Scrolling back even further, I spot some posts about me and college—looking for a college counselor, essay help, SAT tutoring. Back even earlier—way earlier, but it doesn’t take much to get there because my mom hardly posts—there’s a message saying a “friend” is looking for a therapist who specializes in sex and relationship education for teens. I check the date. Sure enough, it was right after I told her I’d had sex with Charlie. My cheeks flame. But I’m not embarrassed—I’m mad. No, not mad. Madwould be easier. I’m hurt. That my mom saw me as a problem to solve.
At least she hadn’t returned to the Facebook well more recently to ask for drug counselor recs. Of course, when it came to Kyle, she was way more right than wrong in the end. Not right to threaten me; that was out of control. But right about how dangerous Kyle was. Dangerous enough that I need to face the possibility that he’s responsible for what has happened to my mom. Like he did something to her as some kind of sick way to get back at me. Except why now? It wouldn’t make any sense.
I should tell Detective Wilson about Kyle, just in case. I will, too. But I am afraid of admitting out loud that my own stupid choices might have something to do with this. Unless it was her bad choices.Online dating?
“Where are you, Mom?” I whisper, staring at the screen. “Where the hell are you?”
I close the Facebook window and switch back to the dating site, which I’ve been careful to leave open in the browser. And there, once again, are all the little pictures, all those chats with random men, all so pathetic. So beneath my mom.
The second chat at the top, below the surfer Oscar, is with someone named Peter. My mom opened with a “Hi!” And he responded with a “Hiya, how are you today?”
The exchange goes on, awkwardly, and yet my mom, for some psychotic reason, hands over her number at the end. There are no further messages between her and Peter after that. They ended about a month ago. All the dating exchanges did. Maybe some had turned to texting. I don’t have any way to know. We don’t have her phone.
Peter is not objectively unattractive, but he’s also not remotely in the same league as my dad—much shorter, much less hair. Glancing at the other profiles, none of the other men can compete, either. My dad really is very good-looking, especially considering he’s ten years older than my mom. He’s also in great shape. He’sgot a whole aging Brad Pitt thing going on. Like people have actually said it to him on the street—I’ve seen it. And yet here my mom waschoosingthese other idiots. Or maybe she wasn’t choosing them. Maybe she was choosingnotto be with my dad.
The next two chats ended without the exchange of a phone number, only with my mom’s silence. A small “Your Move” banner encouraging her to reply. A third guy opens with “Hey, Sexy” and a smiley face with hearts for eyes that makes me want to puke. At least my mom didn’t answer. Still, I can’t stand the sight of that emoji, sitting there assaulting her in-box. I go to tap on “Unmatch,” but I stop myself just in time—what if that guy istheguy? I shouldn’t erase suspects.
I want to do something, though. Maybe I could reach out and say hello. See what happens. If this guy istheguy, maybe I’ll be able to tell by his response, or by hisnotresponding. As my hands move toward the keys, there’s a knock at my door. I look up, hoping I imagined it. But then it comes again—pounding now. Jennie from across the hall? Everything with that girl is some kind of emergency.
“Jesus! Hold on!”
I jerk open the door, and Geoff is standing there, shoulders hunched, hair a mess. He looks pissed off, wild-eyed. Not exactly what you want to see in a drug addict.
“There you are!”
“Geoff … What are you—what’s … up?” He doesn’t live in my building or particularly near it. “It’s, um, one a.m.”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Me?”
“Kyle cut me off, because of you.”
Shit.This wasn’t supposed to be happening anymore. That was the whole point of the two thousand dollars—for Kyle to call off the dogs, also known as my former customers. Or notmycustomers,Kyle’scustomers that I delivered to. Since we broke up, he’s been cutting them off and blaming me. His form of entertainment. Most of them have found another dealer. But a few have freaked out and huntedmedown, demanding explanations I don’t have. That’s the problem with a trust-fund drug dealer: Kyle doesn’t care nearly as much about losing clients or money as he does about his bruised ego. For a second, he’d actually seemed relieved when I broke up with him, but then his natural pettiness had set in. But the two thousand dollars—the completely random figure he decided I “owed” him to make up for his trouble—was supposed to put an end to it, and yet here’s Geoff, totally pissed off at me.
I step back and start to close the door a little. “Listen, Geoff, I’m sorry, but—”
He slams a flattened palm against the door, wedging it open wider. Whoa. This is way out of character for a nerdy bio major, even one addicted to Ritalin.
“You need to call Kyle,” he says. His eyes are red at the edges. He’s coming down hard.
“That won’t help your situation any.”
“Try,” Geoff says, taking a step closer. He’s looming over me now. “Get him to change his mind. Like right now.”
“I’m sorry, Geoff, really, but I—”
“You’resorry?” Spit sprays in my face. “What good does that do me?”
ShouldI call Kyle? I mean, I could. I can’t imagine he’d pick up … But no. I’m not getting sucked back in. No matter what Geoff wants.
“I’m sorry, I can’t call him.”
Geoff’s upper lip curls and I think he might launch himself at me. But then, just as quickly, he deflates.
“You really are a selfish bitch, Cleo.” He says this flatly, like he’s stating a simple fact. “Annie was right.”
“Wait—Annie? What are you talking about?”
