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I exhaled, smiling hard. “Yes, I will most definitely be your girlfriend. Officially.” I bounced out of my seat, taking his handsome face in both my hands, and kissed him hard on the lips.
“I like the sound of that,” he said, his lips curling into a smile against mine. He pulled me down into his lap, wrapping his arms around me, and we sat like that for a long time, both of us happy to be together.
* * *
SOS.
A text from Bethany at 11 AM, then another at 11:01:
Where are you? Come home.
Then another at 11:02:
Lana. SOS. I repeat, SOS.
At 11:05, I had a missed call. And a second missed call at 11:15.
By 11:20, the texts became more urgent.
Lana! Get home NOW.
Lana, come the fuck home.
“Grant, I have to go,” I said, shoving my phone into my purse. It was already 11:30; I had no idea what was going on with Beth, but I did know she’d be pissed. “Could you drive me?”
“Sure. Everything okay?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I just need to get home.”
I shot off a quick text to Bethany, hoping to calm her down:
On my way.
Grant grabbed his keys, but I was already out the door. He double-timed it through the light traffic on Main Street, dropping me off in my driveway.
“Thanks. I had a great time,” I said, leaning over and popping a quick kiss on his lips. “I’d invite you in, but I’m not sure what’s up. Talk later?”
He nodded. “That’s fine. Hope everything’s okay. Keep me posted.”
“Will do,” I said, slamming the car door. I flashed him a quick wave, then ran up the path.
“Beth, I’m home,” I called out, bursting through the screen door, letting it swing shut behind me. A faint murmur of voices drifted down the hallway from the kitchen. Live voices, not the canned, tinny voices from a television.
WTF? Who’s in our house?Bethany didn’t have a boyfriend and friends didn’t just stop by to visit her. I inched down the hall, my heart thumping in my chest, then froze in the doorway to the kitchen, recognizing the voice.
I still had time to run.
“Hello, Lana.”
“Hello, Mother.”
Lana
What the hell?I literally couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my mother. It must have been the summer after my first year of college. I’d visited her out in California and it hadn’t gone well.
She looked different now. Older, although still attractive. Her hair was long and a slightly darker shade of blonde than I remembered, piled high on her head in a messy top-knot, and she wore a flowy, boho-style orange maxi dress. She had large beaded hoop earrings that screamed home-made—maybe that’s what she did all day in the collective, weaved weird jewelry.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, a slight edge creeping into my voice.
