“When did you meet Britta?” I ask him. No, meet is not the right word. “Connect?” I try again. “Start talking?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
Now, I’m intrigued.
I lean forward. “I won’t laugh.”
“I met her through this online group,” he says quietly, his eyes shifting to the table.
That’s it?
“What group?” I press.
“Parents Incarcerated Anonymous,” he answers.
I blink. “That’s a real group?”
He shrugs. “I guess so. I mean, I’m in it.”
“What do they do exactly?”
“It’s a forum to help kids who have a parent—or both parents—in jail,” he explains. “Sort of like a support group. But online. It’s mostly message boards,” he continues. “People venting. Asking questions. Talking about stuff they can’t really say anywhere else.”
“Like what?”
Cash shrugs, but his voice softens. “Like how to explain to people you start dating why they can’t meet your parents. Or what it’s like when your friends ask how your parents are and you don’t know what to say.”
My chest tightens.
I never asked him about that stuff. Not once.
I nod my head. “I’m proud of you, Cash.”
And also feeling a little guilty.
I didn’t realize Cash was struggling.
Would he have told me if he was?
“Please, don’t tell Wild,” he rushes to get out. “He’ll wonder why he’s not a good enough support system, and things will get weird.”
After last night, they’re already weird. But whatever.
“I won’t tell him,” I promise.
“Thanks, Ingrid.”
“Now.” I clear my throat and narrow my eyes. “Tell me everything about Britta.”
Cash hitches a shoulder. “Not much to tell. She goes to UCLA, and her dad murdered some guy fifteen years ago.”
My mouth drops open. “Why did he murder someone?”
He shrugs. “No idea. Haven’t asked.”
“You don’t think that’s important?” I counter.
“I don’t,” Cash answers, honest and sincere. “She hasn’t asked about why my mom is in jail.”
