“We’re lovely. Kurt and I just returned from a long weekend in Laguna,” she starts off. “I know Orange County can be a little seedy these days thanks to that trashy reality show on Bravo, but I still think the beaches there are the best on the coast.”

Does she not realize she could easily star on that trashy reality show on Bravo? I digress.

“Now Kurt’s jetted off again,” she continues. “Attending some big dental conference in Tokyo. He’s gone for ten days. I was going to go with him, but I’m expecting a shipment of blue roses any day now. Have you heard of those? They are the rarest of all roses; the scent is spectacular. I’ve been on the wait list for three years now. I can’t believe it’s finally my turn.”

Something about the tone of her voice tells me I’ve interrupted her whilst reading Vanity Fair and enjoying a mimosa by her pool. I need to get on with this call because hearing about luxury roses is not what I have in mind right now. Soon she will realize that there is another shipment to discuss.

“Wow, a blue rose? Very cool. You’ll have to Instagram those.” I pull the phone away from my ear and mouth a what? to my own self. Did I really just say that?

“Look, I know you said Kurt is out of town, but are you home by chance? Can I pop by real quick? I wanted to chat with you about something and it’s probably best we speak in person.” Before she can needle me, I clarify: “It’s about Decker.”

My words feel like they are coming out in chunks, like a clogged-up pasta maker spewing out ill-shaped rigatoni noodles.

“If this is about his alumni fraternity event coming up, we will not be attending this year. But we will pledge a generous donation in Decker’s name. Might you consider doing the same?”

“No, that’s not actually it,” I say, wishing our affairs were about something as simple as a frat event. “So, is it okay if I come by over my lunch and we talk?”

She takes her sweet time answering, and all I can think is if this woman comes back with a response that in turn strong-arms me into telling her over the phone that her son’s ashes have been returned, I will officially be scheduling an MRI because I apparently have no backbone.

She lets out a breathy “I suppose that’s fine. However, I do have guests coming over at 2:30, so we’ll need to keep our engagement rather limited.”

“That works for me,” I say, noting that keeping the conversation short and sweet is about the first thing we have agreed on in five years. “I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I have actually not been inside the Austins’ mansion since before Decker passed away. Even when I would try to bring over flowers or a Tupperware of fudge brownies in the weeks and months that followed, I only got as far as the front door. Debbie and Kurt had never done a particularly good job of making me feel like “their house was my house” during our shared time of grief. Even the memorial service was held at the Beverly Hilton instead of their home, which makes me believe they didn’t want the girl who was easiest to blame their son’s death on standing under their roof for the foreseeable future.