"I don’t remember a thing aside from getting there and spending the next day throwing up. My dad punished me by taking away my bedroom door for aweek."
We all erupt with laughter, and Bea’s milkshake comes out of her nose before she says, "I remember that!" while wiping her face clean with a napkin.
Who takes their teenage daughter’s bedroom door away because she was hungover? Take away her social privileges, or her phone. Not her privacy.
"I do vaguely remember having a conversation with you, Harley, but I also know that conversation was rudely interrupted becausesomeonethrew up on someone else’s shoes." She shakes her head and chuckles in disbelief. "I’m so sorry about that, again," she says shyly, visibly blushing. Her fingers picking at the nail-bed on her thumb.
That’s not quite what happened, but I’ll let her believe it.
"I drove you all home in my underwear and threw those pants in the trash the second I walked through my front door," I say as laughter erupts from the table once more.
"It’s getting late. I should head home," Cassandra says after a moment of silence.
The three of us have been far too comfortable in this very uncomfortable booth for two hours.
My body is too large to be stuffed in such a confined space for so long. Every part of me hurts.
"Living back at home sucks. Hopefully, I can find a place soon. Once I’m settled, I would love to have you both over for dinner sometime. Laney too," she says, smiling at the both of us as she rises from her side of the booth, collecting her belongings.
"Text me when you get home safe." The words leave my mouth so quickly, Bea registers that I’ve said them before I do, but it’s just a habit of mine.
She nods, leaning in to give Bea and me a hug, before she heads toward the door, and I let out a breath of relief as I slouch back into the worn-out, almost non-existent padding of the booth.
"Wingrove," Bea hisses as she whispers my name.
"What?" I whisper shout back.
“Look.”
Following her gaze, we both try to hide the fact that we’re staring at a very uncomfortable Cassandra and a very persistent Angela Anderson. She and her husband, Max, have stopped Cassandra for what I bet is a very unwanted conversation, where Angela looks to have a hold on Cassandra’s wrist, but she rips her arm free quickly.
Reluctantly, we peel our eyes away from the scene and wait until they’ve finished talking and the bell chimes before we get up and attempt to sneak out of Katie’s, unseen.
"Harley, it’s good to see you, son," Max Anderson says, ruining our cover.
He stands from his booth, placing his hand out for me to shake, and I do.
"Hi, Mr. Anderson, Mrs. Anderson," I respond, acknowledging his wife, who barely nods in return. Ever since my falling out with her son, she’s always been cold toward me, but Max has always shown me nothing but respect, so he’ll always have mine.
"Good to see you both," Bea says politely, placing her hand in mine and dragging me out the door.
"I don’t imagine that was a pleasant conversation," she says, letting go of my hand while I reach in my pocket for my car keys.
"Herring hasn’t told me what happened between her and Austin." I shrug, unlocking the door with the key fob. "For all I know, she and Austin ended on good terms and are still in contact," I say, but I know it’s not the case.
She wouldn’t be here if it were.
"They didn’t," is all Bea says, slamming the door shut, forcing my mind to automatically assume the worst.
If Austin is anything like he was back in school, I don’t have a shred of doubt that he hurt her in some way.
It might not have been physical, but it doesn’t make her pain any less valid.
Pulling up in the parking lot under my apartment complex, I stare at my phone as I wait and wait for a text message from Cassandra to let me know that she’s home.
But I wait and wait for a text message that never comes.
thirteen
