Page 22 of The Idiot

The lump in my throat has me afraid to ask. What if I don’t like the answer?

Suck it up, Jesse. This is Murph who’s on the line. You need to do some inner reflection if you want to figure out how to fix this.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Her hand with her dishrag stills on the counter. Her brow furrows, and her mouth sets in a frown. “What did you do?” she asks warily.

What did Ido?That’sher gut reaction? That can’t be freaking good!

My heart drops into my stomach like a lead weight. I guess that says it all if my own mother assumes that I did something wrong when I ask her opinion about my moral compass.

Shit.

“Why do you assume I did something?” I counter, hating how petulant it sounds.

“Well, you just asked me out of the blue if you’re a bad person, and you’re sitting there looking like you did that time you painted my bureau with my nail polish.”

“I was six! I didn’t know it wouldn’t come off! How many times are you going to bring that up?”

As she studies me, I feel squirmy watching her eyes scan my face. It’s like she knows, knows that I did something even if I don’t know what I did.

“What’s the problem?”

Sighing, I reach out for the pie that’s sitting in the middle of the table and break off a piece of the crust. Popping the flaky golden dough into my mouth, I mumble around it as I chew, “Murphy’s mad at me.”

“About what?”

Shrugging, my shoulders relax as the buttery taste envelopes my taste buds. I think I’ve gained five pounds sinceMurphy dumped me at the café last month, but food has been my only comfort.

“I don’t know,” I half-lie because I don’t, and she certainly won’t understand our café argument. “But he won’t talk to me.”

“Well, did you apologize?”

“Howcan I apologize if I don’t know what I did wrong?”

Breaking off another section of crust, I shake my head. Is she even listening to me?

A hand swats mine, leaving a sting over my knuckles. The pie crust crumbles under my touch, leaving a smattering of crumbs on the checkered placemat.

“Stop picking at that! That’s Cam’s.”

Did she seriously just deny her own child sustenance? Gaping up at her, aghast, I’m wounded by the severity of her expression. She’s serious.

“Violent much? Says the woman who just told me to apologize!” I remind her, rubbing my hand.

Frowning, she absconds with the pie like I’ve been replaced by Pete’s boyfriend. Well, this is some bullshit! I opened up for wisdom and compassion and got abuse and hostility instead.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to ruin it,” she says more calmly. “It’s the first one Cam made all by himself. I’ll cut you a slice.”

“I’m not hungry,” I mumble, picking at the crumbs left behind as she takes the pie to the counter.

Glancing over at me, her expression is doubtful, like I’ve just spoken blasphemy. I’m always hungry, and she knows it. She gets one redemption point for that. When I see her open the drawer where she keeps her pie serving utensils, a thrill of vindication dances in my chest.

Fine. Maybe she does still care.

Sighing as she plates a slice, she says sagely, “Well, I can’t offer you advice if I don’t know what happened, but Murphy Malone is the most patient person I’ve ever met, so I’m sure if you just talk it over with him, you’ll get to the bottom of it. You two have been friends since you were in short pants.”

“Why do people use that expression? I’ve never worn short pants in my life. And he hasn’t seemed very patient lately.”

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