I slow and stop short when I should pivot and go around the long way to get into the school building.
Ask your guard?
That’s not a normal thing to say to normal moms.
“I checked the tracking. It was delivered last week. I don’t know why they haven’t gotten it to you—Mom. You realize the more jokes you make about me putting shivs in your packages, the less likely you are to make parole early? I am not helping you with this. Stop it. Junie and I have a new life, and she doesn’t need more drama.”
Oh, fuck.
This isn’t real, is it?
She didn’t just say that.
There’s no way she just said that.
I angle closer to this wall, out of sight of the alcove, and hit my phone while I keep listening. Maisey Spencer mom prison, I type.
“Yes, I want you to come here. There’s an adorable cabin a little ways from the house that I’m fixing up just for you, and you know Junie—”
She cuts herself off with a sigh while my phone brings up absolutely nothing relevant.
Maybe I misunderstood.
“You’re right. You don’t have to let me take care of you. But I have a little bit of land. I have a small home for you. I have an opportunity for you to start over—yes, even at your age, don’t get lippy with me, Ms. Forever Twenty-Nine—and if you’re going to refuse it because it was Uncle Tony’s, and you didn’t like it when he quit talking to you over the exact same activities that landed you exactly where you are now, then that’s on you.”
I try again.
Maisey Spencer Dean’s Fixer Upper Mother Mom Jail Prison.
“Stop it. This is not charity. And there’s nothing weird about Uncle Tony’s—erm—house.”
I stifle a grin and barely stop myself from chuckling in amusement.
Pretty sure there’s still weird stuff somewhere in Tony’s house. I never looked in his attic, and to the best of my knowledge, the company she hired for the estate sale didn’t either. Wonder if Maisey has.
Also?
Still nothing popping up on my search on my phone about Maisey’s mom.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Look, you don’t have to come. You don’t. But Junie would love to have you here. I’d love to have you close enough to keep an eye on you. If this wasn’t Uncle Tony’s place, you’d love it. And don’t tell me there’s not some small part of you that would take joy in living basically at his expense when you’re still mad at him for not participating in your scheme.”
Happy feelings gone.
Doesn’t even matter that I can hear the disgust in her voice, like she’s making herself say it to manipulate her mom and doesn’t like it either.
“Mom? Mom, are you—dammit.” Maisey sighs.
I shove away from the building, intending to circle around to the front before she catches me, but a sharp inhalation stops me.
She’s come around the corner holding her cell phone up like she’s looking for a better signal. And I’m busted.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asks.
“How much of what?”
Her nose wrinkles as she gives me the wariest of wary glances while her pale cheeks go pink, and this is why I need to avoid Maisey Spencer.
I can feel her insecurities. Her vulnerabilities. There’s something about her body language that says Today has been hard, and I absolutely cannot take any more.
I’ve been faking my way through book club and PTA events and soccer games and life.
I’m alone and worn down and tired of putting on this brave face for the world.
If you’re going to be one more hurdle to me making a new life for Junie and me, I will destroy you, but I need a nap first.
And all the while, my brain is feeding me stories I do not need to hear.
She’s thinking about you too. She’s avoiding you too. She wants to jump your bones but can’t contemplate it until her kid graduates from high school, which will give both of us time to get our shit together. Call a therapist, and you might have a chance then.
It’s wrong.
She’s probably thinking that I know a secret worse than that her uncle had a foot-fetish and adult-entertainment collection, which isn’t a bad secret.
Not compared to her mother being in prison.
Her mother’s in fucking prison.
“You have friends back in Iowa?” The question pops out before I can think better of it.
Her mouth sets in a grim line. “Lovely seeing you, Flint. Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have better places to be.”
“You don’t.”
She turns around like she’s headed back into the school.
And here I go, opening my mouth again. “What’s she in jail for?”
She swings back to face me. “Please, please, for Junie’s sake, forget you heard any of that.”
“Yes, my first order of business in my classroom tomorrow will be announcing that June Spencer’s grandmother is a jailbird. Can’t wait. Ties in so well with geometry and precalc.”
Her eyes go shiny, and she blinks twice quickly before turning her back on me again. “At least it’ll sort out who’s worthy of being Junie’s friend before she gets any more invested in anyone who’s not.”
“Hey.” I snag Maisey by the elbow. “Of course I’m not telling.”
“Sure. Whatever.” She shakes her arm loose.
“Maisey. Nobody here’s gonna judge, and I’d bet you every last donut at the bakery that half of June’s friends already know anyway.”
“Unless you’re about to tell me your deepest, darkest secret, I would very much appreciate if you would leave me alone and let me go on living my life believing this conversation never happened.”
“I hate mushrooms.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Like I’m actually afraid of them.”
“You’re afraid of mushrooms.”
“Ask Opal.” I’m almost thirty-five years old, telling a woman to ask my aunt about my fear of mushrooms. “I don’t talk about it because teenagers are assholes and I’d end up with piles of mushrooms on my desk every year if I did.”
Shit.
I’m thinking about piles of mushrooms on my desk, and I’m sweating.
She studies me like she’s trying to decide if I’m the type of asshole to make up a dumb fear to mock her gullibility, too, or if I’m serious.
“I got sick off a wild mushroom when I was a kid, didn’t get to the hospital when I should’ve, got way sicker than I should’ve, and I’ve been terrified of all of them ever since. Even when I know they’re safe. Can’t even see the word without getting the shakes.”
Her suspicion doesn’t waver, which is a kick to the gut after I told her more than I usually tell anyone about my childhood.
Probably didn’t register for her what a fucking big deal that was for me to say so much out loud.
She says everything. She doesn’t hold back.
Why would she understand how hard that was for me?
I scrub a hand over my hair, equal parts frustrated that she doesn’t believe me and frustrated that I care.
If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be worried what Tony’s niece thought of me, I’d have laughed you out of town.