"She has seven more days in the program. If she goes back."
The road blurred. Kristen blinked hard and it came back into focus, the yellow line, the reflector posts. She had been putting three hundred dollars a month into that account for four years. She had skipped a trip to Savannah with Opal and two other women from class because of that account. She had felt virtuous about it.
"You took more than half our down payment," she said, "and you put it in a rehab center for my sister, and you didn't tell me."
"Yes."
"Every day for eight weeks, you didn't tell me."
"Yes."
"The conference in Columbus. The weekend in September. The certification thing."
"I drove her to Cedar Hollow," he said. "She was too scared to drive herself. She threw up twice on the way. I sat in the parking lot for three hours after they took her back, in case she walked out. Then I went to a motel in Hollis and I bought a certificate of completion online for twenty-nine dollars so I'd have something to show you."
Kristen thought of the certificate. It was on the refrigerator. She had put it there with a magnet shaped like a pineapple.
For a long time neither of them said anything. He dialed Shelby again. It went to voicemail. Shelby's voice, bright and stupid with health, a recording made years ago: Hey, it's Shel, you know what to do.
"In the locker room," Kristen said.
"I know."
"You stood over me. You told me to give it to you like I was one of the drunks in the parking lot."
"I know." His voice cracked down the middle. "I'm sorry. I didn't— I saw your face and I knew it was over and I panicked and I tried to make it stop. That's the only thing I know how to do with my body when I'm scared. Make it stop. I hate that you saw that. I hate that I did it to you."