38

I guess you’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ huh?”

“Hardly seems necessary,” Abby replies matter-of-factly.

We’re walking home together. It’s a couple of miles, but it’s a mild evening and I’m on a high.

“It’s just that … he could be cool. And he made me feel like I wasn’t a geek. He can be a nice guy, you know.”

Abby just shakes her head. “Your dad can be a nice guy, Kevin. Doesn’t excuse what he’s done.”

“I guess not.” I smile at her, but she’s looking away. “Well, I’m glad everything’s back to normal now.”

“You’re kidding, right? You really think everything’s back to normal?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, Kev,” she whispers, “it’s not. What about the pop group?”

Oh yeah. I forgot about that.

“You left us and you never even had the guts to say so,” she continues. “You’re the best performer this school has known and you turned your back on music. But even worse, you turned your back on me. You’re my best friend and you treated me like crap.”

“I’m really sorry, Abby. At least I’ve apologized to everyone now—”

“But I’m not everyone.” She stops walking and stares at me like she’s trying to explain a really easy math problem. “In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t hook up with you to inflate my measurements, or to get back at some other guy. I did it because I love you, and I thought you liked me too.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She looks hurt. “You’re sorry that I love you?”

“No, I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. You know, for the things I did.”

“The things you did?”

“Yeah. For all of it.”

“All of it?” She shakes her head, stares at the ground. “That’s the best you can do?”

“What do you want me to say, Abby?”

“I want you to say you’re sorry—not about all of it, but about me, and what you did to me. And I want you to say it like you mean it. And I want…”

I give her a few seconds, but she’s silent and still. “What do you want?”

She peers up and sighs wearily. “Listen, Kev. I always dreamed high school would end with you walking next door to escort me to prom. I even thought it was a sure thing. But I waited and waited for you to ask me. And then, last week, I bought myself a ticket. Because whatever else you’ve done to me, I’m not going to let you spoil prom as well.”

I nod, but I’m not exactly sure what she wants me to say, so we walk the rest of the way in silence. When we reach her house, she heads up the front walk without saying good-bye.

“I’m sorry, Abby.” I say suddenly. “I’m really, really sorry. I mean it.”

She turns and smiles, but it’s a distant smile. “Then prove it, Kevin. Show me you’re still the same as ever, ’cause I’m done talking. Words are cheap, as they say.” She strides away and pulls her front door open roughly. She doesn’t look back.

I wait a few seconds, then take a deep breath and trudge one door down. I’m barely indoors when I almost trip over Mom—she’s on her knees tickling Matt the Mutt’s belly.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hey,” I mumble.

And there the conversation ends, just as it has every day this week. I’m about to slide on by when I remember Abby’s words: “But I’m not everyone.” Mom’s still petting the dog, but her movements seem deliberate and tense, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. We’re at a stalemate, and I know that since it’s my fault we’re in this situation, it’s also my responsibility to make things better.

“Morgan says they all wish they hadn’t asked you to leave,” I say, breaking the ice.

She doesn’t look up, but I can see she’s smiling. “That’s all right. Tell her it’s sweet of her to say so.”

More silence.

I take a deep breath. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry. I screwed up, I know I did … and I know I hurt you.” Mom nods but doesn’t say anything. “And you were right, talking to Dad did help. Just maybe not the way you thought it would.”

“I suspect it helped exactly the way I thought it would. Don’t forget, I know your father better than you do, Kevin.” Mom’s crying now, but she’s still smiling too, so I don’t think she’s angry or sad. “And although I couldn’t bear to think of you following in his footsteps—not after everything that’s happened—I had to give you the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … given his recent e-mails, I had a good idea what he’d say to you.” She puffs out her cheeks. “And either you’d like what you heard and stay with him, or you wouldn’t. And then you came back.”

“But he wasn’t always like this, right? This isn’t who he really is.”

Mom wipes the tears away with the back of her hand and studies the floor. “Actually, honey, it is.”

“What?”

“His affair with Kimberly wasn’t the first, and it probably won’t be the last. I knew what he was like before we got married, but … oh, I flattered myself that he’d change for me. Like I was that special, you know?” She laughs ruefully, then shakes her head. “Well, I was wrong. Over time he got bored of me. I guess he wanted something else, something more … who really knows? Maybe being with Kimberly made him feel special somehow, but I doubt he loved her. I don’t think he’ll ever understand that when you find the right person, you don’t need other people to reassure you that you’re special. Because it’s enough to hear it from the person who means it the most.”

Mom makes eye contact for the first time. I settle down on the floor beside her because I need to keep talking.

“I totally blew it with Abby. She was there for me all along, and I just—”

“You let her down, honey, but you didn’t blow it.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it’s not. I still love your father even though he doesn’t love me. Despite everything he’s done, I love him. And believe me, there are times I hate myself for it too. But you know what they say: even when the flames disappear, the embers keep burning.”

I think of the family portraits at the top of the stairs—how many days, months, years will pass before she can finally bring herself to take Dad’s down? And how many days, months, years before Dad decides to put up a photo of any of us in his apartment? Mom can’t let our family go; Dad won’t acknowledge we ever existed. They’re on opposite sides of an impossible divide. Surely that’s not true of Abby and me?

“I don’t know,” I say, thinking out loud. “Some of the things she said—”

“She’s angry and hurt, and no wonder. So now you need to be patient. Give her time to realize you’re still the same person she’d grown to love. It’s the least you can do.” And Mom’s right about that.

I lean over and stroke the dog gently, and for the first time in weeks he doesn’t growl at me. In fact, he nuzzles my hand before falling asleep against my leg.

“It’s nice to talk again,” I say.

“Yes, it is.”

Mom kisses my cheek like I’m five years old, which I take as a sign of forgiveness and as a cue to escape. I’m almost at the stairs when she coughs delicately, stopping me in my tracks.

“Kevin, honey, I hate to ask, but … there’s one thing that still bothers me.”

I gulp. “Um, what is it?”

She bites a fingernail and narrows her eyes.

“Why are you wearing a tampon up your nose?”