Page 82 of Meant to Be

“Joe. Just tell me.”

I slowly inhaled, filling my lungs to capacity, before blowing out. “She allegedly said that you had a poster of me in your room when you were a kid…and that she collected stuff about my family….”

“Shit.Unreal,” she said, under her breath, as if talking to herself. She turned to look out her window so that I could no longer see her face.

“I know,” I said. “Itisunreal. That’s what I told Berry…that I don’t believe any of it.”

“Actually,” Cate said in a small voice, still staring out her window. “Itistrue. Ididhave a poster of you in my room. A long time ago.”

My heart sank—not because I saw this as a red flag, but because I knew so many other people would. Hell, my own best friend and my mother did.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you.”

“It’s okay,” I said, though I did wish that Cate had told me about it first. I hated learning anything about her secondhand like this. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I feel like it does,” she said.

“No, it doesn’t. Itreallydoesn’t. You were just a kid…. And anyway, I’m flattered. You had good taste.”

“Stop it, Joe. You’re notflattered. It probably seems so creepy—”

“No, it doesn’t. I swear—”

I kept glancing at her, but she wouldn’t look my way, so I suddenly veered off the main road, turning down a side street. I pulled over to the curb in front of a random house and parked the car.

“Please, Cate,” I said, shifting in my seat to stare at her. “Please look at me.”

It took a few more seconds, but she finally met my gaze. Her cheeks were bright red, and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“Oh, honey,” I said. “Don’t be upset.”

“I can’t help it, Joe.”

“Okay. But can you just…talk to me?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me how you’re feeling….”

“How do youthinkI’m feeling?” she said, her voice breaking up. “How wouldyoufeel if your mother talked to theNational Enquirerabout you?”

“Awful,” I said. “I’d feel awful.”

“Yes. That’s the word for it.”

“But I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm. I’m sure she thought she was just sharing a cute story,” I said. “And itiscute.”

“Stop it,” she said, closing her eyes and pressing both hands to her temples. “It’s not cute. It’smortifying. And it gives the totally wrong impression.”

“Not to me.”

“It does to Berry. And your mother.”

“Who cares?”

“Icare. And so do you. I know you do.”

“I care about you way more.”

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