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I swallow hard. “I have, but…”
She throws her manicured hands in the air. “So he thinks you’re an easy lay. Just like any other guy.”
Her words shouldn’t make my face burn and my stomach churn. She’s the one who taught me sex doesn’t matter, kissing doesn’t matter. Men don’t matter.
So why am I feeling ashamed and mortified just because she’s hinting that men only want me for sex?
“Why are we talking about me?” I ask, my voice shaky. “You brought me here to talk about Josh and what a douchebag he is.”
“And you moaned and stomped your foot like a three-year-old. Why would I interrupt your party to complain, right? Why not always talk about you?”
“Oh please, Mom.” The burning of embarrassment is turning into anger. “When do we ever talk about me?”
“All the time!”
“That’s not true!”
We glare at each other. Mirror and reflection, and what if she’s the real deal, and I’ll end up just like her?
What if I end up being her? So sad and angry at the world?
“Don’t be an idiot, Cassie. This boy you’re in lust with, even if he told you he loved you, he’d still be lying.”
“So it’s a catch twenty-two? No way to win?”
“It’s not the words, baby. It’s the actions. Has he treated you well, brought you flowers, bought you a ring? Is he talking about a future together, babies and a house with a picket fence?”
“Even if he had, you’d tell me again he’s lying.”
But my chest is so tight I can barely breathe. The thought of Shane bringing me flowers makes me want to laugh hysterically. Buying me a ring… a future together, that’s wishful thinking on my part, isn’t it? Guys don’t care for this stuff, do they? Different brains. Different needs.
And since when do I need a house and kids?
Since Shane. Since I realized I have feelings for him.
Oh God, Mom is right. I’m the one thinking and wishing for things, not him. I guess I knew it from the start: he’s going to break my heart.
***
Mom manages to keep me busy all day. She isn’t feeling well. She needs me to pick up a bag she forgot at a friend’s house, check her medication for expiration dates. I think of Shane, of everything he’s been through and is going through, and I want to grab her and shake her. But I don’t.
Right when I’m about to start screaming in frustration and tell her she’s a big girl and isn’t sick after all, she orders my favorite Korean food and starts talking about Angel.
This never happens. We never talk about my brother, never mention his name. It’s a code, a rule. A law.
Which my mom chose to break, and even if it’s a ploy to keep me by her side for the day, I can’t leave yet. Not even she breaks out the photo album, one I didn’t know she had, with photos of Angel since he was a little boy, all blond curls and wide blue eyes, chubby cheeks and hands.
My eyes sting as I trail my fingers over his photos as he grows, giving the camera mischievous looks, dressed in his boy scouts uniform or his pajamas. I don’t appear in the photos until he’s ten. Then he’s usually guarding me like a sentinel, looking proud to be a big brother, or holdi
ng me in his arms.
Then three grainy photos from the front, and a few more of him when he returned.
Followed by empty pages.
I hang my head. “Why didn’t you show me these before?”
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see them,” Mom says, sliding into the chair across from me, cradling a mug of hot tea.
