Mom holds up a hand. “If he was forcing her to do something, even if they were dating, it was assault.”
“Fine.” Naming it as a crime makes it all seem ten times worse, and casts a lot of other things in a different light too: the way her mood fell after the pep rally when Carson talked to her, the way she seemed extra drunk all of a sudden at the toga party, the way she snapped at anyone who asked … She wasn’t watching him, I realize, all those times I caught her looking.
She was watching out for him.
“I don’t normally approve of solving things with violence,” Mom says, passing me a jar of spaghetti sauce. “But this may be the one time I can say you made the right choice in that respect.” She gives me a tight smile. “I’m proud of you for being a good man.”
I duck my head. I don’t feel good, and I don’t feel like a man. I feel like complete and total crap. I feel small enough to ride in the cart, and I kind of wish it was an option right now. Letting Mom be in charge would be a relief.
RAYCHEL
With Mom gone on her date, I’m so pathetic that I’m rereading The Handmaid’s Tale just for something to do. But a knock on the door startles me. I didn’t hear a car pull up, so it’s either someone on foot, which means stranger danger … or it’s Matt’s hybrid, which I can see through the blinds.
I stand in the middle of my room, paralyzed by indecision. I hope it’s just him. But I also hope Andrew’s with him.
Maybe I can pretend I’m not here.
The phone rings.
Maybe not. “Come answer the damn door,” Matt says when I pick up.
“I’m … at Asha’s.”
He turns to face the window, and I can hear the eye roll in his voice. “I can see your shadow on the blinds, genius.”
MATT
Damn. Raychel looks like hell. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she hovers at the door, but I can tell they’re red. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She steps back to let me in. Laundry, magazines, plates, and all kinds of chaos litter the room. There’s no place to sit, so I wait, hands in pockets, as she closes the door and stands stranded in the entryway. “It’s a pit,” she says, one hand flopping toward the mess.
I can’t argue. “Where have you been?”
“Here.”
I snort. “Bullshit. If you’d been here, this place would be spotless.”
She doesn’t even scowl, and that’s when I realize I still had hope that I was wrong about the party. “Raych—” I take a few steps toward her and stop when she steps back. “Hey.” I’ve never seen her like this. “What’s wrong?”
She gives a choking laugh. “Seriously?”
I flush. “I mean—it’s just me. I should have … I don’t know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waited so long to come over.”
She shrugs. “I could have called.”
“No, see…” I close the distance to take her hand. “That’s the thing. It took me a few days, but I get it.”
“‘It,’” she repeats cautiously.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.
She steps forward, pressing her face against my chest, and her arms clutch my waist. Her body shakes a little and I pull her closer, flush against me, petting her hair and whispering soothing nonsense, doing anything to calm her down.
If I’d just told her, all those goddamn nights she was lying right beside me, that I wanted her to be my girl, maybe none of this would have happened. I was too scared to lose her friendship, yeah. But I also wanted her to pick me.
No. I was insulted that she picked everyone else. I wanted her and tried not to, because so many others wanted her too, and she said yes to so many of them. I was embarrassed by her. Even though I knew, all along, that she fits just right, nestled under my arm, cheek pressed to my chest. I picked my pride over my girl, who’s sweet under the spicy, soft under the harsh. She doesn’t think I see it, but I do, and I want to tell her.
But I can’t, not right now. There are other things to say first, and my words aren’t smart enough, my lips aren’t brave enough, for more. Not yet. But they will be, once we’re past this, because she’s my girl, stumbling and running, drinking and laughing, dancing and falling.
She’s my girl, in the sunshine smelling like coconut, in the rain smelling like weed.
She does this to me, makes my thoughts come in funny lines and spurts, all crushing and dramatic and obvious.
She’s my girl and I’ve never told her I know, that I’ve known it all along, but she’s my girl and I’ve known it all along.
RAYCHEL
I cry all over Matt’s shirt. When I’ve calmed down, I feel raw, shredded and open. He brings me ice water and a roll of toilet paper since we don’t have tissues. I’m so grateful he’s listening that I don’t even think about asking him about Mindy. Or Andrew.
Instead I tell him about Mom using my college money, and about Carson. Not the horrible details, the ones that keep me awake at night, but the basics—that I went willingly, both times. That I tried to change my mind, both times. That Carson didn’t know he’d done anything wrong and probably still doesn’t. Matt hugs me again. “Have you talked to him since?”
I let out a weak laugh. “Um, no. He’s staying far, far away from me.” I hope it stays that way. “Have you?”
“Um, no,” Matt says, also laughing halfheartedly.
“Did you get in trouble with your folks?” I’ve been so convinced I’ll get fired that I haven’t even stopped to think about whether the boys are grounded forever.
“Nah.” Matt runs a hand through his hair. Only he could make a fractured nose look good. “We had to tell Mom a little.”
I flinch, but I understand. “Yeah, mine too. As little as possible.”
“Really?”
“She’s been great,” I say defensively. “But your dad must be super pissed at me.”
He shakes his head. “Mom talked to him. I haven’t said anything to Andrew though. He’s been too big an asshole.”
I try to say “Andrew has a right to be mad,” but my throat makes a clicking sound, and I can’t do it. “I’ll talk to him soon,” I manage.
*
Talking to Andrew is easier said than done.
Thursday morning, Matt drives me to school just like always. We walk together to English, ignoring the stares and whispers, and eat lunch as usual.
But Andrew is completely missing in action, so it’s no surprise that he doesn’t offer me rides to work. I take the transit instead. Friday afternoon, I hear him slam the garage door, but he’s up the stairs by the time I reach the kitchen. I decide not to follow.
I hope to catch him Saturday, but Mrs. R. catches me instead. She and Dr. R. have been totally understanding and played along with the story that I’ve been sick, since that was my excuse when I called in. “Working on the weekend?”
“Just making up the time I missed,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes.
She smiles. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”