“Yes. Oh, my God,” I cover my face. There’s an older couple enjoying sundaes at a sidewalk table about four feet away. I want to die.

  “And what you did, it was your choice?” she continues.

  I nod, eyes still closed tight and hand shading my face.

  “And you know that all it takes is once to—”

  “Yes!” I cut her off before she has a chance to blurt out the word pregnant. I look down at my feet and usher us into the small mom and pop store called Jan’s that has served scoops to my mom and me since it opened when I was six. I guess Jan was one of the owners’ moms. I always forget which one, but she passed away shortly after they opened.

  My cheeks cool from the freezers, and my nose perks up at the scent of pistachio and vanilla as soon as we step inside. The girl working behind the counter is new. A lot of the sophomores and juniors at Public get their first jobs here because it’s so close to school. She’s young, probably still fifteen. It’s nice when the owners are working because they always know our orders the moment we walk in.

  I step up close to the glass and lean in to make sure they have my cherry jubilee flavor. The carton looks loaded enough to give me a double, so that’s what I order. My mom gets pistachio, and we both wait while the girl, who’s tag says her name is Marylee, scoops our dishes. My mom takes our bowls to a booth in the corner, and I hand the girl my card to pay. She shakes her head no.

  “You can have it for free,” she says, a shy smile tugging up the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh-okay. Thanks,” I stammer, putting away my card. I turn to walk away, assuming she must be a relative of the owners or something and maybe recognizes us that way, but I stop on a hunch and turn back around.

  “Umm, not to be rude, but . . . why?” I ask.

  She shrugs and glances off to the side. “I don’t know. Just, aren’t you Lucas Fuller’s girlfriend?”

  An audible laugh flies out of my chest, and I have to apologize immediately because I think it freaked her out a little.

  “I’m just not used to that . . . term, I guess?” A giddy laugh bubbles in my throat. “You know, I can still pay.”

  This free pass for the popular crowd thing is bizarre.

  “No, really. I want to, to be nice.” I can tell I make her uncomfortable, so I smile and nod.

  “Thanks, Marylee. That’s really cool of you.” I commit her name to memory as I head to the booth to join my mom. I’ll find her at school tomorrow and if she has our lunch hour, ask her to join me and Abby and Lucas, if he shows up, and the twins. And I’m going to make sure she feels as special as she made me feel right now. She probably deserves it a whole lot more. All I did was lose my virginity to a quarterback.

  I’m still floating on a cloud of kindness when I slip into the seat across from my mom. She hands me a spoon and I immediately scrape away at the melted layer forming at the top of my ice cream. The milky part is always the best.

  “So . . .” My mom always starts awkward conversations with me like this. She said the same thing when she told me about the divorce. And that same two-letter transition was how she asked about Lucas and his jacket. I’m guessing the graffiti incident is probably what’s coming next.

  “You wanna talk about the whole whore thing?” I quirk a brow and push a spoonful of ice cream in my mouth.

  “I wanna talk about the whole whore thing,” my mom reiterates.

  I’m not sure there’s a way to back into this topic delicately, though I’ve practiced a few times. I definitely don’t want to start by asking her about the money Mr. Fuller gave her, or the affair they may or may not have had. I decide to go with plan C—talking about Mrs. D’Angelo—which was my favorite as of this morning.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I say.

  “I’ve got time,” my mom says, dragging her spoon over the surface of her scoops. The best part about this place is the massive size of the servings. I don’t dare explore the calorie count. I much prefer the sound of two scoops to two-million grams of sugar.

  “I’ve been hanging out with Tory D’Angelo a little.”

  My mom’s face lights up as her lips close around her spoon.

  “I remember that kid. He’s one of the twins, right? Weren’t they at your birthday party at the lake?” She’s talking around her spoon, and it’s nice to see her amused. It’s going to make it hard when I have to crush her spirit.

  “They were. Tory’s the one who went skinny dipping.” I grimace and my mom makes a sour face. We were nine at the time, but still old enough to make seeing a naked boy in a crowd feel uncomfortable.

