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Complete and total silence.

Paired with her growing even more stiff.

And I realize that’s answer enough.

“Which means,” I say quietly, trying to pretend I don’t feel that shit somewhere in the vicinity of my heart, “not good.”

She reaches for the wipe. “I’ve got it.” A jerk of her chin to the door, her tone filled with dismissal. “You can go.”

I hold it out of reach. “How old were you when she died?”

Finally, her eyes come to mine and I see that the ice is so thick there’s not one glimpse of fire in sight. “Fine,” she snaps on a sigh. “You want it? You want the truth of my shitty childhood?”

“Vi—”

“You already know about the gems of humans who are my half-brothers and my dad, and you know that my dad cheated on his wife with my mom.” She shakes her head sharply. “In case it’s not obvious from that, my mom wasn’t a good person either. Not like yours.” A flicker of emotion crosses her face before that’s smoothed out and she says, “She knew my dad was married and didn’t care⁠—”

“Vi.”

“Oh, no,” she says, glaring fiercely at me. “You wanted to know, and I’m telling you, so now you’ve got to take it.” Icicles shooting out of her eyes, sinking into me like arrows. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “My mom hung at the hotel bar visiting sports teams used, knowing the players would hit it up after games. She did it frequently and often—before and after she had me. She got off on being with them, got off on being with the married ones because especially she got off on making them stray from their wives.” A bitter laugh. “She lived to chase that high.”

I brace.

Because I feel it in the air, in the way Vi somehow goes even stiffer, how the ice grows thicker.

Something worse is coming.

“I was eight and alone at home—something that I was used to because I was alone a lot—when the police knocked on the door. It was after three, but I heard them, and…when I answered the door, I learned she’d gotten drunk, gotten fucked, and then wrapped her car around a telephone pole on the way home.”

Yeah, even though I’d braced, I hadn’t braced enough.

“Vi,” I say softly.

“The only good thing she did was not taking someone out with her when she did it.” She reaches for the wipe then huffs out a sigh when, again, I don’t let her have it.

“What happened after?” I ask quietly.

“Nothing.” A roll of her eyes. “I stayed in a group home for a while. Eventually—and I don’t know why—the Conrads took me in. I was the same age as TJ and for a minute there, I thought I’d finally found my real family.” The ice begins to melt and she looks away. “I learned differently really quickly.”

I’m an asshole and I still want to wrap her in my arms and hug her tight.

But I have the distinct notion that would be wholly unwelcome in this moment.

Like it might earn me a stabbing—repeatedly—from the tiny scissors in the first aid kit.

Same as me telling her I’m sorry it happened, that I didn’t exactly come from a family full of puppies and rainbows, but even my childhood looks like the most privileged of privileged when compared to hers.

Especially since I know there’s more she endured.

More she’s not telling me.

I can feel it boiling beneath the surface, still buried below that ice she’s clinging so tightly to.

And she’s dealt with a lot the last few days—me pushing her into taking this gig, my family, the migraine, Oakes, and…this.

So, I change the subject.

“Four years of powder puff football?”