Chapter 8: Not Careful Anymore

"He's my neighbor," I said. "He's also the only person this month who asked me what I want."

My mother stood among the mops and paper towels, and the light bulb swung a little over her head.

"You're ill, Shanna. You can't be running around with strange men."

"He isn't strange to me."

"What does he want?"

"Me, I think."

I had never said anything like it to her.

Her face crumpled in a way I couldn't read.

"Your father and I are trying to take care of you."

"You're trying to take care of the picture of me from when I was twelve."

She flinched.

I opened the closet door, and the church basement hummed beyond it with its coffee and its soft voices.

I got my coat from the rack.

Maisie had come to the foot of the stairs.

She stood with one hand on the banister, holding herself up, and she watched me put my coat on.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out."

"Are you coming back?"

"I'll text you."

Her mouth trembled, and she gave one small nod.

Cal was waiting at the top of the stairs with the car keys in his hand.

My father came out of the hall behind us.

"Shanna. You walk out of here with that man, you're on your own."

"Dad," I said, turning at the top step, "I've been on my own since I was nine."

I heard someone in the church hall draw a sharp breath.

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