She slides me an unreadable look. “How long was he in your life?”
“About three years. My sister turned nine, he called her a slut for wearing a skirt she’d outgrown overnight to her birthday party, and my mom finally realized she didn’t want a guy like that in her life or in ours.”
“So you were ...?”
“Ten.”
“And you’re going to forgive yourself for being a shit considering that’s the kind of example you have?”
I eyeball her. “Somebody else say something to you?”
“Oh, no. I read the comments on your TikToks.”
Jesus. Even I haven’t been that brave. Actually, I wouldn’t know she was posting videos to my account at all if my phone didn’t regularly blow up and if I weren’t getting phone numbers slipped to me every time I go out in public.
On jobs.
At restaurants.
While I’m eating with Tavi, who keeps doing that fake-smilingwe’re just friendsthing, which makes my stomach do a slow roll of anger and horror andhere we go againevery time.
“Did you really plant the stink bomb that malfunctioned and festered by the girls’ bathroom for five years before it justbrokeand took a major pipe with it and caused the school to permanently shut down early that last year that it was open?”
“Yep.”
“And the olive oil on the stairs—”
“Yep.”
“And the—”
“Highly likely, whatever they said.”
“How many stepfathers had you had by then?”
“If you’re trying to make excuses for me—”
“You werea kid.”
“And I dealt with all of this a long time ago, and it’s good for me to have the occasional reminder that I’m in charge of continuing to make good decisions.” I nudge her. “But I appreciate you making sure I know it’s okay.”
She bites her lip and studies me.
I lift my brows and wait.
Don’t have to wait long.
“What was your wake-up call?” she asks.
Wasn’t expecting that. I suck in a big breath and blow it out slowly.
Lots I don’t mind talking about from my childhood. This one?
It’s not my favorite. “Almost drowned.”
“Why? How?”
“Prank gone wrong at the swimming pool over in Deer Drop.”
