Page 160 of Built to Fall
“We should get tomato soup,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and slowing near the canned goods.
“You’re going to make soupandgrilled cheese? How lucky am I?” She fans her face dramatically, all enticing.
I shrug, reaching for the can. “I guess I’m on a slippery slope toward being a 1950s housewife.”
She snorts. “We’ll get you a frilly apron and a pearl necklace.”
“Just as long as I get a martini too.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, grinning. “I’ll make sure it’s ready for you when you’re done putting in the work over the stove.”
I let the words wash over me. Let myself bask in the absurdity and comfort of her teasing, the cart rattling beneath my hand, the fluorescent lights, and the distant hum of music overhead.
When we get to the back of the store, I automatically head toward the ice cream, grabbing a gallon of peanut butter half-baked before continuing on my way.
“Did you just—” Lina cuts herself off, seeming stunned. “How did you know that?”
“Braxton buys you guys this ice cream all the time. Of course I know what kind is the household favorite.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying, then lets out a quiet laugh, the kind she tries to hide behind the back of her hand. “Okay, I’m officially impressed.”
“Don’t be. The idea of something as simple as remembering an ice cream flavor makes me feel weirdly guilty—like I’m being rewarded for showing up when that should’ve been the standard all along. “I’m just observant.”
There’s still an ounce of her that seems skeptical. “What kind of man are you? This feels sorare.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic.” I joke, putting a hand on the back of her head, threading my fingers through her hair, and pulling her alongside me through the rest of the aisle.
She’s looking down at her phone, and once we make it to the self-checkout where I start scanning items, her face downturns, her eyes still glued to the screen.
“What is it?” I ask, bagging the bread and cheese.
“Savannah just sent me the newNotes of New Havenpost,” Lina says quietly.
The beep of the scanner fills the quiet between us, but I can still practically hear the gears turning in her head.
“Who’s it about?”
“Kara.”
I glance up at her, trying to gauge her reaction. “What’s it say?”
“Kara Carr caught doing blow weeks after breakup with Jack Voss.”
I stiffen, feeling my jaw tighten. “Is that true?”
“The pictures look pretty convincing.”
“Lina…” I sigh, running my hands roughly through my hair. “I’m not trying to be that person, but if there areanydrugs in your apartment, I can’t go in there. I can’t do it.”
I don’t look at her as I say it. I can’t. Because the second I do, I’ll see the way she flinches, and I’ll want to take it back.
But I can’t.
Because every memory of my mom comes rushing back to me like a fucked-up movie playing in my mind. Finding her passed out in the kitchen, the look in her eye, the ambulance lights painting our front lawn in blue and red hues. I can’t go back to that; I can’t even be adjacent to it.
I swallow hard, trying to rid the feeling, but it only feels like it’s closing tighter, like I’m choking on the past I can’t outrun.
She doesn’t tell me it’s fine, she doesn’t promise Kara’s clean, she doesn’t give me the kind of answer that would make this easier.
