Page 90 of Over the Edge

There’s a muffled shout from her end as if she’s covering the microphone with her hand then a slight scuffling noise.

“I’m here, by popular demand,” Wes says.

“Garrett’s mom is here.” I cut to the chase, not wanting to waste any more time.

“Where’s here?” From the way his voice turns serious I know I took the right risk in assuming he would know.

“Hartsfall. Well, technically, a farm a few hours away, but she showed up in town this morning.”

“She’s not supposed to be there. God, I hate her,” he bites out. My stomach sinks. This is Wes, perpetually happy and carefree.

“You’ve met?” I ask.

“Once in Vegas, while we were on tour,” he says, and I briefly wonder if it's the same story she was telling us on the drive over.“I’ve never seen him the way he was—or not to that degree. Like he’s completely shut down and doesn’t talk unless he has to.”

“Yeah,” I confirm, thinking about the silence I used to expect from him, but feels so uncharacteristic now. “Is there anything I need to know?” I pick up a soap dish to do something with my hands.

“She’ll ask him for money,” Wes explains in a taut voice. “That’s the only reason she ever shows up, even though he gives her plenty already.”

“She'll what?”

“It’s not like we’ve really talked about it. But they had a deal. She would leave him and Hartsfall alone and she’d get an allowance. If she’s there, it’s not a happy healthy reunion. The sooner she leaves the better.” He releases a heavy sigh. “She might be his mother, but it’s that town that raised him. That’s the way I’ve come to understand it over the years, he’s not liberal with the specifics.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I promise.

“I appreciate it. I’m glad someone’s there with him,” he says. Wes hands the phone to Avery and I say a quick goodbye.

I leave the home goods area in the far corner, walking past overpriced hot pads, soap dishes, and a slushy machine. I wouldn’t be surprised if people who live nearby come here to shop instead of department stores if it’s closer.

“What are the chances we buy new outfits and walk out of here as walking blueberry advertisements,” I ask as I find Quinn in the center of the clothing section that contains everything from briefs to an interpretation of formalwear.

I scan the rest of the open area and spot Lana talking to an employee in the middle of restocking candy and packaged baked goods near the checkout counter.

“Out of ten?” Quinn asks.

“Sure.”

“Zero,” she says, then reconsiders. “Actually, one. It is the one thing I’m more likely to do than ask Lana about her tramp stamp.” We discovered the tramp stamp during the tractor ride when Lana convinced the driver to let her sit up front with him. The rest of us were in the attached wagon bracing for the moment when she managed to switch places and take complete control of the vehicle. It never happened, but I’m pretty sure if the ride was five minutes longer it would have.

The thing is, I get it. Lana is the type of person you meet in a bar bathroom and then go on an adventure with. She is pretty, funny, and stories pour out of her at a rate that should be studied in a laboratory setting. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m not getting caught up in Lana and her stories is because I know Garrett. After talking to Wesley the sour taste in my mouth has only worsened.

“Because she’ll ask if you want to get a matching one?” I ask as I run my fingers over the plush fabric of a blueberry embroidered bathrobe. Not bad for something that would make you look like that one girl fromWilly Wonka.

“Because she’ll offer to be the one to give it to me and then somehow convince me it’s a good idea. How the hell does she do that?” Quinn shakes her head in astonishment.

“I think it has something to do with her ability to deliberately ignore negativity,” I say. “I don’t think it’s technically considered gaslighting, but it sure as hell is disorienting.”

There’s no malice in what she’s doing, but it’s like being knocked off your feet over and over again until you convince yourself it was your idea.

“Whatever reality she’s in, I’m both terrified of it and want to experience it for about an hour so I understand it on an anthropological level.”

A dressing room stall door swings open to reveal Oliver in a novelty suit. “What do you guys think?”

“You look like Dionysus,” Quinn says, giving him a bemused once over.

“The god of grapes?” I ask.

“I think it’s more like wine in general.” Oliver does a turn, assessing himself in the full length mirror.

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