Guess not. Too bad he couldn’t have done it a month ago, before Autumn started her Oxy side hustle. I consider texting back Too little, too late, but penetrating my father’s bubble of cheerful cluelessness requires a level of energy I don’t have.
My mother’s last text is right after my dad’s. I study the picture she sent of my beaming great-aunt, her day made because Ma cared enough to show up for her party. Don’t forget to call Aunt Rose and wish her a happy birthday! There’s not much I can do to make today less of a disaster, but at least I can do that.
Aunt Rose only has a landline and I have no idea what the number is, so I scroll to Contacts and call my grandmother. I can’t deal with using Ma as a go-between right now.
Gram picks up on the first ring. “Mateo, mi amor. We’re missing you today.”
The words put a lump in my throat, and I have to swallow before I can reply. “Hey, Gram. Sorry I couldn’t be there, but I wanted to wish Aunt Rose a happy birthday.”
“Ah, well, she went upstairs for a nap about ten minutes ago. She might be done for the night, to be honest. All the excitement wore her out. Do you want to talk to your mother? Elena!” she calls before I can protest.
“Gram, no—” I start, but my grandmother is already back.
“She’s on the phone with Autumn,” she reports.
Good. Making plans to stay the night, I hope. “It’s fine. I need to go to work, but I’ll try to catch Aunt Rose later.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you called. You’re so busy.” A familiar note of exasperated concern enters my grandmother’s voice. “You work too hard. I told Elena that as soon as I saw her. Every time I speak to you, you sound so tired.”
“I’m not tired,” I say automatically, even though every cell in my body feels heavy with exhausted misery. “I’m fine.”
“Oh, Mateo. You’re not fine, but you’ll never admit it, will you?” She sighs, then adds the same thing she always does. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“I gotta go, Gram. Love you,” I say, then disconnect before she can kill me with more kindness.
I glance at the clock on our microwave. I’m supposed to be at Garrett’s in an hour, but obviously that’s not going to happen. I’ll need all night to clean up this mess, and besides, I can’t imagine showing up there like it’s a typical Tuesday. I try to picture myself busing the table where I sat with Cal this morning, or wiping down the booth where I put Ivy after she fainted, but—no. I’m not thinking about Ivy.
Except that I am. I kind of can’t stop. All of the things I said to her in Cal’s car keep running through my head in one long, poisonous loop. In that moment, I was so full of rage that all I wanted to do was hurt her. And I did a great job.
“She deserved it,” I say out loud, testing the words. They sound right. They are right. Ivy did a stupid, selfish thing that shut my mother’s business down, and then she didn’t even have the guts to come clean when it might’ve made a difference.
“She deserved it,” I repeat, but it sounds less convincing the second time around. When I’d admitted I knew Autumn was dealing drugs, Ivy didn’t judge me for it. And yeah, that’s at least partly because she felt guilty—but it was guilt over unintended consequences. We all make mistakes, right? And almost never see the fallout coming.
I lift a hand to massage my sore temple, and my fingers make contact with the Band-Aid Ivy put on. I’m tempted to yank it off, but even I’m not dumb enough to bleed out of spite. I know I should call Garrett’s, but before I can, a new text from Autumn flashes across my screen. I’m not going to the Bronx.
Wait. What?
I start typing, but Autumn is faster. I told Aunt Elena. I had to. She knew something was wrong and she wouldn’t let up. You know how she is.
My throat tightens. Yeah, I do, but come on, Autumn. You had one job.
I couldn’t keep lying to her with Boney dead, she adds.
No, no, no. She wasn’t supposed to do this. And told Ma what, exactly?
Autumn’s next text answers the question. She wants me to go to the police.
And then: I’m sorry. I tried.
I don’t want to read anything else. I shut my phone down and shove it across the table before it can ring with a panicked call from my mother. My heart pounds as I stand and leave the kitchen, circling our wreck of a living room. Anger, worry, and shame are all coursing through me, fighting for dominance, and for the first few laps around the room, shame wins. Because now my mother knows everything—including what I’m capable of keeping from her.