I catch her purse her lips, her physical effort not to press me about the camp. Not long after I’d made my plans with Zoe, I’d told my mom it’d be better if she backed off about it, that I’d fill her in when the six weeks were up, that it helped me focus not to talk about it too much. But she’s as desperate as I am to feel like that money’s doing some good out there, that we’ve managed to do more with Aaron’s settlement than shipping my parents to a place that doesn’t have any bad memories.
“Did you see the email I sent you on Monday?” she asks, hervoice hopeful.
“Yeah,” I say, shifting in my chair. “It’s like I said, Mom. Those groups aren’t really my thing.”
A few months back my mom started going to group grief counseling sessions. Since then, it seems as though she’s kept her own pain in enough check to try watching over mine too. She sends me articles about addicts’ brain chemistry, about twin loss, about meetings in the area for people who are grieving.
Noneof it appeals.
“I’m doing good,” I add, and I realize that it’s not even entirely a lie. When I wake up in the mornings, I don’t feel so disoriented anymore. For a while there, it felt like every time I’d open my eyes, I’d have to provide myself with a recap in order to prepare myself for the shock of another day in this life.You’re back home. Your parents moved away. Aaron is dead.But now I wake up to reality, and I get on with the day. Sometimes—Fridays, mostly—I even look forward to it. “I’m going out with some friends tonight.”
Her face brightens immediately. “Really? What friends? Do I know them?”
A hot prickle of shame blooms on my neck, at the backs of my arms.Yeah, Mom,I imagine saying,It’s the lawyer. The blonde, the one you said was made of stone. The one who slid a packet of papers across the table at you, the one who looked you straight in the eye when she asked you to sign. “No,” I say. “Noone you know.”
“Well, I’m so glad you’re getting out there.” Jesus. She sounds so much like my mom again. So much like the woman who used to cheer our most minuscule achievements at the breakfast table. I feel an answering tug of hope inside me. “Is Pop around?”
But it’s too much to hope for. Her face falls, though she tries to hide it. “He’s not up for talking muchtoday, Aiden.”
I know what that means. He’s either sleeping or crying, or staring at the television, unseeing. I turn my head from the screen, pretend to look out the window. “I’d better get going. Lots to do before I head out tonight.”
She smiles through the screen, nodding proudly. “Have a good time. You deserve to havea great time.”
When we log off, I stare again at the nearly blank page on my screen, Mom’s words echoing around me. What would she think, knowing that the promise of a good time tonight lives entirely in Zoe Ferris? It’s not even about the possibility of sleeping with her again—we only do that in the cabin, away from all this. It’s thatZoeis a good time, even when she’s not, even when she’s pissing me off or calling me on my shit, there’s something about her that gets me rightout of myself.
I reach a hand out, shut off the monitor, and watch the screenfade to black.
Maybe I’ll be able to tell thestory tomorrow.
* * * *
Never is the difference between me and Ahmed more clear than when we go to a party for someone neither of us knows. When we walk up to Henry Tucker’s house, Ahmed is loose and easy, telling me about some buddy of his who grew up nearby, asking whether I’ve ever been to the salvage yard Tucker apparently owns. I barely hear any of it, because I’ve gone tense all over, silent and sweaty underneath my button-up. In the past three and a half weeks I’ve done more socializing than I have in the entire year and a half since Aaron died, and while this afternoon I’d been congratulating myself about getting a little better, I find that now, in the face of the damn thing, I’m rattled by the thought of a houseful of peopleI hardly know.
It’s Kit who I see first, petite and smiling near the front door, but I don’t miss the way that smile changes when her dark eyes fall on me. She’s kind but wary, same as she was the first time I met her at Betty’s, and back then, it hadn’t much bothered me. If I thought anything about it at all, it was probably some kind of surprise at Zoe having such loyal, protective friends. But now, I feel a fresh wave of nerves as I look down at her, five feet two ofYou’d better not fuck with my friend. It doesn’t matter what Zoe and I have agreed on in the dark, our mouths melded together and our hands all over each other. I’m here at this party, with her friends, and that doesn’t feel like just sex. It feels like I’m trying to make a good impression.
“Ahmed, good to see you again,” she says, ushering him farther in, and laughing as she accepts the giant hug he gives her, a move he pulls off more naturally than I ever could. “Aiden, thanks for coming,” she says, choosing a more measured handshake.
“Sure, thanks for the invite. Looks like you’ve put together a nice welcome.” The small house is crowded, full of laughing conversation.
“Yeah, it turned out well. Your friend Charlie’s not coming?”
“She’s in D.C.,” I say. “Went up tosee her wife.”
“Oh, I’m glad for her,” she says, smiling. Kit seems like a nice person, a genuine person, which somehow makes it all the worse that she’s got a more guarded opinion about me.
“Hi,” comes a voice from beside me, and there she is, those gold-brown eyes looking at me expectantly, and I forget all about Kit only seeming half-glad to see me.Zoelooks glad. Glad and also fucking gorgeous. Her hair’s pulled back, but already some of those silky-straight strands have fallen around her face, and her cheeks are flushed from the warm room, the crush of people. Her dress looks to me like a long men’s shirt, dark blue, but she’s got it belted at the waist, a pair of boots that come up to her knees, and in between those and the hem of the dress is the skin that I felt against my hips last weekend, the skin I stroked while I moved inside her.
“Hey,” I say to her. I barely notice that Ahmed’s already moved into the living room, shaking hands and looking like he’s been here dozens of times before.
“I wanted to introduce you to Ben,” she says, turning her eyes up to a tall, smiling guy I hadn’t even registered as a presence. “This party is for him.”
“Hey, man,” I say, practically tearing my eyeballs from her. “Good to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.” He shakes my hand firmly before wrapping an arm around Kit, pulling her close to his side.
“Welcome home. Bet you’re glad to be back.”
“You have no idea.” But he’s not looking at me when he says it. He’s looking down at Kit, his eyes soft on her in a way that makes me slide my gaze over to Zoe, who seems to have developed a real interest in scrutinizing the contents of her plastic cup. When Ben looks back up at me, though, something’s shifted in his expression. “I know you’ve got Z doing this camp thing with you,” he says, abruptly, and Zoe’s head snaps up. “Ben,” she says, her voicelow in warning.
