“Oh, you have a boyfriend?”

“Ex,” she amends after a second’s pause. “For now. We have an on-again, off-again sort of thing going on. I blame the fact he’s married.”

“Oh, I …”

“You can judge me. I know I’m being terrible.”

“I’m not going to judge you, Lisa. Like you said, everyone does stupid stuff sometimes.”

I think she might say more, but I guess it’s too soon in this renewing friendship for confessionals. She changes the subject smoothly, clearly a pro. Her smile is sad, her tone is chipper. “We didn’t have a chance to get caught up at the reunion. You have a son. How old?”

“Eli’s sixteen.”

“My Braydon’s twenty, can you believe it? My daughter Brianna is eighteen. They both go to Bowling Green. I’m an empty nester. I just hope neither of them follows in my footsteps and makes me a grandma until I’m good and ready. You have just the one?”

“Yes.”

“He and Beth’s oldest are in the same class, aren’t they?”

Warily, I nod. “I think so. Yes.”

“And he was friends with …?” She sits back.

She remembers. I see half-forgotten knowledge fill up her expression like water rising around the rocks in a vase, slowly but inevitably. Now I remember why it’s been so long since I went out for coffee with a girlfriend, went out with any friends at all. I let everyone fall away because they all had the same curious look every time I saw them. Next will come the questions, and Lisa is not subtle enough even to pretend she’s not morbidly interested in what happened.

Suddenly, I am desperate for her to ask me about it. I want to talk about it. I want to tell her how it felt when the police showed up, asking questions about the little boy I barely knew. How it has affected my son and me, how his nightmares are worse than mine, but at least he can scream his out loud. How the guilt over not protecting my son from the proximity of tragedy tattered my marriage and shredded my life. I don’t even care if she’ll gobble up all of that as greasy gossip, I want to unburden myself of it. Get it out, like squeezing a blister until it pops.

I say nothing.

Lisa says nothing.

If she asks me, I think wildly, I will tell her everything, all of it, even the parts I have never shared with anyone. I’ll tell her every shameful secret about the drugs and the debt and everything else, and I won’t have to carry it all alone anymore. The idea of this swells up, up, up, and up, and my lips part, ready to spill out the truth.

She doesn’t ask.

Lisa says, “I think I’ll grab a mocha latté. You want something? My treat.”

Lisa says, “You sit, I’ll get it.”

Lisa says, “The chocolate croissants here are to die for. Let’s get some.”

And I say, “Yum, that sounds great. But you don’t have to treat me.”