“Your father said we should start without him. He’ll be a little late for dinner,” Ms. Delgado says to Shane, settling herself at the end of their massive dining room table. Shane and I are on either side of her; I’m eating here instead of at Shooters with my mother, and I’ve already silenced my phone so I don’t have to hear her indignant texts coming through. “He’s on the phone with Edward. That video won’t be up for long.”
I don’t know who Edward is, but I’m guessing a lawyer. The Delgados have at least a dozen of those. I guess it comes with the territory when you own one of Boston’s biggest real estate development firms.
“Great,” Shane mutters, dropping his napkin onto his lap. Our plates are full of roast chicken, green beans, and some kind of fluffy grain, prepared by the Delgados’ personal chef. Of all the things money can buy you, having every single meal look and taste this good without lifting a finger has to be one of the best. “It’s not like the internet is forever or anything.”
Ms. Delgado puts her hand on his. She’s dark-haired and elegant, and looks so much like Shane that it’s hard to believe he was adopted. “At least
he didn’t use your name,” she says. Shane just snorts, and Ms. Delgado turns to me. “Thank you for what you did, Tripp. You’ve always been such a good friend to Shane.”
I duck my head and dig my fork into—whatever this grain is. Couscous, maybe? “It was nothing. I should be thanking him. I’d probably be expelled if he hadn’t pulled me back.”
That didn’t hit me, fully, until about an hour after the whole thing went down—that I could’ve thrown my entire future down the drain for Colin Fucking Jeffries. Not just the Kendrick Scholarship but the scholarship that’s keeping me at Saint Ambrose. After putting in twelve years at that damn school, I would’ve ended up with a diploma from Sturgis High School. If they’d even take me. At least I know, now that Colin put Shane, Charlotte, and me on blast in front of our entire media technology class, who sent the Murderer texts.
Ms. Delgado’s mouth tightens, which is another way that she and Shane look alike. It’s usually the only way you can tell they’re mad. “Marco and I would never allow that to happen,” she says, with the full confidence of someone who’s used to getting what she wants. “But we’ll certainly be pushing for it with regard to Colin Jeffries. He should never have been let into Saint Ambrose in the first place.” She takes a sip of wine and adds, “How is that poor girl doing? Brianne, was it?” Ms. Delgado rarely pays attention to Saint Ambrose kids who aren’t friends of Shane. She and Charlotte have a lot in common that way.
Shane doesn’t bother to correct her. “Charlotte says she’s fine.”
“You should check on her yourself,” Ms. Delgado prods gently. She’s talking to Shane, but a hot spike of shame runs through me. I should check on Brynn, considering that punch was meant for me. I’ve been avoiding it, though, because texting Brynn feels like opening a door that needs to stay shut. She puts me off balance in a way that I hate.
“I will,” Shane says.
“I meant now.” Ms. Delgado cuts a green bean in half. “I think we can relax the no-phone rule at the table so you can do the gentlemanly thing.”
“Fine,” Shane sighs, pulling his phone from his pocket. “But I need to get her number from Charlotte. I don’t have it.”
That does it; I can’t be the only jerk who doesn’t check on Brynn. I take my phone out, ignoring the pileup of texts from Lisa Marie, and open my contacts. Brynn Gallagher is still there, but it’s entirely possible she deleted me years ago or has a different number now. In case of either, I write, Hey, it’s Tripp. Sorry about what happened today, hope you’re okay.
There. Done. Politeness achieved.
Mr. Delgado comes in then, silver hair glinting beneath the light of the chandelier. He’s at least twenty years older than his wife, but unbelievably fit for a guy in his sixties. I play squash against him sometimes at the country club the Delgados belong to, and he never gets winded. “Sorry, Laura,” he says, planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “That took longer than I thought it would.”
“Everything all right?” she asks.
“Edward will be lodging a defamation suit against that Las Vegas hack,” Mr. Delgado says, taking a seat beside Shane. I’ve always appreciated the fact that, even though the Delgados have a ridiculously oversized table for a family of three, they don’t actually sit twelve feet apart from one another. “That should keep him off our backs.”
Ms. Delgado looks like she has a few follow-up questions about that, but all she says is “And the video is down?”
“Soon,” Mr. Delgado says, nostrils flaring. I can tell it’s massively frustrating to him that he can’t just write a check and make it disappear.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and for some reason I’m sure it’s Brynn. It would be rude to ignore her after an injury, so I violate the Delgado no-phone policy once again to check my texts. Sure enough, she sent a picture of her making a face and holding her hair away from the impressive bruise on her temple. Should’ve been you, she wrote.
I don’t know whether to wince or laugh. The bruise isn’t funny, obviously, but her expression is, and she clearly feels well enough to mess with me. Sorry about that, I text back.
Want to make it up to me?
That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. How?
I talked to Mr. Solomon and he invited me to stop by tomorrow at two.
Can you come?
My shoulders relax. It’s not how I’d choose to spend my Saturday afternoon, but it could be a lot worse. Sure, I reply.
