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I shrug. "I have no idea."
"Did you respond?"
"No," I shake my head. "I didn't know what to say."
"Did he say anything?"
"Just that he misses me."
"Maybe he regrets breaking up with you," Mom offers.
I roll my eyes. "He should have thought about that before he ended things."
"I know we don't run in the same circles as the Allreds," Mom shrugs, "but Cash didn't seem to care. He always came over for dinner when I invited him. He never acted like he was above us, or we were beneath him. He was polite and nice."
"Are you defending him right now?" I cross my arms over my chest, appalled.
"No," she holds up a defensive hand. "I was just saying that sometimes parents can influence their children's decisions. They can push them into doing something they really don't want to do."
"Cash can make his own choices," I argue. "He made them for years." Years. He knew Fanny didn't want us dating. He kept our relationship going anyway. What would have changed now?
"Ingrid," Mom sighs, "I'm not saying he was the right choice for you. What I'm trying to get across is that you don't have to hate him. You don't have to carry around years of hatred for him. It doesn't change anything, and it only weighs you down. And you don't know his side of the story. You don't know what he's dealing with behind closed doors. You don't have to hate him."
"I don't hate him," I admit. "I think I'm... relieved."
"Relieved?"
"I didn't cry—haven't cried, really. Except once. And it wasn't a cry like someone who'd just gotten out of a four-year relationship would have."
"Why do you think that is?"
I think about the fancy dinner Wilder and I had at the Country Club. Sneaking into the movie theatre. Playing a round of golf. Skinny dipping at the lake. The tattoo I have covered with a long sleeve so Mom can't see it.
When I was with Cash, I never had any fun. I didn't laugh with him. I didn't flirt with him. I didn't spend every waking moment wondering when he was going to touch me next because it felt like a spark—a raging fire—every time his fingers made contact with my bare skin. I didn't feel like that with Cash.
Cash made me anxious. That led me to constantly second-guess myself and wonder if I was good enough.
I've never felt that way with Wilder. When I'm with him, I feel... free.
"I'm relieved because I didn't like who I was when I was with Cash," I tell my mother.
Mom reaches over the center console and wraps her arms awkwardly around me. "Do you like who you are now?"
I lay my head on Mom's shoulder as I take a sobering breath. "Yeah, I think I do."
We stay like that, holding each other in front of Queen Isla's fraternity house until Mom's cell rings and Dad wants to know if we want to celebrate his new job over burgers at the diner.
I knock on Wilder's front door and take a step back. In all the years he's lived a few doors down, I've never been inside his house. I've never even walked up the driveway.
Wilder's front door is a simple tan color, unlike the Allred's flashy, bold red door. The door creaks on its hinges and a woman with messy blond hair answers.
"Yes?"
"Hi," I shift from one foot to the other, aware that I'm speaking to Wilder's mother for the first time in my life. "I was wondering if Wilder was home?"
Her hazel eyes—more golden brown than minty green—assess me shrewdly. "Yeah. He's in his room."
She steps aside to let me in, and I realize she has no idea who I am.
