“Maybe he just needs some time,” she says, assuming Blake was the initiator of the breakup.
The whole thing with Adam last night has me totally on edge, so her comment pisses me off endlessly. My head snaps up like a cocking pistol. “Blake isn’t the one who needed time off. I do.”
“You?” she says, looking faintly horrified. “You broke up with him?”
I scrub my hands over my face because the whole thing is ridiculous. How am I even having this conversation? How can I break up with someone I don’t even remember dating? “I don’t know. I said I needed space. We’re taking some time.”
“Time? From Blake? Honey, have you thought this through?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve loved him since you were a freshman.”
“Well, I’m not a freshman anymore!”
Her face goes tight and hard. “Watch your tone, young lady. I’m perfectly aware that you’re not a freshman. It’s just a little shocking. The two of you have been so happy.”
“Have we, Mom? What do we do together that makes me so happy?”
She pushes back from the table, looking startled.
“I grabbed some pictures from your scrapbook room,” I tell her. “The ones by the book you’re working on for this year.”
“That was supposed to be a surprise,” she says weakly.
“Mom, you give me one every Christmas. You leave them on the table in the basement for months leading up to it.”
Her face twitches a little, her gaze drifting to the table.
“I love them,” I tell her. It’s a stretch, but she seems to need to hear it. “It’s sweet and thoughtful, but it’s not really a surprise, okay?”
She shrugs. “Fine, but what does it has to do with Blake and you?”
“I don’t see how I was happy with Blake,” I tell her. “Every picture showed me at places I never liked to be. Most are at school. Some are at games. There was a bowling alley page.”
“You had a double date that night,” she says defensively. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I hate bowling, Mom. I don’t really like school, and I’ve never, not once, been to a baseball game.”
“Well, Blake’s an alternate on the team, isn’t he? It’s different when you’re dating an athlete.”
“Yeah? Well, who is he dating? Because the girl in those pictures isn’t me, Mom. It just isn’t.”
I can tell this is too much for her to process. She collects my untouched bowl and the mug of tea she’d offered and rinses them in the sink.
“Your supportive silence is touching,” I say.
“What do you want me to say, Chloe? You think leaving Blake will make you happy? I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Some people choose unhappiness, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Somehow, right around the time you turned sixteen, you decided your life was just too miserable.”
“When I was—”
When I was sixteen. When the panic attacks started. I feel my face blanch. My hands go into fists as I force myself to silence.
“I don’t know what to do with you. You’ve been in therapy. We’ve bought every book, tried every strategy. We’ve given you freedom, and then we’ve pulled in the reins, but nothing works. Sometimes I’m just not sure you want to be happy.”
I stand up, a bitter laugh rising out of me. “Forget I ever said anything. I was happier with Blake. Gee, maybe I’ll call him this afternoon so that we can go Putt-Putting. Or, hey, maybe he can take me to the batting cages.”
I shove my chair in too hard, and Mom whirls on me, eyes cold. “Keep it up and I’ll take your car.”
I cross my arms and stare right back until she looks away, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I’m not the enemy, Chloe. I want to help you, but at this point, I have no idea what it is you need.”
Yeah? Well, she can join the club.
The doorbell rings, and I head for it without another word, grateful for the distraction.
I swing it wide and suck in a tight breath, shocked at the slim, strawberry blond I find on the other side of the door.
“Maggie?”
Chapter Fifteen
I don’t ask her why she came. I honestly don’t care.
I just yank her inside before she changes her mind and pull her into a hug.
“Your timing is impeccable,” I whisper into her hair, momentarily forgetting that things are different between us.
I don’t forget for long. The stiffness in her shoulders and the way she pulls back reminds me that Maggie and I are not like we were before.
“It’s been a long time, Maggie,” my mom says.
“Good to see you, Mrs. Spinnaker,” Maggie replies.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up.” Mom leans down to peck my cheek as if we’re the perfect little family and have not just been holding verbal Armageddon over the dining table.
She slips out the front door, and Maggie takes a step away from me.
“I j-just came to bring you this,” she says, handing me a sweatshirt she borrowed at least a year ago. I can’t think of a single reason she’d return it now, unless she’s here to talk. My hope is short-lived when she scowls and turns toward the door.
“Wait, Maggie, don’t go.”
She sighs, turning a little away from the door but still not enough to really look at me. “It’s really early, Chlo. I’ve got t-to get to school.”
“I know, and I know you’ve got every reason to not be speaking to me, but I need to talk to you.”
The quiet is so painful that I search for noise. I hear the hum of the fridge and the soft rumble of a car on the next street over. Finally, I give up on her response, filling the silence with my own words.
“I’m desperate, Maggie. You’re the only one I trust.”
She studies me for a long moment and then jerks her head back toward her car. “You c-can ride with me if you want.”
“Great,” I say, grabbing my coat and my backpack from the rack. I’m moving fast, wanting to seal the deal before she changes her mind.
“This doesn’t mean we’re okay,” she says, and I ratchet down the smile that’s threatening to split my face in two.
“I know. I know that.”
“Okay.”
We don’t say anything else as we get in the truck. Maggie drives an ancient pickup with like a hundred and sixty thousand miles on it. Her uncle used it for his electrical contracting business over a decade ago, back when money was really tight. Which means there are no bells and whistles. Crank windows, vinyl seats, and a standard transmission.
Maggie taught me to drive stick shift in this truck. Or tried to, anyway. I’ve never been much of a driver. One of the many reasons why I’ve logged so many hours in the passenger seat of this hunk of junk.
I listen to the familiar sounds of Maggie’s keys in the ignition and the engine coming to life. I know it’s ridiculous being so giddy over a six-minute ride in a rust bucket, but for the first time since this started, my morning feels right. Normal.
I expect her to back out, but she pauses, hand on the gearshift.
“So what d-do you need to talk to me about?”
I take a breath and brace myself. “When I tell you this, you will think I’m crazy.”
“I already think you’re crazy,” she says, and there isn’t any humor in her eyes.
“This will take it further,” I tell her, “which is why I haven’t told anyone.”
Except Adam. But I can’t talk about Adam. Every time I even think about Adam, I feel my throat close up and my eyes get teary and I just can’t go there. Not right now.
She backs out and sets an easy pace through the neighborhood. And I fall silent, watching the bare branches of the trees slip by my window.
“Are you going to t-tell me?”
“I think someone’s been messing with my memory.” I glance sideways, but Maggie’s focus is on the road.
She looks a little pinched around the lips but not astonished. And not amused.