Rachael exhales a long breath before saying, “You don’t think…?”
My thoughts suddenly sync with hers, and the realization of what she’s hinting at hits me so hard that I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
Tiffani’s faking it.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Rachael says, pressing a manicured finger to her lips. It’s as though she’s just cracked a murder case. “You tell the guy you’re pregnant so that he has no choice but to stay with you.”
“You really think Tiffani would do that?”
“I want to believe that she wouldn’t,” she says quietly as she reaches for her coffee, “but she’d seriously stop at nothing to stay with Tyler. He does a lot for her reputation. Like I said, she’s a lunatic.”
Or, in Tyler’s words, a psychopath. But I don’t think she has a real mental disorder, just some serious issues. She has to have issues if she’s willing to attempt something like this.
I can’t even begin to imagine Tiffani stooping to such a low, but Rachael is right. Over the summer I’ve learned that Tyler and Tiffani’s relationship is seriously messed up. No matter what he does, she can’t stand to be without him, because she can’t stand not being in control. Of course she wants it all back. And how do you force a guy into getting back together with you? Fake a pregnancy.
“I know how we can find out if she’s lying or not!” Rachael says enthusiastically, and I swing my legs around to face her properly. My forehead creases with worry. I don’t know what’s going through Rachael’s head, but it’s probably something ridiculous. “You know how we’re all going over there on Friday?”
“I’m not invited,” I say, and immediately turn back around and set my eyes on the store across the street. I wasn’t even aware that Tiffani had invited everyone over, so clearly I’m not included. And I can’t blame her.
“You are,” Rachael says, and then nods to my phone, still lying on the table in front of me. “You haven’t had that for a couple days. She’s probably texted you. Anyway, it’s movie night.”
I grind my teeth together to stop me from accidentally saying something. Rachael doesn’t understand. I know I won’t be invited. Tiffani hates me. But I can’t tell Rachael this, of course, because Rachael will ask why, and that’s a question I’m not willing to answer. What would I even say? Tiffani hates me because I slept with Tyler, who, just to clarify, in case you forgot, is my stepbrother. Two secrets in one! So, Rachael, I’m a shitty friend and a shitty person. Hell yeah!
“So on Friday,” she continues, getting to her feet, “we need to figure out if she’s lying or not. And I know exactly how.”
*
Once I’m home and I’ve charged my phone, I find twenty-nine missed calls from Dad from Saturday night and three from Mom over the past few days. There are also some texts from Amelia, telling me that Landon Silverman hasn’t stopped texting her ever since their sexual encounter in the back of his truck a few weeks ago, and that she keeps blowing him off because he’s “no longer her type.” Two months ago she was drooling over him in the hallways.
But there’s not a single text from Tiffani.
Unsurprising.
There’s also nothing from Tyler.
Surprising.
I haven’t done anything to him, so he can’t be mad at me. I know his head’s most likely a mess, but that doesn’t give him the right to just ignore me, to toss me to the side while he figures everything out. I still care. I still want to know how he’s holding up. But for the most part, I try not to let his silence get to me. Maybe he just wants space.
With Dad, Ella, and the boys visiting friends on the other side of the city, I have the house to myself. So while I’m rummaging around the kitchen, I decide to call my mom back to check in on her. In all my sixteen years of breathing, she has never once gone twenty-four hours without seeing me. Somehow, she’s managed to survive an entire summer.
I drum my fingers along the countertop as I listen to the monotonous tone, but there’s no answer, so I try her cell. She picks up on the third ring.
“Oh, look, my favorite daughter is alive!”
Her voice fills me with a warmth that can never be replaced, the type of warmth that makes you smile no matter how bad your day is. I’m starting to appreciate it more. “Mom,” I say, smiling, of course, “I’m your only daughter.”
“That’s why it’s such an easy choice,” she fires back. “How’s everything going?”
Terrible, I want to say. Dreadful, awful, out of control. “Good.”
“And how are things with the asshole who gave you half your genes?”