“Christian said I could take a friend to the concert. I asked Ryan Lee, and he said he wants to go. And we can’t go without an adult. Shit.”

I rap the table with my knuckles. “Hey. Language. We can have a disagreement without you cursing.”

“Sorry.” He has the grace to look sheepish. His brow furrows, but he meets my gaze straight on. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I have to go to the show. If I back out, Ryan will think I’m a giant dick.”

He must be able to tell that I’m still not happy about this, because he adds, “Christian actually talks to me. Dad never …”

He trails off. I serve myself a sloppy slice of falling-apart lasagna. I don’t have much appetite for it now.

“What do you two talk about?” I don’t contradict Eli about Ken. There’d be no point. What Eli said about him was true.

Still, I am wary of this relationship between my son and Christian Campbell, growing like a tumor. Malignant. I know too well how charming Christian can be. How he can make you feel like you’re special. How quickly he can make you feel worthless, too.

“Everything,” Eli says. “We talk about everything.”

I wonder if this is true. It can’t be. We might not speak of them, but surely there are still things my son could only talk about with me.

“He says you and him were tight in high school,” Eli says now.

Nothing in his voice indicates that Christian told him exactly, in what way, we’d been close. I’m sure Christian never mentioned the times he cut me cold in front of other people only to show up at my door later, expecting me to let him in. I always let him in. I’m sure Christian cannot have told my son about the things we did in the carriage house where he now lives.

“Yes,” I say. “We used to be close.”

Eli looks at me. He chews slowly. Swallows. “So why don’t you like him now?”

“He’s arrogant, Eli. And he exaggerates about himself.”

“You’re saying he’s a liar?”

“I’m saying,” I reply gently, “that Christian Campbell is the sort of guy who tells a good story, but it might not be a true story. He makes promises he doesn’t keep. So if it turns out that he doesn’t get those tickets, or for some reason he cancels on you—”

“He’s not going to do that,” Eli protests.

“I don’t want you to be disappointed, that’s all.” I cover up the tremble of my lips with my napkin.

“But you’re going to let me go, right?” His earlier defiance is not quite gone, but it’s subdued.

“I’ll talk with him about it. Okay? I’m not giving you an answer until I get the details.”

“Promise me you’ll talk to him.”

I sigh. “I promise. Okay?”

He’s mollified. We finish the meal in relative silence. I give up on asking him questions about school when I get only one-word answers. Eli excuses himself, getting up from the table to take his plate to the kitchen.