“I never told you what happened with him,” Mary continued.

Josie could hear her heart beating, and she crossed her arms to try and quiet it.

“He stood me up.”

Oh, God, she thought. If only he had called, but they had completely forgotten, and then it was noon and when he did call, Mary had already left for the restaurant. Now Josie wondered if she had forgotten on purpose, a small dig at Mary’s mantle of influence.

“And then today he wanted to chitchat as if nothing had happened.”

Josie’s head jerked up. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. Some stupid pleasantries. I told him I’d prefer if he left me alone, and he said he was sorry for what had happened, sorry if he had offended me.” She laughed. “I told him I doubted it was possible for him to offend me, but just in case, I would make sure not to give him an opportunity.” Mary paused, and Josie realized her mouth was hanging open. “What?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean ‘nothing’? You look like someone just died.”

“Nothing … I … nothing … nothing.” She ran her hands through her hair and realized how dumb she sounded. She had never been able to lie to her mother either, had always confessed in one heaping, bawling mess, and now she could feel the tears threatening. “Nothing … I ….” She swallowed and looked at the ground. She could feel herself shrink, and as much as she dreaded what was about to come, she couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of relief. You asked for this, she told herself.

“What?” Mary asked, then again more insistently, “What?”

Josie could feel the pressure in her throat, nonexistent words scrambling in her mouth. Her nose stung, and she pressed her knuckles firmly against her eyes and then held them over her mouth.

Mary stared at her, and then Josie saw the grimace—a quick contraction spread painfully across her face “Oh my God,” Mary said. “He’s the guy.”

Josie shut her eyes to keep the tears back. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Oh my God,” Mary repeated. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you would do this.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Jesus, Josie, can you at least come up with something more original?”

She knew Mary could be cruel, had heard the stabbing sarcasm in Mary’s conversations with her mother and sister, even felt it herself—when Josie couldn’t convince Tyler to put on his shoes (“It’s not brain surgery,” Mary would say) or get Maddy’s car seat buckled (“You’ve gone through sixteen years of schooling, figure it out”)—but this was only when Mary was cranky and tired, and later she always apologized. But now, Josie knew, this stab was just the beginning.

“I’m sorry.” Josie tried again.