I Like You a Latte {Completed}

42 | Distributing the Apologies

"I hope you realize that if something like this ever occurs again—"

"Mom," Beverly sighed, watching her feet as they swung idly over the hospital's boring white floor, "I know. I really am so sorry; nothing like this will ever happen again—it wasn't even supposed to happen this time, remember?"

A heavy sigh crackled through the phone line, and Beverly could almost see her mom's expression—pursed lips, chin jutting out, and eyes narrowed in that I-am-you-mother-and-I-know-when-you're-lying-to-me-so-you-better-not-be-lying way. "I remember. I realize you're basically all grown up," her mom's voice was soft, "but you'll always be my baby and I can't help but worry."

Beverly smiled sadly, picking at a loose thread on her worn sweatpants. "I know, Mom. I am sorry."

"And I know you are. Listen, do you need us to send you anything at all? I know why you don't want to come back here, but the least we can do is send something from home. A cake, maybe? A 'Get Well' card from the twins? Crutches? Ibuprofen? Anything?"

Her grin widened at the woman's suggestions; she would expect no less from her mom. "No, that's okay, Mom."

"Beverly . . ."

"Mom!" she rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. "I promise to call every couple of days, how's that?"

Her mom hummed thoughtfully. "Better. Will you be alright back at your dorm?"

Beverly frowned at the thought of her dorm. She had originally been unsure as to what state the room was in (Griffin's it's "cordoned off" wasn't exactly specific), but according to Deb the whole thing really had been taped off as "evidence," and the cops still hadn't declared it livable. Beverly wasn't sure what they were looking for. After all, it wasn't like they didn't know who the perpetrators were; Dennis, Red, Joseph Harris, and quite a few other folks would be locked up in prison for a long time (Dennis would take a bit longer, though, since he was apparently still in a coma after the beating he receive).

"Actually, about that—"

"Beverly!"

"No, just listen," she rushed before her mom could blow up. "I know a lady who lives near the city; she's letting me stay with her while I figure out my living situation." It had been so kind of Cynthia to offer, and the more Beverly thought about it, the better it sounded.

"And you're sure she's not involved in this drug ring mess?" With a tone like that, her mom would have been an amazing interrogator at any police department.

"Yes, Mom. She owns a coffeehouse and is really nice."

"Fine. You promise you'll be alright?"

"Yes, Mom."

"And you'll call me to keep in touch?"

"Yes, Mom."

"At least three times a week?"

"Yes, Mom."

"And you'll tell me about Griffin?"

"Yes, M—what the hell?" she spluttered, her eyes wide as she pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it in shock. Shaking herself out of her trance after a moment, she pressed it back and demanded, "How did you know about Griffin?" She had avoided mentioning her boyfriend, not because she was ashamed of him, but because she wanted to drop that particular bomb on her parents once she was no longer in a hospital bed.

Her mom was laughing like a maniac on the other end of the line, the smug woman. "I am your mother—I know everything." A pause, and then, "Also, his godmother, Cynthia, called me. I really like her; she and I are going to have fun planning the wedding, let me tell you."