Page 55 of Across His Line

My phone buzzes in my coat pocket.

I take it out. The screen lights up both our faces in the dark.

Grandma.

His eyes go to the screen and then to my face, and whatever my face is doing, he sees that, too. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say anything.

I decline it. I put the phone back in my pocket and keep walking.

“You should answer,” he says.

It goes through me like a match. “You don’t know what I should do.”

I say it sharp. Sharper than I mean to. Sharp enough that I brace for it to come back at me, the way everything I’ve ever said to him has come back, twice as hard.

He’s quiet for a moment.

“You’re right,” he says.

I almost trip.

Rafferty Waleska has never once in his life told me I was right. Not about anything. He’s told me I was wrong, and stupid, and a liar, and obsessed, and nothing at all. He’s never given me an inch. And then, before I can say anything, he lengthens his stride and walks away from me. Not fast. Just enough. He catches up to Koda, who’s off the phone and kicking a bottle cap down the sidewalk, and falls into step with him, and leaves me behind. Leaves me with that. And honestly, I don’t know what to think.

Kylie goes to Nash’s when we get back. She hugs me at our door and kisses my cheek and tells me I was the best part of the whole night and that she’s telling everybody about the hand-over-the-mouth thing forever, and then she’s gone down the hall, and I’m alone.

I put the chain on. I take off my coat and pull on the cream sweater. I don’t turn on the lamp. I sit on the edge of my bed in the dark with my phone in both hands.

Three missed calls. Two voicemails.

I press play on the first one.

“Tess, honey. It’s Grandma. Don’t you worry, okay? I handled it. Your cousin came back today. He’s here, he’s asleep on the couch, he’s—he says he’s sorry. He’s always sorry.” A breath. The radio on low in the background. ”And I know you paid the electricity bill. I know that was you, Tessa, and I’m very upset with you. Don’t you send another dime. You hear me? You need that money to come home. That’s all. I love you.”

I press play on the second one.

“Tessa. It’s me again. I know it’s late. I didn’t want to put this in the first one, and then I thought, she’d want to know.” A long pause. So long I check to see if it’s still playing. ”Your mom called today.”

I stop breathing.

“She sounded—I don’t know how she sounded, honey. She asked about you. She asked for your number. I didn’t give it to her. I didn’t know if you’d want me to.” Another pause. ”Call me tomorrow, okay? Just—call me.”

The voicemail ends. The screen goes back to the list.

I sit there in the dark with the phone in my lap.

I play the end of it again. And again. Just the last part. Just four words.

Your mom called today.

She called. After four months. And asked for my number, for what?

Three doors down, a door opens stiff and closes hard.

And for the first time in four years, I don’t flinch.

Suddenly, Rafferty Waleska is the easiest problem I have.

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