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Lyra lifted her headand glared at her friend. “Oh my God! Will you fucking decide?!”
Michelle sent back a snotty smirk and finally landed on a song. It was Toby Keith, but whatever. At least she’d put her phone down; she’d been cycling through Spotify channels for at least five minutes.
“You have the worst taste in music,” Lyra complained as she settled on her side of the blanket again.
“Says you. You have the taste of a fifty-year-old grandma.”
“A fifty-year-old grandma with a closet full of Stooges t-shirts, maybe. And it’s not like your good-ol’-boy fetish is cutting edge.”
At the sudden sprinkle of cold water on her face and chest, Lyra opened her eyes and saw Michelle threatening to splash more water. Lyra flipped her off.
Michelle’s smirk deepened. Then, finally done being a shit, she took a drink from her water bottle and arranged herself to lie prone on the blanket at Lyra’s side. They were quiet for a minute or two, soaking up the rays. Yeah, it was supposedly bad to get a tan, but it felt great to bake out here, and anyway, the fake stuff never got the color right.
Lyra tanned easily; she only ever burned if they were out on the water and she forgot sunscreen. Michelle, on the other hand, was white as Ivory soap; she burned instantly and only managed to keep any color after a series of burns. Here in July, she was starting to have a touch of tan. She’d still be a lobster when they headed home, but there was a decent chance that burn would leave behind another shade of tan. Possibly also some skin cancer, but that was a worry for later.
“Did you talk to your mom yet?” Michelle asked.
Lyra had been drifting toward a beach nap, and would have much preferred getting to that over answering her friend’s question.
“Not yet.”
“Ly, you have to.”
“Do I?”
Though she was still lying with her eyes closed, she heard and felt Michelle lift up and prop herself on her elbows. “Yeah. You do.”
With another sigh she very much intended rhetorically, Lyra sat up. “I’ve been trying to figure out what happens if I do. Does she believe me? If she does, does she do anything about it? If she doesn’t, does that fuck things up between us? Does anything change for the better, or would I make everything worse?”
Michelle drew her sunglasses to the end of her nose. “Ly. Come on. Can I answer those?”
“Please.”
“You know I love your mom, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” Lyra and Michelle had been friends since fourth grade, well before the implosion of Lyra’s parents’ marriage or Michelle’s father’s death. They were each close with the other’s family.
“And we both know your mom loves you, right?”
“Yeah.” Things between Lyra and her mom had cooled when Lyra, fifteen years old at the time of the divorce, had decided to live with Pop, but they hadn’t gotten bad. Both her parents were decent people who’d tried to keep the kids out of the crossfire.
“Exactly. Your mom loves you. Ergo, she’ll believe you, and she’ll dump his ass on the spot.”
Lyra wasn’t so sure. “She really likes him, Chelle. You haven’t seen her since they got together. She’s like a teenager, the way she blushes and swoons. And before—before, I thought he was very cool, too. He treats her like she’s everything.”
Michelle made a game-show-buzzer noise. “I’m sorry, that answer is incorrect. A very cool man who really treats a woman like she’s everything does not try to sexually assault that woman’s daughter in the laundry room.”
“He didn’t try to assault me. Gross. He made a pass.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you said he grabbed you, shoved you in the corner by the dryer, and tried to put his hand in your pants. Does that have another name on your planet?”
“You’re exaggerating. He just pulled on my belt.” After he’d boxed her in between the dryer and the wall, yes, but still. He hadn’tassaultedher. Exactly.
“And you’re making excuses. What the fuck, Ly? He’s a douchebag. Any kind of move on you is grossbecause he’s dating your mother.”
