“And then I got a job. And it made sense for a long time.”
“But it doesn’t anymore.”
I flinched and rubbed my nose. “I didn’t say that,” I mumbled, glancing at Phoebe. She was still napping, a hoodie bunched up under her head for a pillow. “It’s complicated.”
“In what way?”
“Why are we even talking about this? Let’s circle back to whether or not you know how to swim.”
“Because of Phoebe?” he guessed. I swallowed tightly.
“Obviously because of Phoebe.”
“She didn’t want to move to Boston?”
“I shouldn’t have let her move to Boston.” The words flewout before I’d fully comprehended them. I exhaled sharply and glanced over my shoulder to ensure she hadn’t woken up. She looked so peaceful, unaware of the turmoil ripping through my brain. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
He said nothing, keeping his attention on the road. I toyed with a thread hanging from my shorts and counted to twenty before the word-vomit rose up my throat.
“She had a life,” I whispered. “I think I really fucked up, taking her to Boston. Neither of us could stand staying at our dad’s, but there were other options. I shouldn’t have… I think I fucked up.”
“You were grieving.”
“Yeah, okay, but I was in charge of a teenager, so I didn’t have the luxury of grieving, you know? I should’ve pushed it down and focused on her. It wasn’t my turn to grieve.”
His knuckles went white against the wheel. I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t staring at his hands.
“I took her away from her life and now she’s miserable, and she hates me for it. She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“Well, she should.” I squeezed my eyes shut and scrubbed my hands down my face. “I’m sorry. I’m doing that thing again, where I unload shit on you. I don’t know why I do it.”
“I asked,” he said. I dropped my hands, staring hard at the side of his face. His stubble snaking down to his neck, a lock of hair curling around the arm of his glasses.
It should’ve been criminal, how gorgeous he was.
“She said you’re friends,” I said. He shrugged. “Are we friends?”
“Is that what this is?”
His soft tone sent something molten slithering through my insides. I took a shallow breath and replied, “I don’t know.”
He reached up, tugging his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think you fucked up, moving her to Boston,” he said. A zip of hope soared through my chest. I’d heard virtually the same thing a hundred times over from a hundred different mouths over the last year. Somehow it meant more, here, now, fromthismouth.
“You don’t?” I asked.
“I think you need to talk about this with her.”
I pantomimed throwing up with my hand. “Have you ever tried having a serious conversation with a fourteen-year-old?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s my job.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. Your ‘job.’?” I threw up air quotes with my fingers and he shot me a perplexed look. “Maybe you should talk to her about this, then.”
“I have,” he replied. My jaw dropped. “I’m better at keeping secrets than she is.”
“Why does she talk to you?” I asked. “She won’t talk to me. Why does she talk to you but not me?”