  “Right. Yes. So, he’s the one you’re hanging out with now. Interesting choice.” She’s teasing me a little, and I’m not sure whether she’s trying to relax me or herself. The tension between us over the last couple of days has been strangling her.

  “He’s actually a lot nicer than I gave him credit for,” I admit. A proudness plays out on her face at my words.

  I gather my thoughts as I consume a large bite. My mom’s gaze lifts to meet mine as she waits, expectantly.

  “I was dropping some school things off at his house after the first day, and I saw . . . something.” God, why is this so hard to say? Maybe because once I start pulling this thread, the rest will come out fast. So very fast.

  My mom stops eating, deep interest in the direction of this story taking hold of her. I’m sure she expects another story about Tory, but I can’t drag things out.

  “I saw Mr. Fuller there, and they were kissing. It was pretty obvious, and it did not look like it was the first time they’d . . . kissed.” I add weight to that word so my mom knows it means more. I can tell she understands by the heaviness that pushes down on her brow and pulls in her eyes. She pushes her bowl toward the center of the table, and I hate that I’m ruining her appetite. I’m also terrified that she’s upset. Not because finding out something about your friends’ parents is hard, but because she’s jealous due to her own past with Lucas’s dad.

  “Did you tell Lucas? Or Tory?” Genuine concern is apparent in her tone.

  “Lucas knows,” I say, looking down at my spoon. I’ve started to draw patterns in my ice cream. What a waste of two perfectly good desserts this has become. “I’m not sure how to tell Tory, or even if I should.”

  My mom nods, seeming to understand. I feel sick wading into this next phase, but I have to do it. I owe it to all of us to hear this one unheard side of the story.

  “There’s more,” I say, licking my suddenly dry lips. I hold my front teeth together and flit my gaze to my mom’s a few times, searching for strength to hold it. I can’t, and if I look at her again, I’ll chicken out. I bring my hands onto the table and weave them together, pressing my thumbs together as a distraction.

  “Lucas said that wasn’t his dad’s first affair.” I wait while those words sit in the air between us. I hold my breath and tune my ears for clues, searching for a gasp or some hint in my mom’s reaction that what Lucas said is true. The longer her perfect quiet goes on, the easier it is to lift my chin and bring my eyes to meet hers. When I find them waiting with a cluelessness to the words I’m about to level her with, I loudly gulp in air and let my shoulders relax from the place they’ve been hunched up near my ears.

  “Mom, Lucas thinks his father had an affair with you.” I let that falsehood marinate for a while, let her mind make sense of it. I can tell by the short tic her face makes and the dent in her forehead that the mere thought of having an affair with Todd Fuller is ludicrous.

  “He does,” she finally says, a hint of ire in her words.

  I nod.

  “So does Mrs. Fuller,” I add.

  My mom lets out a gut-busting laugh that draws the attention of a couple ordering at the counter several feet away.

  “Really?” She narrows her eyes, her open mouth caught in a look of disbelief.

  “Lucas said she saw you two one night at his office . . . and he gave you money—”

  She slaps the table before I can finish filling in the blanks, and tosses her head back in hysterical laughter. I look over my shoulder and give a short wave to the concerned couple, and to Marylee who mouths to me, “Is she okay?”

  “That fucking asshole!” My mom slides from the booth and drags her cup with her. She marches up to the counter and I scramble to follow her.

  “I’m so sorry, hon, but we have an emergency to tend to. Can we get to-go lids?” Marylee nods nervously and rummages around the bottom cabinets for lids to fit our cups. She hands us two and my mom slaps one on her ice cream. She hands me mine over her shoulder and stomps toward the door.

  “Where are we going?” I’m pretty sure I know, but I want verbal confirmation that my mom is about to commit murder.

  “We’re going to set the record straight. And then, after the dust settles, me and you are going to enjoy our fucking ice cream.” She’s pointing at me while she spits out her words, and I’m both terrified and inspired by her strength.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I didn’t even know my mom had a lawn chair.

  Somewhere, from the depths of our garage, behind that enormous door painted with a huge F-U, she found one. It’s lime green and aluminum, and she made sure to drag it across our driveway and into the Fuller’s front yard without a single care for the scene it made and the atrocious sound it caused as it scraped along the pavement.

