“Okay, true, so what’s ‘not a big thing,’ then?”
“So Caleb Moretti, he gave me that joint back in January. Well, he gave a lot of people more than joints. He was kind of the guy to go to for that sort of thing...” she says, and I don’t want to stop her, but I’m so absolutely shocked, my hand flutters to my heart. Paige thinks her son was a dean’s-list college student with a Boy Scout background, impressive volunteering record, and zero flaws. He cannot have been the neighborhood drug dealer.
“What? What do you mean the guy to go to?” I say, louder than I meant to.
“Mom,” she sighs.
“No, I just—I’m just a little—Caleb? I don’t—So, what—so what are you saying, exactly?”
“Well, Caleb said Dad bought stuff from him sometimes, so when you found that joint in the laundry, I’m just saying that I would tell you if it were mine. It wasn’t. That’s all, so...” and I want to find Finn and press my fingers into his throat until he stops breathing for allowing her to know this about him—to worry, to carry this around—but I can’t. More than that, I want to take the burden of knowing this away from her.
“So wait, then. What did you mean when you said I’ve been asking what’s wrong—I still don’t know what’s been wrong,” I say, thinking there is more. She shifts in her stool and puts her spoon down.
“I really liked him. I know. Iknowhe was older,” she says, and I swallow down the wordsFive years older!instead of screaming them. Fine, five years means nothing at my age, but teenager versus full-grown man does make a difference, and the thought of it makes my cheeks burn red, but I keep calm.
“So you were...dating him?” I ask.
“No! I mean...no. We were close. Friends,” she says, shyly.
“Why didn’t I know this?” I ask, because I feel like I have known Paige my whole life and that our kids grew up together, but really, if I think about it, she only moved in ten years ago. This would make Mia seven and Caleb twelve. Caleb went to private school. We are more backyard-wine and book-club friends than family-barbecue types. I guess, when I think about it, they knew each other very little before they were pseudoadults. Just bikes-in-the-neighborhood sort of acquaintances with a giant age gap separating them.
“For God’s sake, Mom! Nothing ever happened. He didn’t like me back.”
“Oh, thank God,” I can’t help but blurt out.
“Okay, really?” she says.
“No. Sorry. It’s just... So you’re telling me he was a drug dealer. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, big-time,” she says and sees my mouth gaping. “But he was like this really amazing soul, y’know? Like you could tell all the drug stuff wasn’t really him,” she says.
“So you were not seeing him, though,” I try to confirm.
“No, I sorta wanted to, but he was seeing someone else, but, I mean, since he died, I just—I don’t know, haven’t been myself. I feel...guilty. I don’t know,” she says, and I can feel her pushing back, her defenses coming up.
“Why? Why would you feel that way?” I ask, confused.
“I don’tknow. I just, I miss him is all. I wish I could have helped him,” she says, and then the tears come. I’m suspended in this surreal moment of being horrified that Paige doesn’t know her son was a drug dealer and that my daughter maybe almost dated him...and also want to save this moment with her head on my shoulder. I wipe the tears from under her eyes with a swipe of my thumbs and look her in the eye.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t know and you were dealing with this all by yourself. He was your friend, and I didn’t know that, and you’ve been feeling a lot of grief ever since,” I say. Sometimes I hear Dr. Higgins when I recite these active learning tools I have come to know. “You couldn’t have fixed him, though, and it wasn’t your job.”
“I know,” she says, looking down at her hands. “We used to go sit in the swings in the park behind the Kinneys’ house at night sometimes and, I don’t know, just talk. A lot. I still just can’t believe what happened to him,” she says, trying to compose herself now. So this is why she changed overnight. She was in love with a guy who didn’t love her back, and then was killed, and I don’t know what else... Did she do more drugs than she’s letting on? I just thought she was getting to the I-hate-my-parents stage, even though she was never that person, and all the while, she’s been grieving. I feel like the worst mother in the world.
“Anyway, it’s fine. I just thought you should know...about the joint,” she says, standing and going to the fridge to pull out a soda. Then she’s shuffling to her room, already with phone in hand, looking through TikTok.
My phone rings again. It’s that same number. I pick it up this time, my frustration fueling me.
“Yes?” I snap. “What? I don’t know a June Barrett. I think you have the wrong person,” I say.
“She’s absolutely insistent that you know her and that you’re the only person who can help her. Very insistent. She has a baby, Avery, and says you’ll pick her up. Is there any way you could just come down and help sort this out?” the man’s voice says. Avery? Oh, my God. What in the hell is going on?
“Okay, yeah. I’ll be right there,” I say and hang up the phone. Is this a joke, maybe? Does this have something to do with Finn? I’m so utterly confused. In a fog over everything that has happened in the last two days, I grab my bag and get in my car to go bail some stranger who knows my name out of jail.
21
GEORGIA
When Cora walks into the holding room and sees me, her face goes completely blank. Confusion is an enormous understatement.
