Because there was always more. The nights that we’d actually get to spend together, watching 90 Day Fiancé together because we were both obsessed, or going out to get dinner, shopping together, whispering mean things about strangers or gossiping about Michael and Dad.

The door behind me opens again, and I turn, expecting to see Michael there.

But Mom is standing there, surprise on her face when she realizes that it’s me.

“Oh, Neil.” She pauses. “I thought that Michael would be in here.”

“Nope, it’s me.”

There’s this beat of silence that seems to last forever but, in the reality that isn’t my mind, probably only lasts a second or two.

“Have you seen Michael? I need to ask him something.”

“He just left.”

“Okay.”

Mom moves like she’s going to leave.

“Mom?”

She stops, not really turning to look at me, the door squeaking as she opens it farther. “Yes?”

Another case where I don’t know what to say. You’d think that I’d have this down pat by now, between Lindsay, Josh, Michael, and now Mom; how many emotionally wrought conversations can a person be expected to have in a twenty-four-hour period?

“Can I talk with you?”

“Can it wait, Neil? There’s a lot going on.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” I tell her. “I promise.”

“Okay.” She closes the door behind her. You’d think based on her tone that there was nothing going on between the two of us. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I don’t want to mince words. “I’m sorry for the things that I said to you last night.”

Mom clears her throat, and she goes to sit down on the nearest seat, an armchair draped in what looks like a white sheet. She looks good today: a simple black dress, strings of pearls around her neck with matching earrings, fancy, but not fancy enough to drag the attention away from Ashley. Her dark brown hair is wavy, pulled over her shoulder.

“The things that you said to me last night, they really hurt my feelings, Neil.”

“I know.”

“The only people who have ever talked to me like that are your father and my parents.” She pauses. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“Michael told me the truth.”

“About what?”

“That it was his idea,” I say. “To send me to Steerfield.”

Mom has this soft smile that’s still so sad. “Why don’t you sit down?” She pulls the chair across from her closer, and I do as I’m asked. “I think it’s time we sat down and had a conversation.”

“Okay.”

She waits a beat, holding her hands together while the gears turn behind her eyes.