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I wish I’d had a chance to enjoy my psych class, but my mind was racing the whole time, trying to piece together what’s going on with Miles. My most ridiculous theory, which maybe isn’t more ridiculous than anything that’s happened to us so far, was that skipping my Washingtonian interview made some kind of impact, but Miles doesn’t have any connection to the paper. I could talk to Dr. Devereux, see if she has any theories. And yet everything we experienced together feels so personal that I can’t imagine asking for more help right now.
I need to feel like I’m still in control.
“Barrett. My darling of darlings. Treasure of treasures,” my mom says yet again. Only today she’s on the opposite end of the shop, standing on a chair and messing with a light fixture. She’s still in her unofficial work uniform, jeans and a graphic tee—this one featuring Luke’s Diner’s yellow coffee-cup logo—and something about that is deeply comforting. “You had a break from school?”
“The joy of only fifteen credits,” I say, and then let out a steadying breath. “I… have to talk to you about something. Do you have a moment?”
She nudges the light back into place and steps down from the chair. “Of course. I can take a long lunch.”
“Maybe we could walk?” I suggest, because I have a feeling I’ll need more space for this than what’s inside these four walls. My mom agrees without hesitation, flipping the shop sign from OPEN to BE BACK SOON.
Downtown Mercer Island is a mix of condos and chains and cute shops like my mom’s, large enough to have everything you need and small enough to keep from feeling overwhelming. We find a bench in a parklet the city created over the summer, in between a bookstore and a yarn shop. With kids in school, Thursday morning here is quiet.
“Is everything okay with your classes?” my mom asks, worry creasing her brow, and I assure her that my classes are fine. Great, even.
“It’s about high school, actually.” I fidget with the hem of my dress, summon the bravery I now know I have. I’ve talked about this with Miles. With Lucie. I can tell my mother. “You remember that article I did—the one about the tennis team scandal? The way the school reacted to it… wasn’t the best.”
“People were upset with you,” she says, which was the extent of what she knew about it. “Because the team was disqualified, right?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t just that. And it wasn’t just for a short period of time, either. It went on for a while. Other kids, teachers—they weren’t always kind.” I have to let go of my dress hem, because the fiddling reminds me of Miles, and I can only focus on one heartbreak at a time. So I tangle my hands in my lap instead. “High school was not good for me. And I’m still coming to terms with it.”
My mom looks uncomfortable as she digests all of this, and I can’t blame her. The daughter she sometimes treats more like a friend has been keeping a massive secret. “Barrett,” she says softly, placing a hand on my knee. “I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Because I tried really hard to keep it that way,” I say to my hands, my voice breaking. I was so convinced that telling her would change the balance of our relationship, but now I see that it might have done something else, too.
It might have helped me feel less alone.
“We could have talked to your teachers, or to the principal….”
I know a lot of young ladies who’d love to be in your position.
“Maybe.” I don’t want to unwrap that particular package of awful. “But I didn’t want to tell anyone. Because aside from you and Jocelyn… there hasn’t been anyone to tell.”
“Is this why Lucie stopped coming over?”
I nod. She and Jocelyn knew she was a dictator editor, but not the reason why. “But—and this is wild—Lucie is actually my roommate? And it might be a good thing?”
“That is certainly a plot twist,” she says, allowing herself a small laugh, and for a moment, I join in.
Then a hard swallow as I prepare for the worst of it. “There’s more,” I say, and she stiffens. “I told you I slept with someone after prom.” I have to force the words out, but it’s not because I don’t want to tell her. Maybe one day, they won’t feel like sawdust in my throat. Maybe one day, I won’t think about high school at all. “The guy I went with turned out to be the brother of someone on that tennis team. And he sort of turned it into a joke?” My voice goes up at the end, turns high-pitched. “I’m okay now, but the last few weeks of senior year were absolute hell. Or at least—I think I’m mostly okay. Maybe… maybe I’m not.”
I don’t go into all the details. Each sentence feels more impossible than the previous one, and I’m not sure I can give her much more than this. Not now. Not today.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Her fist tightens in her lap. “You kept this from me so I wouldn’t go to jail for castrating a toxic little shit, right? Because if I ever see him, Barrett, I swear to god, I won’t fucking hesitate.”
“As much as I’d pay to witness that…”
“Sorry. I’m just… trying to process all of it. I don’t want to make this about me, but I have to know. Was there anything I did that made you feel like you couldn’t tell me? Because we’ve always—we’ve always talked about everything, haven’t we?” Now her voice is cracking, her dark eyes watering.
“Mom, no,” I say emphatically. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just needed you to know. Because it’s been terrible, keeping this from you.”
I examine her, my beautiful mother who has always seemed fearless. I know I didn’t need to tell her any of this, that plenty of people hide things from their parents forever. But it hasn’t felt right for her not to know this huge piece of my history.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, pulling me close, gentle hands stroking my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
It’s strange—I thought telling the person I love most in the world would somehow free me of this burden, and yet that doesn’t happen. I don’t feel the magical weight of it being lifted. I’m glad I’ve told her, but I still hate that it happened. I still hate thinking of that night, and that Monday at school, and all the weeks that followed. I hate that UW is a campus of forty thousand people and he is one of them. Because eventually I’m going to run into him. If I accept that, maybe it’ll make me less afraid. And maybe he’ll pretend not to see me or maybe he’ll give me an awkward wave, but I won’t react. That pathetic asshole—because that is what he is—isn’t worth the effort. Even when my timeline wasn’t moving, he wasn’t worth it.
The loop changed me—that’s what I told Miles, and it’s true. Maybe Dr. Devereux was right: the universe intervened to give me time to become who I needed to be. The kind of person with the courage to have this conversation.
