“It’s just . . . with the accident and the lawsuit . . .” Her voice cracked.
“Poor Kim,” he said, his voice mocking. “Some kids got wasted at your house. They fucked up, like kids do. But all you care about is your reputation. And your bank account.”
“A girl lost her eye.” Tears streamed down Kim’s cheeks. “Her mother is suing us. We could lose everything.”
Tony’s expression was pure disgust, like the fact that he’d ever considered her a sexual being turned his stomach. And it felt apt. She would have looked at her own reflection the same way. She was selfish and superficial, disloyal and adulterous: a contemporary Madame Bovary.
“Good luck dealing with all your shit,” Tony said, stalking from the room. Kim heard him grab his car keys off the table and the door bang closed behind him. She fell on the semen-stained bedspread and wept.
jeff
EIGHTEEN DAYS AFTER
Jeff was sleeping, fitfully, when he heard it. The ding was muffled by his jeans—he’d left his phone in his pants pocket after the pool—but still, it woke him. Usually, he turned his ringer off before bed, but he’d been so exhausted after his swim that he must have forgotten. He was sleeping in the spare room—Kim said his breathing disturbed her—so he wouldn’t wake her . . . although, since Lisa’s complaint against them, his wife had been on a strict evening diet of white wine and sleeping pills. Neither his breathing nor the muted alert would have roused her.
He crawled out of bed and stumbled toward his pants balled up on the bedroom floor. The clock radio on the nightstand gleamed 2:17 A.M. Who the hell could be texting him at this hour? It had to be Graham. His friend had been known to tie one on and then suggest Jeff join him at whatever Aussie bar he was frequenting. Jeff always texted back his excuses: I’m sleeping. . . . I have an early meeting. . . . I already had a few beers with dinner, so I can’t drive. . . . Jeff never admitted he wasn’t allowed to go out.
The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but the message instantly provided clarity.
It’s Lauren I need help
Jesus Christ. How did the girl get his number? She must have found it on Hannah’s phone. And why would she ask him, of all people, for help? But only a monster could ignore a missive like that. He texted back:
What’s wrong?
Through typos and grammatical errors, Jeff was able to discern that Lauren was drunk or high (fucked up, she’d texted), and at a party at some guy’s apartment. She’d gone with her older sister, but her sister had ditched her when Lauren went to the bathroom. Now she was alone, and wasted, and she didn’t know how to get home.
Did she seriously expect Jeff to get out of bed in the middle of the night and rescue her? Call your dad, Jeff insisted. But Lauren said she couldn’t. Her dad would merder her. He’d send her away to a school for delinkwents.
Call your mom
Lauren informed him that her mom was undoubtedly passed out drunk by this time of night. But there had to be someone else: her stepmom, an aunt, a cousin, a friend with a car? It didn’t make sense for Jeff to be rescuing this girl. He barely knew her. There was something wrong about it . . . and downright creepy. Lauren was getting angry now:
Fuck you then
I’ll go out to the street and wait for someone to offer me a ride
Shit . . . Jeff had no choice.
He slipped out to his car and headed to the address Lauren had texted. It was in the Tenderloin: no place for a kid at night . . . or in the day, for that matter. She was on the sidewalk, waiting for him. She looked older, twenty at least, in her short, tight dress, high heels, and big hair. She looked like a prostitute; she fit right in. Thank God he had come when he did.
Lauren piled into the passenger seat and Jeff saw that her makeup was smudged from crying.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, slamming the door behind her. She turned away from him, pressing her forehead against the cool side window.
Jeff pulled the car onto the quiet street. Lauren didn’t provide a destination, so he headed toward her dad’s high-rise. It was only a couple of weeks ago when he had delivered her there, crying, sniveling, covered in vomit. . . . And now, she was in his car again, and she was crying again. He glanced over at her to make sure she wasn’t going to vomit again. But she was whimpering softly, her face turned away from him.
“Don’t take me to my dad’s,” she said, apparently recognizing the route. “Take me to my mom’s. In Noe Valley.”
Without a word, Jeff made a right. Lauren continued to snivel as they traveled, but Jeff didn’t press her for any details. He didn’t want any—he just wanted to get the girl home and out of his car. It felt inappropriate to be driving through this seedy neighborhood with a sixteen-year-old girl who was not his daughter at nearly three in the morning. It felt illegal. He checked his rearview for cop cars.
Finally, he pulled up in front of a brightly painted but run-down Victorian conversion. He put the car in park but consciously left the motor running. “Are you going to be okay?”
Lauren turned her tearful face toward him for the first time. “No one cares if I’m okay or not.”
“That’s not true,” he said, though maybe it was. Her father was absent, her mother a drunk, her stepmom clearly didn’t like her, and her sister had just left her at some strange guy’s apartment. He came up with, “Hannah cares about you.”
“Hannah doesn’t know the real me. No one does. If they did, they’d hate me.”
“No, they wouldn’t.”
“I hate me.” She was crying harder now, sobs shaking her narrow bare shoulders. The girl was drunk and messy and melodramatic, but Jeff felt sorry for her. Anyone would have: she may have been fucked-up and dressed like a hooker, but she was just a girl and her pain was real. He glanced around to make sure there were no witnesses, then he put his arm around her.
Lauren seemed to take this as an invitation to launch herself into an embrace. It was too close, too intimate, too familiar . . . but she was bawling her head off, her tears dampening his sweatshirt. He could hardly push her away in that state. Who knew what she might do? Run off into the night? Fling herself in front of a passing car? He patted her back paternally. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”
Finally, she regained the ability to speak. “Thanks for coming to get me,” she murmured, into his shirt. “For caring about me when no one else does.”