Page 61 of The Second Dance

“I think she looks hot.”

He winces, handing my phone back. “How do you know all this? Are you besties with my mom now?”

“We talk.” I hedge. “We meet up occasionally.”

“Meet up? Where?”

“I don’t know. For sushi or whatever.”

His head rears back. “My mother eats sushi?”

“And likes it.” I say, exaggerating my tone.

“I feel like I don’t even know who she is, anymore.”

“Did any of you really know her?”

He gives me a sharp look and I realize that I am toeing the line between concerned and meddlesome. “I think maybe she felt a little caged living here.” I pause. “But I should really let her speak for herself. You should call her, Bo. She misses you.”

His gaze drops to the phone in my hand. “Doesn’t look like it.”

He smooths his hair back. “Is it entirely necessary to cozy up to my mom the way you are?”

Something about his tone cuts me to the quick. Because there’s some truth in what he’s asking. I did start out just wanting her money for the foundation. But I genuinely have come to see her as a friend. That part isn’t fake.

He studies my face. “It just feels like maybe you’re trying to make a point.”

“A point?” I blurt. “About what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

I’m a little flabbergasted. “You think this has to do with me and you?”

He tips his head.

“Wow. Your hubris knows no bounds.” I start to walk away, but whirl back. “Believe it or not, Thomas, my relationship with your mother has absolutely nothing to do with you. I didn’t fish for her, she came to us. And to answer your question, I hope she considers me a friend. I should be so lucky.”

Pushing past him, I stomp into the hallway. But my anger fizzles, leaving me empty. We’re always doing this. Using his parents’ drama to wage a proxy war between the two of us.

Why can’t we just leave each other alone?

I have to brace my hand against the wall, swallowing back a sob. It’s not the time or the place for a breakdown.

I’m still on the clock.

35.

Bo

My mom sends another text.

Another message to ignore.

I close the truck door, boots crunching through frost-covered grass as I walk up to the house.

I’ll look at the texts, eventually. All I have to do is navigate to a little icon at the bottom of my screen. And yet, it feels like it would take all the energy in the world to do.

And I’m just… out.

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