  She’s been sitting in that chair, legs crossed and venom ready to spew at her enemies, for the last hour. I vacillate between pacing behind her while I bite at my barely-there fingernails and staring at her from our kitchen window while I snack on random shit from our refrigerator. I’m down to pickles now, and not even spears. I’ve forked out at least a dozen dill chips. I’m nervous eating, which is the only reason I’ve held off from the ice cream—I want to enjoy it, not just angry-eat it.

  I told Lucas to call me the moment he’s heading home from practice. I want to be the one to tell him he had things wrong. My mom is going to set the record straight with fire and fury, but Lucas has had enough of that. It’s not his fault he wasn’t given the right set of facts. He just suffered from the lies. We both did.

  The darker it gets outside without my phone buzzing in my palm, the more worried I become that I won’t be able to warn him. Thankfully, the first set of headlights to light up the Fuller driveway don’t belong to a man.

  Without looking, I dial Abby and put my phone on speaker as I stare out at the scene unfolding in front of the Fuller garage.

  “What’s up? Did it all go down? Did your mom punch him in the face?” Abby loves a good fight. She also loves my mom, sometimes a little more than her own.

  “I think maybe you should come over,” I say while my mom follows the white Tahoe into the garage, stopping where the door slides closed. Her feet are purposely planted between the beams, making it impossible for Mrs. Fuller to close the door on her.

  “I’m so there. Stay on the line; tell me what I miss,” my friend says.

  “I don’t think I can. Just . . . get here,” I demand. I end the call before she can protest and pocket my phone so my hands are free. I move to the side door, opening it enough to step into the frame, but I wait here for now. Of all the conversations about to happen, this is the one that has me most on edge.

  The Tahoe’s tail lights darken and the driver’s side door opens. I can’t see more than Shannon Fuller’s legs. She’s wearing black dress pants and black heels. My mom? She’s in flip flops and rolled up jeans. Fucking country mouse versus city mouse is about to go down.

  Both women stand still, and though I can’t see Lucas’s mom’s face, I can tell by the lack of movement that they are both silent. My mom nods her head, a quick tip of her chin as she folds her arms over her chest. Finally, Mrs. Fuller steps toward my mom, and when the two women are standing in a faceoff, bodies closed to warmth and affection, I move from the doorway. I cross the driveway to insert myself in this conversation on my mom’s behalf.

  “I don’t want them dating.”

  Those are the first words I hear leaving Lucas’s mom’s lips. It’s a crushing blow to the joy I felt earlier in the day. It’s also the least important thing on the table.

  “My daughter is an incredible person. He’s lucky to have her love, and you do not get to belittle their feelings, especially since you’ve chosen to believe in lies.” My mom’s defense of me emboldens my self-esteem, though it still stings from Lucas’s mom’s words. The bad things always hit harder than the good, even when they aren’t true.

  “I have never, nor would I ever, sleep with another woman’s husband,” my mom continues. I take note of the words she’s chosen and walk closer, and a bit taller, from hearing them. She’s speaking them as a woman who has been hurt by other women.

  “Kristen, I don’t want to do this. I know what I know. And your daughter is here. She doesn’t need to hear the sordid details,” Lucas’s mom says. I’m now only a few feet from them. My mom glances at me over her shoulder and reaches her hand out, urging me closer. I go, but a little reluctantly.

  “You don’t get to think she’s not good enough for Lucas but too good for the truth. We are clearing this up tonight, and I’m not leaving this spot until we do. All of us. Todd included.” My mom’s voice is firm, teetering on the edge of angry but never falling off that ledge. It’s weird to hear her call Lucas’s parents by their first names. It reminds me how close we once were. I realize I’m not the only one who lost a friend in this web of lies Mr. Fuller spun. My mom and Lucas’s mom did, too—they lost each other.

  “Kristen, go home,” Lucas’s mom says, a pleading tone in her voice.

  “I won’t. Not until this is fixed,” my mom says, and she weaves her arm through mine, locking me to her side.

