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I have to agree.
His eyes go dark and distant again, so I nudge into him to bring him back to me. “Really, though. Were you hoping this would convince me to feel sorry for them? Paint a different picture?”
“Well, considering I don’t know what the article says…”
“But you know it’s not good.” A rhetorical statement. I saw it all over his face this morning.
He takes a longer pull of beer this time. Clenches his jaw as it slides down his throat. “I know it’s not good.”
I give the thought a moment to settle. “You want to talk about it?” My journalistic heart kicks in anticipation.
He leans forward but doesn’t take his eyes off the lake. “On or off the record?”
“Up to you.” Though, of course, he knows which one I prefer.
“Off, I guess.”
Ugh. “Okay. Off.”
“Off the record, I don’t remember much of what happened that night. I was drunk.” He laughs at some secret thought, then polishes off the beer and tosses it into the woods behind us. It clinks against something. A critter scurries. “Way too drunk for a teenager.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just a few things I’ve pieced together. But I…”
He pauses. Drops his head and rubs the tension from his neck. He sighs. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Off the record,” I assure him. Even if I can’t put it in the article, something might at least help verify Meaghan’s claims. Him saying he was drunk that night doesn’t really confirm anything.
“I shouldn’t,” he repeats.
I give him a second to change his mind. When he doesn’t, I say, “I get it.” I still have time for him to open up. Pushing never has the desired effect where confessions are concerned.
“Our lawyer’s head is already going to spin because I brought you here.”
He’s not wrong.
“Mom will disown me.”
“Would that be so bad?”
Shit. I said that out loud.
“Sorry,” I say with a wince. She might be unpalatable, but she’s still his mother.
He just stares ahead, watching a duck as it paddles around.
“I can tell you what’s in the article if you want me to.” I regret it the moment I say it, my stomach lurching at the thought. I’ll get about two sentences out before yakking into the lake. But, if he wants to know, since he was apparently too drunk to remember most of that night, I’ll put on my big girl panties again and tell him.
His eyes remain on the duck, arms crossing against his chest as he thinks. “Maybe later,” he says, detached.
I don’t question him. He’s not quite ready yet; he’s still digesting it all…which also means I don’t have to puke…for now.
I change the subject. “Brunch tomorrow might be interesting.”
That tears his attention away from the duck. “You don’t really have to go if you don’t want to.”
He thinks I’m being polite. And I am…a little. But it also buys more time with them and as a bonus, it’s for charity. I’ll pay my way. “I know. But I’d like to.”
