“No.” I swallowed painfully. “It’s, uh . . . your mother.”
SIX
Erika
Jenna Hanson never went without a manicure. Her nails were perfectly shaped and painted every other week, and she usually opted for neutrals, so it would go with anything. But tonight, her fingernails were a Tiffany blue, and they were hard to miss as she tapped them absentmindedly against her glass.
She’d fixed herself a Moscow mule with dinner and offered to make me one, but I’d poured myself a glass of sweet tea from her fridge instead. It was Thursday evening, and Lauren’s set wasn’t until ten, so after dinner I’d need to drive downtown. I’d ordered takeout for Jenna and I and brought it over to her place, hoping to use our ‘girls’ night’ as an opportunity to come clean about what had happened with her son.
Troy and I hadn’t talked about it. I’d ducked out of the sweltering pool house to take Jenna’s call, which was awkward and ran longer than I wanted it to, and by the time I was finished—he’d vanished. The pool supplies had been put away, and the back gate closed.
It’d been two days since that afternoon, and it was clear he hadn’t told her. If he had, I would have received an angry phone call or visit from my friend by now. Jenna’s blood ran hot, and she had a quick temper, but it also meant she was quick to forgive, and I hoped it’d be true this evening.
It wasn’t surprising he hadn’t told her. After Troy finished college, he’d been unable to find a steady job and temporarily moved back in with his parents. Tensions had reached a breaking point in February.
They’d had a huge fight, their first ever, she’d told me. He was a good kid—smart, caring, and respectful. But he was still a kid to her, and he’d struggled with his independence while living under his mother and stepfather’s roof.
Mostly, Jenna had confessed, it was because she was micromanaging him. Her husband, Bill, owned a construction company, and she’d been pressuring Troy to take a position there, which he did not want.
“Nobody likes their first job,” she’d said to me, when she’d relayed the story.
He’d rebelled against the offer for months, worried that once he got into a job, he wouldn’t be able to escape it.
But Jenna was nothing if not persuasive. The woman could sell you a recipe for ice, and you’d walk away feeling like you got a bargain. We’d met when Clark and I bought our house and hired Bill’s company to remodel the kitchen. Jenna was an interior designer and had helped me come up with a better footprint for the space; plus, she talked me into all the upgrades and high-end finishes that had made the kitchen my favorite room of the house.
We’d become fast, loyal friends.
Maybe loyal wasn’t the right word to use anymore.
I stared at my glass of sweet tea as she talked about a mix-up with an upholstery order that resulted in a client’s chair being recovered in a flamingo pattern.
“It was wild, I tell you,” she said. “I was speechless, and then the woman turns to me and says she likes how quirky it is.” Jenna tossed her sandy blonde hair over a shoulder. “It’s a statement piece,” she muttered, “just not sure I liked what it was saying.”
“But the customer was happy?”
“Oh, yeah. She fucking loved it.” She rested her elbows on the table as she prepared to switch topics, peering at me with a hard look, and my stomach filled with dread. I’d seen this expression from her before. It meant all-business. “So, you’re officially back on the market.”
I picked up my drink and took a sip, using it as an excuse not to answer.
My friend wasn’t deterred. “Before you leave tonight, we’re putting you on Match.com.”
Tea slid down my windpipe as I swallowed wrong, and I sputtered, “We are not.”
I loved my friend. She’d been my rock throughout the divorce, but she had a bad habit of thinking she knew what was best for everyone, sometimes without even asking if it was what they wanted. Uh, oh. What if she’d started building my profile already?
Movement behind her stole my focus. Then, all the air went out of the room.
Every time I’d come over since Troy had moved back in with his parents, I’d never seen him at home. Their guest house was a full apartment and that was where he stayed.
Until now.
He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, as if an invisible force field prevented him from moving farther, a bowl full of cereal, complete with a spoon, in his hand. Our gazes locked, and he blinked rapidly, as if he couldn’t process what he was seeing. Had I done the same thing? Because it was exactly how I felt.