Against my will, tears well in my eyes. I look away from him, frustrated and embarrassed. A flash of my old resentment comes back—because of course Will, aboy,didn’t have the same consequences to face for the exact same actions—but it’s followed by immediate guilt. What did I want from him? That he suffer equally? That he get privately, anonymously bullied just like me through a now-defunct social media platform that was specifically designed to hurt people’s feelings? I wanted our classmates to move on forbothour sakes, but that’s not how teenagers work.
“Thank you for saying that,” I say eventually, looking back at him.
Will’s expression buckles under a gentle emotion that draws me in, makes me feel understood. Listened to.
“Fuck Nora Lindberg,” he says. “She can find another CEO to bother.”
“Exactly,” I say, grinning.
He rolls his head on the seat back, curving his body toward mine.
“Will?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“How did Zoe react when you told her about your dad’s affair?”
His lips twitch. “She literally beat me up.”
I smile and laugh. “Really?”
“Left bruises and everything,” he reveals. “It was our biggest fight ever, but I think both of us were relieved we were finallytalking.About Amber, about you.” He swallows. “And then, eventually, about Dad. We worked through all our shit in one night. Then discussed if we should tell Mom,whatwe should tell Mom.”
“And?”
“And,” Will says, “we told her the very next morning. Mom cycled through about thirty emotions in the span of an hour, grabbed my face, and said,I’m so sorry he asked this of you—which is sort of insane, considering I hadn’t even admitted that part to her yet—and then she got herself a lawyer.”
“She never considered moving home to Austin?” I ask.
Will shakes his head. “She’d found a job she loved teaching pottery at this art studio. I think she would have moved back if she hadn’t met Doug, but he came along about six months later, and that was that.”
“Do you and Zoe like Doug?” I ask.
“Doug,” Will says, “is the best. He makes Nutella pancakes and beer can grilled chicken, and he loves hockey.”
“So do you,” I say.
“I love hockey because Doug loves hockey,” Will says.
“Can we circle back to your stepfather’s cooking repertoire ranging from Nutella pancakes to beer can chicken?”
Will laughs softly. “He can make nothing else.”
“What else could you possibly need?”
“Something green?”
“True,” I concur. “Maybe we could ask Doug to learn a salad or two.”
I immediately stiffen when I realize I saidwe.
Will blessedly ignores me and moves on. “Over the next four years, Zoe and I went to colleges in different states. We tried to keep up with each other, but college is busy. She loved visiting me in New York, though, and got a job offer up there after graduation. The problem was, she also hadanotheroffer in San Diego with higher pay. I told her to do what felt right and promised her that if she went to San Diego, I’d visit all the time.”
I smile. “She chose the New York job.”
Will nods. “She did. That same year, Doug and my mom got married in Nashville, in the gardens at Cheekwood. It was a really good year.”
There’s a buoyancy to Will’s voice as he recounts this phase of his past. It’s easy for him, sharing the good stuff.
