“Not on a date?”

Sharp eyes meet mine. “You don’t get to ask me about that.”

“You think I want to? Because I don’t. I’m just saying that you implied you’d cool it with the random hookups.”

“Hey! My love life is none of your business,” she says, slashing her hand through the air. “I’m allowed to have one, you know. I’m not a nun, and when have you ever once seen me on a date? Never. Not once. Because I may fail at motherhood sometimes, but I don’t mix home and dating. I make sure it never touches you.”

“Oh yeah? You really wanna know why all this happened, huh?” I ask her, lashing out in frustration. “Do you? All this happened because Evie’s ex called you ‘the Whore of Babylon.’ And he said I post nudes on my subscription service online because apparently, I follow in your footsteps from when you used to model for Henry. And all day long at school, people are talking about me and you, and no matter how many times I tell them to keep their mouths shut, it doesn’t matter, because how can I stop air leaking out of a balloon if you keep poking holes in it!”

I’ve shocked her. I can see it all over her face. Hurt her too. And the satisfaction that comes with that win lasts for all of one millisecond, because the thing about being this close to someone is that when you hurt them, you hurt yourself. And now I regret saying it.

“Don’t you dare blame me for your mistakes!” she snaps, riled and aggrieved. “I’m not the one who got hauled off to jail with our delinquent neighbor for throwing a damn rock at a department store window!” Her face’s long and normally graceful planes are now sharp with anger, her freckles burnished by the streetlamps that circle the police station. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I damn well have never been taken into police custody. Your mistake. You own it, not me. What do I always say, Josie? If you’re going to break the rules, do it the right way. Now, look me in the eyes and tell me there was anything right about destroying someone’s property.”

I want to fight her. Fight anyone. I want things to make sense again. I want to take it all back, rewind time and start over. But none of that is going to happen, is it? “You’re right. I’m sorry for everything,” I finally tell her, defeated. “For being such a disappointment.”

After a long, strained moment, anger dissipates, and silence fills the space between us. Then she gently bumps my arm with her elbow and says in a softer voice, “Hey. I’m disappointed in your choice of company, not with you.”