Page 174

“Erica.”

“Just talk to him.”

“You don’t know him.”

“No, but I know what you’ve told me.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know. But if he’s going to keep asking, one dinner might be easier than dodging him for another month.”

I hate that she has a point.

“I don’t know.”

“You want to go?”

“That is not the issue.”

“It is part of the issue,” she replies.

I say nothing. Erica sighs.

“Listen, you don’t owe him access to your life. You don’t owe him forgiveness. You don’t owe him anything. But if part of you wants to hear what he has to say, that doesn’t make you weak.”

I look toward the untouched room-service tray.

“I’m exhausted.”

“I can tell.”

“I still need to call Hannah.”

“Call her. Fix the schedule. Eat something.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“You will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I end the call and finally get up.

I call Hannah next, and the conversation is practical and mercifully easy. She can extend her availability. My parents staying longer actually makes the schedule simpler in some ways. She tells me not to worry about school pickups or after-school logistics because she has everything covered.

By the time I’m finished, the problem is no longer logistics—it’s Ross.

I eat half of dinner standing at the counter, then carry the tray back toward the table and give up.

A shower helps a little. I wash my face, brush my teeth and change into soft pajamas before climbing into bed with my phone beside me.

There is no message from Ross. That should be a relief. Instead, I find myself staring at the screen. He asked me to dinner. I told him I would think about it, but I know exactly what he will do if I keep avoiding the answer—he will ask again.