Chương 4
“Not yet.”
The phrase lodged in my ribs.
Not yet.
Riley tapped the steering wheel.
“We need to go.”
“Go where?”
“My place.”
I nodded.
Then said into the phone, “Send me anything with my name on it.”
“And Scott?”
“Yes?”
“If you knew enough to be scared and you still left me there, don’t call yourself a good person because you called afterward.”
He was silent for several seconds.
“I won’t.”
I ended the call.
Riley pulled away from the curb.
Neither of us spoke until we reached the first light.
Then she said, “How many accounts did your dad open?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is an insane answer.”
“I’m aware.”
“No, I mean, I’m not blaming you.”
“I know.”
She glanced over.
“You sound like you think I am.”
“I sound like I have spent my entire life discovering things everyone else thinks adults are supposed to know.”
The light turned green.
Riley accelerated too hard and muttered at the car.
“I hate him.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean I specifically hate the financial paperwork part.”
“That’s your line?”
“It’s one of them.”
I rested my head against the cold window.
The city moved past us in familiar pieces.
A pharmacy.
A closed bakery.
A couple arguing beside a rideshare car.
A man walking a tiny dog in a sweater that looked more expensive than mine.
Normal life had continued without permission.
My phone vibrated.
For one terrible second, I expected Dad.
It was Aunt Jennifer.
Are you safe?
I typed yes.
She replied immediately.
Do not go home.
I stared at the message.
Then another appeared.
Lauren called me.
Riley noticed my face.
“What?”
“My aunt.”
“What did she say?”
I showed her.
“Call.”
I did.
Jennifer answered with, “Where are you?”
“With Riley.”
“Good.”
Her voice was hushed.
“I need you to stay there.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother called me twenty minutes ago and asked whether you had contacted me.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
Jennifer lowered her voice further.
“She asked if you had ever mentioned paperwork.”
My skin prickled.
“What paperwork?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“What exactly did she ask?”
“She said, ‘Has Amber ever talked to you about signing anything for Jason?’”
Riley looked over sharply.
I switched the call to speaker.
“What did you tell her?”
“I said no.”
“Is that true?”
Jennifer went quiet.
My stomach turned.
“Aunt Jen.”
“You were eighteen.”
The road noise filled the car.
“What happened when I was eighteen?”
“You called me once from Providence.”
I frowned.
“You were upset.”
“About what?”
“Your father had sent you documents and told you they were for tuition.”
A memory shifted somewhere beyond reach.
A dorm room.
A printer jam.
My father on speakerphone telling me to stop making everything complicated.
“I signed tuition forms.”
“Maybe.”
“What does maybe mean?”
“You told me there were signature tabs everywhere.”
My mouth went dry.
“How many?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I didn’t know it mattered.”
Her voice cracked.
“And because Jason called me the next day.”
Riley slowed.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He told me to stop interfering in how he handled his daughter.”
I stared at the dashboard.
Jennifer continued.
“I was dealing with the divorce then, and I was broke, and your mother had already stopped speaking to me for months.”
“So you backed off.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt more than an excuse would have.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked out at the passing storefronts.
“I have to go.”
“Amber.”
“I’m safe.”
“Please don’t shut me out.”
I ended the call anyway.
Riley did not tell me I had been harsh.
She knew me too well for that.
We drove another mile before she said, “You can call her back later.”
“Maybe.”
“Or not.”
I rubbed my thumb over the edge of my phone case.
A memory began assembling itself from scraps.
Freshman year.
My father mailing a thick envelope to the dorm.
Yellow stickers marking signature lines.
A note in his handwriting telling me that college was expensive enough without me creating administrative problems.
I had signed everything.
I had not read everything.
I was eighteen and homesick and overwhelmed and trying to prove that choosing art school had not made me irresponsible.
Dad had known exactly which nerve to press.
At Riley’s apartment, her dog Winston greeted me as if I had returned from war.
He was a squat brown mutt with one white paw and absolutely no emotional restraint.
He jumped against my coat until Riley dragged him away.
“Sir, boundaries.”
Winston sneezed.
“That’s not an apology.”
I stood in the entryway holding my portfolio while the ordinary mess of her apartment pressed gently against me.
Shoes by the radiator.
Two unopened packages on the floor.
A mug with a spoon still inside it.
A grocery receipt stuck beneath a magnet shaped like Wisconsin.
Nothing was arranged to impress anyone.
I almost started crying again.
Riley disappeared into her bedroom and returned with sweatpants and a Northwestern sweatshirt.
“You can shower.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You smell like twelve-thousand-dollar chicken.”
“That chicken was eighty-four.”
“Exactly.”
I changed anyway.
When I came back, she had opened her laptop at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking your credit.”
I stopped.
“Can you do that?”
“You can.”
She turned the screen toward me.
“We are starting with the free reports.”
I sat down.
My hands felt clumsy on the keyboard.
Security questions appeared.
Old addresses.
Phone numbers.
A car loan I did not recognize.
I stared at it.
“Riley.”
She leaned closer.
The account had been opened eleven months earlier.
Original balance: $38,700.
Current balance: $31,842.
My name was listed as co-borrower.
“I don’t own a car,” I said.
Riley’s face went still.
I clicked into the account details.
The lender was unfamiliar.
The payment history showed eleven months of perfect payments.
Until the current month.
Past due.
Thirty days.
My chest tightened.
May you like
“There’s more.”
A business credit line appeared lower on the report.
