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“Yes?”
Miles took a deep breath, held it in with his chest puffed out, and looked at me warily. Then he let the breath out and said, “Do you want to meet her?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You know that monthly trip I was telling you about? I’m going up there again before school starts. I could pick you up on the way. It’s almost an eight-hour round trip, though, so if you don’t want to, that’s okay—”
The more words that came out of his mouth, the more his face fell like he thought it was a bad idea. I let him run out of steam before I couldn’t take his pitiful expression anymore and had to stifle a laugh.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely go.” I never thought I’d get such a golden opportunity to talk to his mom. There was no doubt she’d have whole treasure troves of information about Scarlet and McCoy.
And . . . oh, shit.
I swayed on the spot. This was about more than Scarlet or McCoy. He wanted me to meet his mom. I’d just agreed to meet his mom.
He perked up, but still looked apprehensive, like if he said, “Really?” I was going to say, “No.”
“I’ll have to ask first,” I said, “but I should be able to. When are you going?”
“Saturday. I leave pretty early in the morning, so . . .”
“Don’t worry about it; I’m an early bird.” I saw my mother rounding the corner, heading for the lobster tank and Charlie. “There she is now, I can ask her.”
“No, that’s—you don’t have to—” But I’d already waved her over.
“Miles invited me to go with him to visit his mom,” I said.
My mother examined Miles, obviously remembering when he’d brought me home during my episode, and Miles glanced from my mom to me, giving me a panic-stricken look I’d never seen on his face before.
“You’re going to visit her?” my mother said with definite interest, but with that edge that suggested she thought Miles meant “visit her in jail.”
“Uh, yeah.” He swallowed thickly. “I go once a month—and it’s nothing serious, really—but, uh, she’s in a hospital in Goshen.”
“A hospital?”
Miles looked at me again. “A psychiatric hospital.”
My mother was completely silent for at least a whole minute. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, but almost . . . happy.
“Well, I think that sounds like a good idea,” she said. Miles looked relieved, but my stomach sank to the depths of the ocean. Why was my own mother so okay with me visiting a mental hospital? Why was that a good idea at all?
It kind of felt like she was kicking me in the gut, and every kick said
I don’t want you.
I don’t need you.
I don’t love you.
Chapter Thirty
Saturday morning, Miles stood on the doorstep in his bomber jacket with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His breath fogged the pane of glass in the front door.
He looked me up and down. Pajamas and cat slippers. “Why aren’t you ready to go?”
“My mom says I need to invite you in for breakfast.”
Miles glanced over me, toward the kitchen. “I didn’t realize you were eating. I can wait in the truck. . . .”
“No, no, it’s okay.” I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him inside. “Seriously, this’ll all go over easier if you come and eat.”
Miles looked toward the kitchen again. I knew he could smell the food—my mother had been wafting scents toward the front door since she’d started cooking this morning.
“Your dad is home?” Miles asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
A line formed between his eyebrows.
“He’s mostly harmless. But you have to remember your history.” I lowered my voice to add, “Not everyone’s dad is a complete asshole.”
That seemed to convince him. He shrugged his jacket off. When I took it from him, it nearly pulled me to the floor.
“Christ almighty!” I heaved the unexpected weight back up. “Why is it so heavy?”
“It’s a heavyweight flight jacket,” said Miles. “I have another one that’s lighter, but it makes me look like a greaser—what are you doing?”
“Smelling it.” I stuck my nose in the collar. “It always smells like tobacco.”
“Yeah, it would. Opa smoked a lot.”
“Opa?”
“Sorry, my grandpa.”
I hung the jacket on the coat hook next to the door and pushed Miles into the kitchen.
“Oh, you’re here!” said my mother with fake surprise. “I’ve already set you a place at the table, right there next to Alex.”
Miles’s eyes glazed as they roamed over the scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, and orange juice on the table. I pushed him into a chair.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Miles.” Dad reached over to shake Miles’s hand. Miles stared at him like he’d lost the will to speak. “Staying for breakfast before you head out?”
“I guess,” said Miles.
“Great! How much do you know about the French Revolution?”
“Like what?”
“When did it take place?”
“1789 to 1799.”
“June twentieth, 1789 was the . . . ?”
“Tennis Court Oath.”
“1793 to 1794 was the time period for the . . . ?”
“Reign of Terror,” Miles answered, rubbing his neck.
“And Robespierre’s full name was . . . ?”
“Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre.”
“Well done, sir!” Dad grinned. “I like him, Lexi. Can we eat now?”
I filled Miles’s plate for him, since he seemed to be paralyzed from the eyes down. Dad peppered him with history questions until they made it to World War II, and then they moved into an analytical discussion of wartime tactics.
Charlie didn’t come out the entire time Miles was there, even though my mother had set a place for her. I’d been looking forward to introducing her to Miles—I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind fueling her Word of the Week a thousand times over.
When the meal was left in scraps and ruins, Miles checked his watch and straightened up. “We’d better go. It’s already nine.”
I got dressed, and then we moved to the entryway to pull on coats and shoes.
“Oh, Alex, wait. Don’t forget to take these.” My mother sorted through a pile on the hall table. “The cell phone . . . your gloves . . . and here’s some money if you stop for food on the way back.”
