Page 55 of Missing White Woman

Her smile faltered half a centimeter. I wouldn’t have even noticed if I wasn’t looking for it.

“But I am happy to report that I no longer sleep in a twin bed,” I said. Who needed to explain your stunted life choices when you could just make a joke?

And sure enough, she laughed. “How’s your grandma? Isn’t she living with your mom?”

I nodded, part of me satisfied to realize Adore had been keeping tabs. “She fell a couple of years ago, broke her hip. My mom converted the den on the first floor.”

“The den!”

“The den!”

“Did your mom ever find out about that weekend when she went to the Bahamas?”

“I’m taking that to my grave.”

“Me too.” She finished her glass. “I think it’s commendable you’re staying close to home to help out your family.”

I was about to make a joke but stopped myself because I realized she was right. At least partly. I was helping out family.

“A lot of people don’t,” she said. “Trust me.”

I just nodded, let the lie hang that it was about them, not about me being too scared to become an actual, self-sufficient adult. That I wasn’t still waiting to hit Play on a life put on pause when I got arrested.

I was sure people thought I should get over it. That I’d spent only ninety days in jail and it was twelve years ago at that. But I was curious how they would react if a cop planted drugs in their car, arrested them, and not even the people they loved most believed they were innocent. What they would feel if they had to relive it any time they looked for a new job or new place.

This country already wasn’t kind to Black women, period, much less ones with a record.

I pushed Domingo’s smirking face out of my mind, and when I tuned back in, Adore was still chatting away. “I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to do it. My brother sure as hell—”

“Those weren’t my drugs, Adore.” I hadn’t looked at her when I said it. Instead, opting for the fancy couch. Her designer bag. Her red-wine-only glasses. I was staring down her eighty-inch television when she responded.

“I know.” She cleared her throat. “Breanna, look at me.”

But I didn’t and she still kept going anyway. At last. “I have to tell you something. Should’ve told you this a long time ago. I… I messed up and I can never forgive myself for what I—”

“Thank you.”

“Bree—”

“No, let me finally get this out. Yes, I was mad at you for abandoning me. You ghosting me hurt as much as any man. Even more, if I’m being honest.”

I thought of Janelle’s sister. The interview with the unseen journalist. I kept going.

“But if there’s something these last few days have taught me it’s that I need to stop living in the past. There’s nothing worse than never resolving things with people you love. Life is too short… So let’s just finish this bottle.” I held out my glass.

After a moment, she grabbed the wine bottle and topped me up.

I spoke right before I took another sip. “I appreciate you not offering me any marijuana, though.”

There was a brief pause, then she laughed. It felt like an explosion, shaking the entire building. But instead of hurting us, it just made us feel better. “No problem,” she said. “It helps I haven’t smoked since undergrad.”

“Same, girl. Definitely same.”

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