“You did ask. It was the first thing you said when you answered. And technical y I cal ed you. And I was cal ing to see how the show went, which is what
we’ve been talking about.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with the stuffed panda on Matt’s floorboard. It’s carrying a satin heart that reads I Wuv u. A gift from Cherrie, no doubt. “But how is she?
Your mom?”
“Mum’s . . . all right.” His voice is suddenly tired. “I don’t know if she’s better or worse than I expected. In some ways, she’s both. I pictured the worst—
bruised and skeletal—and I’m relieved it’s not the case, but seeing her in person . . . she’s stil lost loads of weight. And she’s exhausted, and she’s in this lead-lined hospital room. With all of these plastic tubes.”
“Are you all owed to stay with her? Are you there now?”
“No, I’m at her flat. I’m only all owed a short visit because of the radiation exposure.”
“Is your dad there?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m afraid I’ve crossed a line. But final y he speaks. “He’s here. And I’m dealing with him. For Mum’s sake.”
“St. Clair?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” His voice is quiet as Matt’s car pul s into my neighborhood.
I sigh. “I need to go. We’re almost home. Matt and Cherrie are giving me a ride.”
“Matt? Your ex-boyfriend, Matt?”
“Sofia’s in the shop.”
A pause. “Mmph.”
We hang up as Matt parks in my driveway. Cherrie turns around and stares. “That was interesting. Who was that?”
Matt looks unhappy. “What?” I ask him.
“You’l talk to that guy, but you won’t talk to us anymore?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and climb out of his car. “He’s just a friend. Thanks for the ride.”
Matt gets out, too. Cherrie starts to fol ow, but he throws her a sharp look. “So what does that mean?” he cal s out. “We aren’t friends anymore?You’re
bailing on us?”
I trudge toward the house. “I’m tired, Matt. I’m going to bed.”
He fol ows anyway. I dig out my house key, but he grabs my wrist to stop me from opening the door. “Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just have this one thing to say before you go in there and cry yourself to sleep—”
“Matt, please—”
“Toph isn’t a nice guy. He’s never been a nice guy. I don’t know what you ever saw in him. He talks back to everyone, he’s completely unreliable, he
wears those stupid fake clothes—”
“Why are you tell ing me this?” I’m crying again. I pul my wrist from his grasp.
“I know you didn’t like me as much as I liked you. I know you would have rather been with him, and I dealt with that a long time ago. I’m over it.”
The shame is overwhelming. Even though I knew Matt was aware that I liked Toph, it’s awful to hear him say it aloud.
“But I’m stil your friend.” He’s exasperated. “And I’m sick of seeing you waste your energy on that jerk. You’ve spent all this time afraid to talk about what was going on between you two, but if you’d ever bothered to just ask him, you would have discovered that he wasn’t worth it. But you didn’t. You never asked him, did you?”
The weight of hurt is unbearable. “Please leave,” I whisper. “Please just leave.”
“Anna.” His voice levels, and he waits for me to look at him. “It was stil wrong of him and Bridge not to tell you. Okay? You deserve better than that. And I sincerely hope whomever you were just talking to”—Matt gestures toward the phone in my purse—“is better than that.”
Chapter twenty-eight
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: HAPPY CHRISTMAS
Have you gotten used to the time difference? Bloody hel , I can’t sleep. I’d cal , but I don’t know if you’re awake or doing the family thing or what.
The bay fog is so thick that I can’t see out my window. But if I could, I am quite certain I’d discover that I’m the only person alive in San Francisco.
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: I forgot to tell you.
Yesterday I saw a guy wearing an Atlanta Film Festival shirt at the hospital. I asked if he knew you, but he didn’t. I also met an enormous, hairy
man in a cheeky Mrs. Claus getup. He was handing out gifts to the cancer patients. Mum took the attached picture. Do I always look so startled?
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
Subject: Are you awake yet?
Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up.
To: Étienne St. Clair <[email protected]>
From: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]