The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 16
Nita Harden stood at Scott’s door and put her ear to the wood, straining to hear what her son was saying.
She couldn’t catch it. It was too low. Quiet. Almost a whisper. Scott never whispered. He blared loud music, crowed out his sentences, whooped and hollered when he leveled up or won some game, but he never whispered.
She knocked quietly on the door, and he fell silent. “Scott?” she called out.
There was the shuffle of items, steps on the wood floor, then he was opening the door and peering at her through the thin crack. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay? I thought I heard someone talking.”
“It’s just videos I’m watching on my phone.” He gave her a shy smile. “It’s late, Mom. Go to bed.”
He was right. It was almost two. A couple of weeks ago, she’d have taken a sleeping pill and be drooling on her pillow, her body tucked against George’s. But in this new reality, with her son back, she couldn’t sleep until his light was off, the sounds of quiet snores coming from underneath his door, and that didn’t seem to happen until three or four in the morning.
“Okay,” she said reluctantly, wishing he would open the door and let her in. Since when did he crack the door like this? What was he hiding in there? Normally she would have suspected it was a girl, but ever since he got home, none of the girls had been around. Neither, come to think about it, had any of his friends. He used to have so many friends.
Maybe that’s why the house still felt empty. She kept waiting for it to come back to life. It used to be so full of activity and noise. She would trip over Scott’s baseball bag, left carelessly in the kitchen. Grumble over his books on the counter, the empty soda cans littering every surface in the media room, and the open bags of chips attracting ants in the pantry. And, oh, the kids. It had been normal for her to wake up on Sunday morning to find a half dozen of them zonked out in her living room. That Ralph kid had spent two months in their guest room, and the entire football and baseball teams seemed to have their gate code and the green light to help themselves to anything in their fridge, including the beer.
Where had they all gone? Those first few days, they had all called and stopped by, but Scott had begged off seeing them. He’d said he was busy, and tired, and she had let it go because of course he wouldn’t feel like seeing anyone right after all that—but what about now? It had been two weeks, and Scott felt fine enough to go in front of TV cameras, or chat with new followers on social media, yet he hadn’t returned a single message from his real friends.
George kept telling her to mind her own business, and maybe he was right. So what if Scott was being distant? He was home and he was safe. She was looking for problems instead of counting her blessings.
She said good night and headed down the stairs to the bedroom she shared with George, vowing not to think about it anymore. But Scott had been talking to someone. She knew it. Even with the heavy door between them, even with his voice muffled, she would swear that he’d been begging someone to call him back.