When You Were Mine

“He’s been kind of secretive lately, don’t you think? I know he’s sixteen and all that, but even a year ago he talked to us more. Didn’t he?”

Nick’s hand tenses on my knee. “I don’t know…”

“Last winter, we went ice skating in Avon, remember? He and Emma were joking around the whole time. He was laughing.” I can’t actually remember the last time I heard Josh laugh.

“Maybe it’s hard for him without Emma here. Harder than we realize.”

“Maybe, but he didn’t really talk to Emma last weekend. And he hardly ever talks to us now. Just grunts and goes up to his room.”

“Ally, that’s a whole other issue than some hidden money.”

“Is it?”

He sighs and sits back, taking his hand off my knee to run it through his hair. “I don’t know.”

We lapse into another unhappy silence. Part of me wishes I never found the money. Ignorance is bliss and all that, and yet now that I’ve found it, I know I wasn’t as ignorant as I wish I’d been. I know that I thought of drugs right away not because I’m so distrusting, but because I’ve sensed all along that something has been off. I just haven’t wanted to acknowledge it.

“Well, we’ll just have to talk to him,” Nick says decisively. “And see what he says.”

“And you think he’ll tell us the truth?”

“I think we’ll know if he’s lying.”

I quake inside at the thought of that conversation. “I never thought we’d be in this position.”

“It might be nothing,” Nick insists stoutly. “And anyway, most parents have some issue or other with their teenagers. We’ve been lucky so far.”

Yes, I think with an inward shudder. So far.

19

BETH

Three days after my dinner

with Ally and her family—three long, lonely days—I am sitting on a plaid-patterned sofa in a comfortable room, winter sunlight streaming through the window, about to have my first counseling session.

Anna, my counselor, is a mild-looking woman in her late thirties, with her dark hair swept back in a loose ponytail. She is tall and slim and elegant without being intimidating; her movements seem almost balletic as she puts a box of tissues on the coffee table between us.

“Am I going to need those?” I ask, meaning to sound wry, but it comes out aggressive instead. Four days on, I am still feeling raw from that awful dinner—although the reality is, there was nothing awful about it, and that is what hurts.

Ally’s home, Ally’s family, seem pretty picture-perfect to me. Why wouldn’t Dylan be happy there? And he obviously is. When I said goodbye, he barely put his arms around me in a hug. I struggled not to clutch at him, to cling, to hold him as tightly as I could. And all the while, Susan’s words rang in my ears. Do you think your relationship might be a bit too intense? What is that even supposed to mean?

“So.” Anna smiles at me. “These sessions are really for you, Beth. What would you like to talk about?”

“I…” I stop, my throat going alarmingly tight already. I’d come into this room, into this whole concept, determined to be strong. I wasn’t going to give anything away. I was going to convince Anna how capable I was, how strong and with it and everything I need to be to get Dylan back.

Yet here I am, having barely said one syllable, and already tears are crowding my eyes and my throat feels too tight to speak. What is happening to me?

“Beth?” Anna prompts gently, and that alone tips me over the edge. I start to cry, and not just cry, but properly blub, with snot and hiccuppy noises and all the rest. Blindly, I reach for the tissues and try to mop up the mess.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp out. “I wasn’t… I don’t know why…”

“You’d be surprised how often this happens,” Anna says with a small, sympathetic smile. “People finally get into a safe space, where they can actually talk about what they’re feeling, and it is overwhelming. Don’t worry. Tears are good.”

Are they? Because they keep coming. And I realize, as I uselessly wipe my face, how many things I am sad about—Dylan already growing apart from me, and the swamping loneliness I feel when he’s not with me. The terrible, gnawing fear that I’m not a good mother, and worse than that, maybe I’m actually a bad one. The grief I feel over everything—losing Dylan, losing my chance at college, even my failed relationship with Marco. My parents…

There’s so much, and it feels like a heavy weight on my chest, and I don’t even know how to begin. And, meanwhile, Anna simply sits there, smiling sympathetically at me and waiting for me to say something.