I put the glass on the counter, then both my hands. I lean against it, head down, drawing in breath after breath to hold my hysterical, sobbing laughter at bay.

The sound of footsteps behind me straightens me up. I turn to see Eli and another boy about the same age standing in the hallway outside the kitchen. Eli looks aghast. The other boy smirks.

“That’s your mom?” He makes a gesture I can’t interpret, but Eli can.

My son scowls. “Yeah.”

It’s the first time he’s brought home a friend. I can’t do anything to hide the rising heat in my cheeks, but I clear my throat. I put on a smile.

“Are you boys hungry? I can make some snacks.”

The other kid looks at Eli, then back at me with another smug grin. “No thanks. I have to get home.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble—”

“No, Mom,” Eli interrupts. “Jesus.”

Minutes later, I can’t be sure how many, he returns to the kitchen alone. I haven’t managed to move away from the sink. I’m running cool water over my wrists and trying to get my shit together.

“You’re drunk,” he accuses.

I turn off the water and dry my hands with a dish towel without looking at him. “I’m not drunk, Eli.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, and you’re shit-faced. Where were you?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I say. “But I was in the carriage house talking with Christian about the renovations over there.”

He glowers. “Great. That’s just fucking great.”

“Hey. Language.”

Eli ignores me and leaves the kitchen. His footsteps thud, heavy, on the stairs. His door slams. I give myself another minute or two to compose myself.

He doesn’t answer when I knock on his door. I try again, harder this time. “Eli. Open up.”

The door opens a crack. He looks out. “What do you want?”

“Can I come in and talk to you?”

Reluctantly, he pulls open the door. His room is a mess. I sit on the edge of his unmade bed. He sits in his desk chair, pushing it back and forth, not looking at me.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friend.”

He snorts. “Scotty’s not my friend. He just came over to get something from me.”

“Something like what?” A headache has begun throbbing behind my eyes.

“Just something for school.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m sorry that I embarrassed you. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, Mom. I don’t want to talk about anything with you. Stop asking. Okay? I’m fine.” He spins around to face his closed laptop on the desk.

I press my fingertips between my eyes, trying to pinch away the growing pain. “Clearly, you’re not fine.”

“Oh, and that matters now?”

His words push me to sit up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re just worried I’m going to tell Dad about you and Christian. Well, don’t be. I’m not going to tell him anything.” He fiddles with the laptop but doesn’t open it.