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Personal boundaries was code. It meant, essentially, Back off, or I’m moving to Switzerland. She and her mother had been doing much better as a pair ever since Amber had discovered that personal boundaries existed, and she could erect them.
“Did he hurt you?”
This question arrived in a quieter, less interfering tone, representing a real fear that Amber needed to soothe—not Did he hurt your feelings? but Did he rape you, attack you, take advantage of you?
“No.” She said it too loudly, and the word seemed to bounce around the apartment walls.
She tried to think how to explain it. How to tell her mother that Tony hadn’t tricked her or lied to her, that he’d been absolutely straight with her from the beginning, and she had known he would be gone in the morning, and yes, he’d hurt her anyway. Badly.
“Not on purpose,” she said.
Her mom came over and sat next to her on the couch. She flipped on the television, and a commercial for Survivor came on.
“Your sister watches this,” Janet said. “I can’t understand the point. A bunch of idiots on an island. Who cares?”
“Katie likes idiots. Look at her boyfriend.” Levi was a smooth-talking, good-looking kid who didn’t have an ounce of common sense.
Her mom made a snorting noise. “Hand me that ice cream.”
“You’re just going to take it away from me.”
“No, I won’t. Hand me the spoon, too.”
“You’re going to eat with me?”
“Just a little bit.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Parish House lunch thingy soon?”
Janet’s mouth compressed into a line, and she put out her hand. Amber gave her the ice cream. “Yes, but you’re sad. Spoon.”
She took the spoon and dug into the ice cream. “Mmm. This is good. All melty still from the freezer being out.”
“I know. Don’t eat all the marshmallow parts,” Amber said.
“Tell me again which Mazzara boy you got mixed up with.”
“Tony.”
“Is he the one who had the accident all those years ago? Hit his daughter with the car?”
Amber’s throat closed, and she reached for the ice cream. After swallowing another bite, she said, “No. That was Patrick. Tony is older.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s great. And … and kind of messed up, I think.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Alcohol?”
“No. Jeez, Mom.”
Her mother was unrepentant. “So what kind of messed up is he?”
“Just the ordinary kind. Nothing terrible.”
