“Let her be mad at me. I’ll take responsibility.”
“No.” I unlock the door and toss my purse in. “It’ll be a million times worse if you’re there.”
“I’m good with mothers. Really.” His smirk is full of self-satisfaction, which is one of the things she’ll hate most about him.
I give him a quick kiss that catches the corner of his mouth. “I have to go. Now.” I hop in the truck.
“Fine. Call me later?”
If I still have possession of my phone. “Yes. Bye.”
I’ve heard of the walk of shame—this definitely feels like the drive of shame. I keep hoping the porch light will be off when I get home. That Mom won’t have noticed how late it is. But when I round the corner of my street, the light is on.
Of course she noticed.
This is not still afternoon, which is when I promised I’d be home. Not dusk when I told Garrett I had to go. Not pre-moon, which is a new category Garrett made up as an excuse for me not to leave. An excuse I jumped on.
It was such a perfect day, I didn’t want it to end. After Vision Quest, we watched a baseball movie after all, Sandlot, reciting most of the lines with the characters. We even did some work, brainstorming questions for the baseball feature. Somewhere along the way, we ended up sharing our most embarrassing moments. (Garrett farted before delivering a speech in fourth grade English. I accepted a perfect attendance award in third grade with the back of my skirt stuck in my underwear.) We shared mosts and leasts and bests and funniests. Mrs. Reeves made us meatball subs and salad for dinner.
Garrett blew off poker.
I blew off my mom.
He’s going to get ribbed a little, and me? I don’t know. I’ve never been late. Never ignored a phone call or a text. I did reply to the second text—but only to say I was fine and would be home soon. That was over an hour ago.
Rather than come in through the garage like I usually do, I fit my key into the front door. Maybe I can sneak by her. Pretend I’ve been home for a while. I turn the knob so slowly it doesn’t make a sound. Even I don’t hear the door as I push it open. The TV is on in the family room—perfect. I close the door with a tiny click and…silence.
I peek around my shoulder and…oh crap.
Mom is standing in the hall, her feet bare and her arms crossed. There are splashes of red on her cheeks, and it’s not blush. “Where have you been?”
“At Garrett’s.” I swallow. “I texted you.”
“You texted that you were coming home.” Her chin trembles, and I realize it’s not anger laced through every tense muscle. It’s fear. “And then you didn’t. I was worried, Josie. This is not like you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I feel queasy at the hurt on her face. “I kept meaning to leave and then…I lost track of time.”
“Lost track of time?” Her throat works over a swallow. “Were you having sex with that boy?”
My mouth drops open. “Mom!”
She strides toward me where I’m frozen by the front door. She reaches for my upper arm and smells me. Smells me?
“Mom!” I pull free. “That’s disgusting.”
“You smell like him.”
“I smell like his cat. Her hair was all over the couch.”
“Which means you were all over his couch.”
“Not doing that!”
I’m shocked when a tear runs down her cheek. “I’m so afraid you’re going to make the same mistakes I did.” She covers her mouth with one hand while more tears join the first. The sight triggers a pang of guilt. I’ve seen her cry before, but it’s never been because of me.
“Mom, don’t. It wasn’t like that.”
“You said you’d be home this afternoon. My mind has been racing.”
“Can we at least talk in the kitchen? It feels weird here by the door.”
She looks around and seems to realize we’re both in the small entryway. “I need a cup of tea.”
I follow her to the kitchen, where she grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and then pulls open the drawer of tea leaves. “You want one?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
She busies herself with the tea, but it’s only a few seconds before she says, “Are you going to tell me what you were doing all this time?”
“We were watching movies. That’s it. And then we got hungry and his mom made us dinner. She was there nearly the whole time.”
“She made you dinner?”
An awful feeling makes me turn to the sink, and I see the pots on the draining board.
“I made you stroganoff,” she says.
It’s one of my favorites, but Mom rarely makes it because the prep takes forever. “I didn’t know. You should have told me.”
She forgets the tea and faces me. “I tried to when I called. You didn’t pick up.”
“I’m sorry. I should have. We weren’t doing anything,” I finish lamely.
Her eyes search my face, and I try not to look away. “You’ve never lied to me before.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You didn’t come home when you said you would. You didn’t pick up when I called. Things like this never happened until you met that boy.”
“His name is Garrett,” I say, though she already knows that. “You know we’re doing this contest. You’ve listened. You’ve heard how good we are.”
“Is this still about proving something to your father?”
I swallow, my throat chalky and dry. This is the moment to tell her what Garrett and I were talking about tonight. That we’re going to take it seriously. But how can I do that now? She’s already upset, and she’d go off the rails if I told her I was even considering a future that included baseball and a baseball player. Plus, we only just agreed to try. There’s a good chance it won’t come to anything. I hesitate and then settle for partial honesty. “It’s turned out to
