“You look like you’ve lost weight,” she says.
Do I? I have no idea. But I guess riding your bike a hundred miles in the cold burns a lot of calories. I decide to pretend it’s a compliment. “Thanks. You look good, too.”
She’s got some highlights and new glasses, and she’s wearing jeans and a cute sparkly top instead of her work uniform. “I got a coffee already. Hope you don’t mind, but I could use an actual caffeine transfusion.”
“Still working both jobs?”
“Yeah. I don’t see an end to that for another two years.”
“I admire your dedication.”
She shrugs. “If you want something bad enough, you do what it takes to make it happen.”
Her words take root inside me as I’m standing in line for my chai latte, but the problem is, I don’t know what more I can do for Shane. I can’t magically emancipate him or roll time forward so that he turns eighteen faster. What else can I do?
“You look thoughtful,” Cassie says as I sit down across from her.
I don’t know what comes over me then, but I dump the whole story in her lap. Her eyes widen as I unburden myself. Finally, I pause to draw breath and she holds up a hand. “So what’s your ultimate goal here?”
“To bring Shane home.”
“And you can only achieve that through emancipation or his father’s cooperation, correct?”
“Sounds about right.”
“So go after Cavendish again. I’m not suggesting you ride out to visit him,” she adds hastily. “But call him. Call him every damned day until he can’t take anymore. Pressure him into doing the right thing.”
“You think that would work?”
Cassie shrugs. “It can’t hurt. Isn’t it better than sitting around for four months?”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t how I imagined this conversation would go,” she admits, taking a sip of her coffee. She drinks it black, no cream or sugar to dilute the caffeine.
“What did you picture?”
“I figured we’d talk about Ryan. This was better, I think.”
“Did you want to ask about him?” I don’t blame her if she still cares about him. They were together, so to speak, for a while. There are bound to be residual feelings. It’s impossible to turn them off and on. All around me, I see relationships in stages of coming together and falling apart. Sometimes it feels like it’s happening at the same time, like a cascade of fireworks that sets a house on fire.
“Maybe. Is he seeing anyone?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure what’s going on with him, romance-wise.”
“It’s immature, but I’m glad he hasn’t moved on. I haven’t. Not that I have time.”
“I get it. You loved the guy you thought he was. And it’s hard to let go.”
“You’re pretty wise,” she says.
“I’m still figuring things out. For the first time, though, I think maybe I have a clue.”
She laughs. “Just one?”
Before she leaves, we take a duck-face photo together with my camera and I promptly post it on my Facebook wall, along with a tag for Ryan. My caption reads, Cassie and me, girl talk. Yep.
Ryan responds immediately. OMG. WTH! More acronyms! Cassie’s laughing so hard she can hardly stand to leave. Soon, she has to run because she hasn’t had any sleep in two days. Time for me to imitate her determination.
Like Cassie advised, I call Mr. Cavendish daily. The first time, I’m polite. “Did you know Shane’s out of juvie? He’s in foster care now. But you could save him.”
He hangs up on me.
Day after day, I’m relentless. He keeps slamming the phone down. Finally, I say, “Look, do the right thing. Shane gave his mother how many years? You can give him a few months.”