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“Who do you think bailed you out?”

“Bailed me out?” I rear back from our hug, panicked. “I gotarrested?”

She pauses, looking at me as shame threatens to swallow me whole. Even Jessicunt isn’t worth jail.

A wide smile overtakes her face. “No.”

“Bitch.” I slap her arm.

She grins, proud. “But he brought the Bronco back and helped get you into the minivan.”

I cringe. “How was that?”

She gives me a grim look and I jam my palms into my eyes until I see the dim imploding stars of my hangover.

I have to get out of here, erase my face ink, and get my life together. I find my coat, slipping it on.

“Sorry about last night. And everything. Again,” I say as take my keys from her. “About Thanksgiving . . . I don’t know. I have some turkeys but . . .”

“Uh-uh,” she says, in a tone that is very final andveryscary. “It’s just us. You can do this. If you’re so hellbent on selling that place and running away, we get one holiday in it.” In my hesitation she adds, “Just make the turkeys, I’ll bring everything else.”

Reluctantly: “Fine.”

“Hey, Scott,” she calls when I’m almost out the door. I turn and look. “Sorry about your face.”

I shrug. “Punishment fits the crime.”

Forty-Five

“Glory,”IcallasI open the door. “You in here?”

She appears from the short hall wearing a pair of grey sweatpants cinched at the waist with a white string and an oversized blue sweater. “Where the hell else would I be?” she snaps, looking all over me. “You look like shit.”

“Trying to fit in,” I say dryly, not moving from the doorway.

While I usually come to Glory’s from work, today I’m in my Sunday best of yoga pants and a thick sweatshirt.Looking likeshit.

“Let’s sit outside.”

Her eyes narrow slightly then she swipes a pack of Lucky’s off the coffee table and follows me to the steps of the small porch, taking a seat on the top one next to me. A balmy breeze blows my hair and makes it difficult for her to light a cigarette.

“What’s this all about? You need money?”

I almost laugh.

“It’s been brought to my attention that I’m fucked up.”

She scoffs. “And? You here to blame it on me or something?”

“Maybe.”

The word stretches between us as she takes a long drag.

“You were a shitty mom,” I tell her.

She looks at me. Opens her mouth then closes it—twice. “I was.”

Her admission hits like a frying pan to my face and she notices. “God, Scotty. You lookin’ at me like that lets me know how stupid you must think I am. Think I don’t know what a good mama was supposed to look like?” She scoffs, taps the ash of her cigarette off the side of the porch. “Men liked me, your daddy was garbage.”