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“What did you say to him?” I demand. I don’t even recognize my voice, dark and snarly.
She wobbles precariously. Her face shines with sweat and her eyes are glassy, feverish.
“Get out or I’ll call the police!” she screeches.
“Do it,” I growl. “I’ll be happy to tell them I heard a crash inside the house and came to check on you, only to find you drunk as a skunk and getting ready to drive somewhere. How does a night in a cell sound? Who do you think they’ll believe, Linda?”
The color flees her face. I honestly don’t know if it’s from the threat or the fact I called her by her first name.
“You’ll never be good enough for him!” she screams. “Uneducated and crude. The worst type of woman! You made my son chase you all those years, then you married his best friend. You ruined him!”
My jaw drops. She sways precariously, then sags against the wall. All at once, I realize how stupid this is. Rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Lucas’s mom isn’t who I want to be in the same room with, no matter how much I’d like to throttle her.
I take a breath, fighting for calm. “I feel sorry for you,” I tell her evenly. “You’re a lonely, sad person.”
Her eyes close. “So is my son,” she mumbles. “Because of you.”
I back away, my skin prickling, and make a beeline for the front door. I slam it behind me. Outside, I lean forward, hands on my knees, and take deep breaths until the urge to scream at the sky fades.
When I straighten, I see my dad standing on the other side of the short fence. By the expression on his face, I know he heard what Mrs. Adler screamed at me. The whole neighborhood likely heard.
I swallow until I find my voice. “I have to go.”
He nods. “Damien and your mom are starting a movie. If you’re not back by the time it’s over, we’ll get him sorted in your old bedroom.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Lucas! Open the damn door!”
He’s not answering my calls or texts, but I know he’s here. His car is in the driveway. There’s a light on upstairs.
My hand hurts from pounding on the thick wood of his rental’s front door. There’s a doorbell, but it doesn’t make any sound that I can hear, and the fence around the property is too high to climb without risking serious injury.
Giving my hand a break, I kick the front door repeatedly with my sneakered toe, jabbing the doorbell with one hand while I call him with the other.
When the front door suddenly jerks open, I’m mid-kick. I freeze, phone extended in one hand, finger of my other hand jammed on the doorbell—which, incidentally, does work. I can hear a continuous, soft chime coming from the back of the house.
Lucas gapes at me. “What are you doing?”
He’s wearing sweatpants that ride low on his hips. No shirt. His hair is damp and disheveled. My brain, suddenly sluggish, puts the images together and concludes he was in the shower.
For a few beats too long, I stare at the deep divots of muscle bracketing a trail of dense gold hair that disappears into his waistband. Then I wrench my gaze to his face.
“I came to check on you.”
My voice is breathless; his eyes narrow, scanning my face, no doubt registering my burning cheeks.
He takes a shallow breath and a half-step backward. “I’m fine.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “This isn’t a good time.”
To my shock, he starts to close the door. I dart forward, blocking the swing with my shoulder. “No way. Don’t shut me out. That was the rule. When hard shit happens, we tell each other the truth.”
His jaw hardens. “We’re not kids anymore, Celeste. I don’t need to cry on your shoulder.”
I flinch but don’t back down. “What did she say to you?”
“It’s not important.”
“Like hell it’s not.”
