“Well, you’re more charitable than I am, that’s for sure. How could you mourn him after this bullshit?” Renn raises his voice. “That’s fucked.”
“Just because he turned out to be a questionable person doesn’t mean I should be one.” I twist the engagement ring on my finger. Yes, I’m still wearing it. No, I have no idea why. “But now, see why I don’t want that for you?”
Renn groans, then closes his eyes once we reach a red traffic light. “It’s not the same.”
“I don’t want you in this situation. I don’t want this on your conscience, or on your karma. This could come back to bite you when you least expect it.”
“It’s really casual. We’re all about the fun.”
“Have fun with single women. I’ll be your first cheerleader. I promise.”
“Single women want more.”
“Not all of them,” I point out. “You know, you are resistible to some people. Not many, but some.”
Finally, Renn throws his arms in the air. “Fine. Fine. I’ll break it off. God, you suck. Go back to Salem.”
“I think I’m going to stick around for a while.”
Renn turns to me and grins. “Actually, I’m really glad to hear that. You know who else is going to be happy to know that?”
I turn to look at him.
“Pippa.”
Later that night, after Dad and Donna have served us an actual feast and cracked open a bottle of wine, I’m in my room again.
Loki is in my lap. He is starting to get used to it here. He certainly enjoys having a safe backyard, where he can work on his tan and collect gifts for us in the form of dead mice and hummingbirds.
I decide there is no point in postponing the inevitable. I owe Joe an apology. But calling seems so . . . inconsiderate. Almost penetrating. What if he doesn’t want to hear my voice after everything that happened?
I decide to write him a chain of text messages. That’ll give him time to digest, collect himself, and decide what to write back. If anything at all.
Ever: I just wanted to send you a sign of life, since I’ve been notoriously bad about doing that throughout our history. I’m okay. I’m in San Francisco. I’m with Dad and Renn, and Dad’s girlfriend, Donna, who owns a hot dog onesie, which should tell you everything you need to know about her as a person.
Ever: How are you doing? Are you still working at the dock? How are Gemma and Brad? Are you holding up?
Ever: Okay. I lied. I didn’t want to tell you how I was doing. It is selfish of me to assume that you still care. What I wanted to say is that I’m sorry. So terribly sorry. I know having sex wasn’t in your plans. I know you regret it. I know you will have to live with what we did for the rest of your life. And I apologize for putting you in that position. It’s all on me. I seduced you （if you can call it that）。 I asked to drink. I made sure we were both sufficiently drunk.
Ever: I’m just really sorry. Miss you.
I let out a breath and wait.
I stare at the screen for a minute. Then ten more. Then twenty. And then an hour. At some point, I fall asleep, dropping the phone on my face. I’m so exhausted I don’t even have it in me to pick it up.
Sunday morning, I have one measly message waiting. Three words, and yet each of them weighs a ton.
Joe: I forgive you.
TWENTY-FOUR
On Monday, I open up the text messages from Pippa. I’m about to text her, then think better of it and call her. Unlike with Joe, I know Pippa has been waiting for me to pick up the phone and call. She deserves groveling and a good dose of squirming from yours truly. She’s waited long enough.
She answers on the fourth ring, yawning into my ear. “Lawson. It was so obvious that whenever you decided to call, it’d be when I have a day off and can sleep in.”
“Sorry.” I glance at my watch—it’s nine forty-five—as I’m pacing my tiny childhood room. “I can call again later. Or wait until you call me. Whatever works.”
“Christ on a crutch,” she snorts out. “So high strung. At least that didn’t change. What’s up?”
I’m stumbling all over myself trying to find the right words. I also suspect I’m crying again. I can’t help it. She is not giving me crap. She is not asking me where I’ve been the last six years. She is not making it difficult or awkward or awful.
I take a deep breath and try to sound as casual as she does.
“I’m in San Francisco.”
“Well, duh,” she yawns.