Page 42 of Shane

“Does the son know about what’s going on?”

“Yes, he knows.”

“So you’re friends with him?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends exactly.”

“How does he feel about their relationship?”

“It’s hard to tell with Shane. He’s never too serious about anything and seems pretty close with his mom. I think he’d go along with anything she wanted to make her happy.”

“This Shane sounds like a nice enough boy.”

I sense my mother is trying to do what she always does–avoid confrontation and spin the situation into something “doable,” which I don’t want to hear.

“The last thing I need is to share my private space with somenice enoughboy.”

“I understand,” my mother says solemenly. “Just give your dad Thanksgiving, and I’ll have a discussion with him about your living arrangements moving forward.”

A wave of relief fills my chest even though I’ve brought my Mom to tears to make it happen.

I’m the worst.

“Thanks, Ma.”

“The only thing I ask is that you call your therapist tomorrow.”

Crap.

Part of the agreement I made with my folks when deciding to attend VCU was to continue with regular phone or virtual sessions with my therapist, but I haven’t spoken with Dr. Torres in almost seven weeks. I don’t want to discuss my feelings right now. It brings too much stuff up. My Mom and I are on an honor system, though, so Icouldtell her I’ve had a session, and she’d never know.

“And just so you know, Kennedy, I can see whether you’ve had sessions in the health portal. You haven’t spoken to Demetria since September. If you continue to break your part of the agreement, I’ll also have to include that information when I have my conversation with your father.”

Dammit.

Parents are so crafty.

I completely forgot about the online portal.

“I’ll text her right now,” I sigh in defeat.

“Good.”

After we hang up, I initiate a brief text exchange with Dr. Torres, then screenshot the conversation and send it to my mother as proof. My phone rings soon afterward, and I answer it without looking at the screen, assuming it’s Mom again.

“I did it,” I tell her.

My core has a visceral reaction when I hear the baritone of Shane’s voice on the other line. It aches–like my vagina has a mind of her own.

And that bitch is needy.

“Did what?”

“I figured out a way to get my mom to drop the idea of doing Thanksgiving at your house.”

“So you’re finally doing your part, huh?” I say with sarcasm.

“Under one condition,” he adds.