“We’re going to set the record straight. And then, after the dust settles, me and you are going to enjoy our fucking ice cream.” She’s pointing at me while she spits out her words, and I’m both terrified and inspired by her strength.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I didn’t even know my mom had a lawn chair.
Somewhere, from the depths of our garage, behind that enormous door painted with a huge F-U, she found one. It’s lime green and aluminum, and she made sure to drag it across our driveway and into the Fuller’s front yard without a single care for the scene it made and the atrocious sound it caused as it scraped along the pavement.
She’s been sitting in that chair, legs crossed and venom ready to spew at her enemies, for the last hour. I vacillate between pacing behind her while I bite at my barely-there fingernails and staring at her from our kitchen window while I snack on random shit from our refrigerator. I’m down to pickles now, and not even spears. I’ve forked out at least a dozen dill chips. I’m nervous eating, which is the only reason I’ve held off from the ice cream—I want to enjoy it, not just angry-eat it.
I told Lucas to call me the moment he’s heading home from practice. I want to be the one to tell him he had things wrong. My mom is going to set the record straight with fire and fury, but Lucas has had enough of that. It’s not his fault he wasn’t given the right set of facts. He just suffered from the lies. We both did.
The darker it gets outside without my phone buzzing in my palm, the more worried I become that I won’t be able to warn him. Thankfully, the first set of headlights to light up the Fuller driveway don’t belong to a man.
Without looking, I dial Abby and put my phone on speaker as I stare out at the scene unfolding in front of the Fuller garage.
“What’s up? Did it all go down? Did your mom punch him in the face?” Abby loves a good fight. She also loves my mom, sometimes a little more than her own.
“I think maybe you should come over,” I say while my mom follows the white Tahoe into the garage, stopping where the door slides closed. Her feet are purposely planted between the beams, making it impossible for Mrs. Fuller to close the door on her.
“I’m so there. Stay on the line; tell me what I miss,” my friend says.
“I don’t think I can. Just . . . get here,” I demand. I end the call before she can protest and pocket my phone so my hands are free. I move to the side door, opening it enough to step into the frame, but I wait here for now. Of all the conversations about to happen, this is the one that has me most on edge.
The Tahoe’s tail lights darken and the driver’s side door opens. I can’t see more than Shannon Fuller’s legs. She’s wearing black dress pants and black heels. My mom? She’s in flip flops and rolled up jeans. Fucking country mouse versus city mouse is about to go down.
Both women stand still, and though I can’t see Lucas’s mom’s face, I can tell by the lack of movement that they are both silent. My mom nods her head, a quick tip of her chin as she folds her arms over her chest. Finally, Mrs. Fuller steps toward my mom, and when the two women are standing in a faceoff, bodies closed to warmth and affection, I move from the doorway. I cross the driveway to insert myself in this conversation on my mom’s behalf.
“I don’t want them dating.”
Those are the first words I hear leaving Lucas’s mom’s lips. It’s a crushing blow to the joy I felt earlier in the day. It’s also the least important thing on the table.
“My daughter is an incredible person. He’s lucky to have her love, and you do not get to belittle their feelings, especially since you’ve chosen to believe in lies.” My mom’s defense of me emboldens my self-esteem, though it still stings from Lucas’s mom’s words. The bad things always hit harder than the good, even when they aren’t true.
“I have never, nor would I ever, sleep with another woman’s husband,” my mom continues. I take note of the words she’s chosen and walk closer, and a bit taller, from hearing them. She’s speaking them as a woman who has been hurt by other women.
“Kristen, I don’t want to do this. I know what I know. And your daughter is here. She doesn’t need to hear the sordid details,” Lucas’s mom says. I’m now only a few feet from them. My mom glances at me over her shoulder and reaches her hand out, urging me closer. I go, but a little reluctantly.
“You don’t get to think she’s not good enough for Lucas but too good for the truth. We are clearing this up tonight, and I’m not leaving this spot until we do. All of us. Todd included.” My mom’s voice is firm, teetering on the edge of angry but never falling off that ledge. It’s weird to hear her call Lucas’s parents by their first names. It reminds me how close we once were. I realize I’m not the only one who lost a friend in this web of lies Mr. Fuller spun. My mom and Lucas’s mom did, too—they lost each other.
“Kristen, go home,” Lucas’s mom says, a pleading tone in her voice.
“I won’t. Not until this is fixed,” my mom says, and she weaves her arm through mine, locking me to her side.
Abby’s car pulls along the curb in front of my house. I’m tempted to yell for her to stay inside, but that’s not my friend’s style. I see her moving closer in my periphery, and it doesn’t take long for Lucas’s mom to react to the growing audience.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m not doing this,” she says, her palm waving us away as she turns to head deeper into her garage.
“You sure? Todd just pulled up and Lucas is behind him. And I’m not moving. I’m going to say things that your husband needs to hear, and I am pretty sure you need to witness them!” My mom’s words are grittier, and I can feel the rigid muscles in her arms. She’s preparing to fight with more than words if she has to.
“Babe? What’s going on here?” Mr. Fuller’s gaze is locked on me and my mother despite the way he turns his head toward his wife. He looks like a fox sneaking away from the hens, and my mom is the farmer holding a rifle to his head.
“Our neighbors were just leaving,” Mrs. Fuller says.
“June?” I twist at the sound of Lucas’s voice, but stay where I am. My mom needs me here.
“We weren’t leaving, Todd. We were just getting to the bottom of this big fat fucking lie you’ve concocted. That’s what we’re doing,” my mom says. Most of the eyes in the area double in size, but not Mr. Fuller’s. His shift and scan, looking for his next set of smoke and mirrors that enables him to keep having his cake and eating it too.
“Kristen, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, but already I can tell from the cracks in his wife’s expression that she’s no longer sure she was ever given the truth.
“Oh, I know what I’m doing. I’m ruining your day, that’s what I’m doing.” My mom moves from her spot next to me, taking slow, methodical steps toward Lucas’s dad. For a blip, Mrs. Fuller lurches as if she’s about to step in front of my mom, in defense of her husband and the delicate story she’s believed for two years. But she backs off, a worried scowl souring her expression.