw out. Plus you have family dinner soon, so, later?”
Adam was clearly reluctant to let me go, but I couldn’t say another word. I kept my smile on till I slid the door and curtain closed behind me, then I let myself sink to the floor.
Whole-body sobs shook me. They were so loud that they echoed around my room. And they fed each subsequent sob, growing louder and almost violent until I forced my hands to my mouth. I tried to muffle the sound, stem the tears and gasps for air, but I couldn’t.
How horrible was I that my stomach sank when Adam told me about his parents? I should have been happy for him, for them, especially his mom. If there was a chance his family could be put back together, I should be happy.
But I wasn’t.
The moment he’d said the word reconciling, daggers had seemed to pierce my chest, sliding deep and cutting bone. I’d never have that. Adam’s broken family was more than mine had ever been whole. They were mending. Soon his dad would move back home, and I’d be more alone than before Adam came. The thought was so unbearable that I gagged on it.
I heard nothing but the audible sound of my own misery. Not the door opening nor the soft footsteps drawing near. When a hand settled on my shoulder, I didn’t look up before curling into the offered arm and burying my face into a shoulder.
Her soft lilac perfume penetrated my senses before my eyes or ears recognized Shelly. Even when I realized who was crouched down and stroking my hair, I couldn’t let go. I was too wretched to reject comfort of any kind when I was so seldom offered it.
A thought punctured my misery. Shelly was starved almost as much as I was. She had no family, no steady job, nothing but Dad and the scraps of affection he gave her.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, my sobs ebbed. Weariness began to replace despair. Little things began to register, like the jade pendant of Shelly’s necklace digging into my cheek, the uncomfortable angle of my leg folded beneath me, the muscles in my hands, still clenched in her shirt, beginning to cramp. Other random things. Any one by itself might not have been enough, but the culmination made me pull back and reveal the damage my tears had done. The wet fabric and smeared black mascara, I’d expected; the tears streaming down Shelly’s face, I hadn’t.
“Why are you crying?”
Her hand lifted to her cheek, like she needed to test the truth of my words. When her fingers came away wet, she pushed to her feet and hurried into my bathroom. I saw her lean over the sink and splash water on her face, then dry it with a hand towel. When she returned and held out the towel, I took it.
“I’d thought we’d be friends eventually,” she said. “I really did.”
I gave her a look that she had no trouble interpreting.
“I know. I didn’t see back then. I didn’t want to.”
The towel was damp from where she’d dried her face, and the coolness felt good against my flushed skin. When I had a firm hold on my emotions, I half extended the towel toward her. “I’m sorry I ruined your shirt. I’ll pay for a new one.”
Her brows drew together and she shook her head slightly. “Jo, I—I don’t care about a stupid shirt. I care about—” She bit the word off, knowing she’d kill the momentary cease-fire that hung tenuously between us. “Are you okay?”
I starred at her with my swollen red eyes. “No, Shelly. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a long time, but that’s not your problem, is it?”
She looked down at floor. “I’m not a bad person,” she whispered. “I’m really not. I never set out to hurt anyone.”
Like me. Like my mother.
I couldn’t yell at her the way I normally did, not when her shoulder was wet from my tears. But I couldn’t console her either, not when she’d played a role in all our lives ending up this way. “I loved you, and you used me to get to my dad.” My voice cracked but I kept going. “You committed adultery with him, helped him lie to my mom, and now you play warden with me twice a month so he can continue to screw her over, whether she deserves it or not. You say you didn’t want to hurt anyone, but you did. You still are.”
“I know,” she said so softly I barely heard it. “Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?”
I wanted it to be that easy, but all the pieces of me were broken inside and a word wouldn’t put them back together. “Sorry doesn’t change anything.”
“I’m sorry, Jolene.” And then she started to tear up again.
“Is he worth it, really?”
It took her close to a minute, but she reined it in. “No, he’s not. I lost everything I ever cared about because of him, people and time that I’ll never get back.” She looked down at the towel she still held, the one that was smeared with my mascara as well as hers. “Why were you crying?”
“No.” My bluntness made her flinch. “I can’t do that with you. You’re not going to braid my hair while I tell you that Adam’s dad is probably going to move back home soon, or that I lost my friendship with Cherry, or that the Roman Polanski wannabe across the hall isn’t going to write me the letter I need to get into the film program. It’s never going to be the way it was. So stop trying. Please.”
As always, Shelly was spot-on with the takeaway. “Who’s Roman Polanski?”
I slowly closed my eyes and then shot them open again when Guy’s face filled my mind. My stomach launched itself into my throat. “He’s a director who likes teenage girls. Just forget it.” I started to push to my feet, but Shelly caught my hand.