  Abby’s car pulls along the curb in front of my house. I’m tempted to yell for her to stay inside, but that’s not my friend’s style. I see her moving closer in my periphery, and it doesn’t take long for Lucas’s mom to react to the growing audience.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m not doing this,” she says, her palm waving us away as she turns to head deeper into her garage.

  “You sure? Todd just pulled up and Lucas is behind him. And I’m not moving. I’m going to say things that your husband needs to hear, and I am pretty sure you need to witness them!” My mom’s words are grittier, and I can feel the rigid muscles in her arms. She’s preparing to fight with more than words if she has to.

  “Babe? What’s going on here?” Mr. Fuller’s gaze is locked on me and my mother despite the way he turns his head toward his wife. He looks like a fox sneaking away from the hens, and my mom is the farmer holding a rifle to his head.

  “Our neighbors were just leaving,” Mrs. Fuller says.

  “June?” I twist at the sound of Lucas’s voice, but stay where I am. My mom needs me here.

  “We weren’t leaving, Todd. We were just getting to the bottom of this big fat fucking lie you’ve concocted. That’s what we’re doing,” my mom says. Most of the eyes in the area double in size, but not Mr. Fuller’s. His shift and scan, looking for his next set of smoke and mirrors that enables him to keep having his cake and eating it too.

  “Kristen, you don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, but already I can tell from the cracks in his wife’s expression that she’s no longer sure she was ever given the truth.

  “Oh, I know what I’m doing. I’m ruining your day, that’s what I’m doing.” My mom moves from her spot next to me, taking slow, methodical steps toward Lucas’s dad. For a blip, Mrs. Fuller lurches as if she’s about to step in front of my mom, in defense of her husband and the delicate story she’s believed for two years. But she backs off, a worried scowl souring her expression.

  “You never helped me with my divorce out of the kindness of your heart. You were setting up an alibi.” My mom pauses a few feet from the witness she is about to badger, just shy of being able to poke his chest.

  “Nicolas was going to leave you with pennies, Kristen. Of course I wanted to make sure your ex didn’t absolutely ruin your life just because he had a lawyer and you didn’t. I’m just sorry that you blurred the lines of my kindness. Babe—” Mr. Fuller turns toward his wife, his body rigid and fists at his sides. This is the posture of a desperate man. “She’s twisting reality. And I’m so sorry you have to hear it. What happened was a mistake, but I guess to her . . . it meant more.”

  Mistake.

  He has no idea how much of a trigger that word is.

  “Is Mrs. D’Angelo a mistake too?” I expect the words to be coming from my mouth, but they aren’t. Lucas has injected himself into this mess, standing up to his father and hitting him at his weakest point.

  “The twins’ mom?” Mrs. Fuller is catching on. She strides toward her husband and shoves at his shoulder. He desperately grabs at her wrist, catching it to block her swings, but she comes at him with another shove.

  “Who told you that? Did she?” Mr. Fuller points at my mother, his finger a searing point right at her nose. It’s a marvel my mom doesn’t bite it off.

  “I did,” I step in. My body is trembling, but sometimes dominoes make a big quake when they fall. And the ones toppling now? They’re enormous.

  “Baby, she’s lying. I mean, come on!” Todd Fuller’s nervous laughter is paired with a whole lot of sweat. He’s literally backed into a corner. The only thing left to do is to put him out of his misery. And the only person who deserves to do that is my mom.

  “Tell me everything,” Mrs. Fuller says, magic words that are about to change the face of her family forever.

  The truth takes almost an hour to piece together between us, both me and Lucas’s mom filling in gaps as my mom shares the true side of her story. When all is said and done, the illusion Todd Fuller worked so hard to create is a long-gone mirage, and the carnage left in its wake is irreparable.

  As my parents’ marriage was rapidly approaching a cliff, Mr. Fuller was just beginning to stray from his wife. It started during football camp our freshman year, when he and Natalia D’Angelo both volunteered as chaperones for the team trip down to Florida. Two weeks at a resort hotel while the boys were busy being molded for the gridiron gave them idle time, and I guess somewhere along the way, their fucking clothes fell off.