Lies You Never Told Me Page 10

  I bite my lip. We’ve had the same argument before. She always makes the same promises, and I buy it almost every time. I want to believe things can change. I want to believe, so badly.

  I pull the plate of pasta back toward me and take a bite. The canned sauce is bland, but it’s better than nothing.

  “I’ll call in sick tonight,” I say. “Help you get showered, make sure your dinner stays down. And then tomorrow, we’ll find you a meeting. Okay?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes red and watery. For a moment I think about walking around the island to hug her, but I decide not to.

  “I swear,” she says again, picking up the coffee mug and cradling it in both hands. “I swear, Elyse, this time I’m going to get clean.”

  I know I can’t believe her. I’ve heard the same thing so many times now.

  But it’s hard not to hope, when I want to so badly.

  FIFTEEN

  Gabe

  Tuesday afternoon I walk slowly along a residential street, stepping cautiously behind parked cars and doing my best to look as nonchalant as possible.

  Six or seven blocks ahead of me Catherine is making her way home from school, her head down, a dark coil of hair down her back.

  I haven’t heard from her since last night at the restaurant. I’ve been texting her all day. Sorry if I got you in trouble last night. Your dad’s not mad at you, is he? He looks intense. But no response. I couldn’t find her at lunch, either. I wasn’t even certain she was at school today.

  So when I saw her hurry past the window of Ruby’s Donuts, where I was brooding over a jelly-filled after school, I slid off the stool and went out to follow.

  The neighborhood is old, the light dappling through big shade trees. I stop abruptly when she pauses and tilts her face up toward the sun. For just a few moments I see her in profile. She encircles her hair with one hand and pulls it back. I haven’t seen her so exposed before. From here I can see the delicate line of her throat, the wide and thoughtful curve of her lips. Then she lets go and vanishes behind that long, dark curtain again.

  I feel kind of creepy as I trail after her. After all—according to Sekrit, she’s gotten my messages. If she wants to talk to me, she will. But I have to know she’s okay. And … maybe more than that, I want to know where she lives. I want to know what she does when I’m not around. I want to know her stories, her secrets.

  She stops at a shabby yellow cottage. It’s the smallest house on the block, with a ramshackle wooden porch and oak roots pushing up through the asphalt walkway. A mailbox at the curb reads Barstow. At the door she pulls out a set of keys and starts to open the door.

  I don’t know why she looks around. I don’t make a sound—I’m careful to hold back. But some impulse keeps her on the doorstep as she glances up.

  The keys fall out of her hand when she sees me. She gasps, fumbles at them, her whole body going taut as a violin string. Her eyes dart wildly up and down the street.

  I give a weak wave as she takes a step toward me.

  “What are you doing here?” she hisses.

  “I’m …”

  She doesn’t let me finish. “You have to go. If he sees you …”

  “Who, your dad?” I ask.

  She walks quickly up to me, pushing at my shoulder. “Gabe, please. I can’t talk to you here. If he comes home I’ll be in big trouble.”

  My blood pounds in my ear. I’ve made a mistake in coming here. I’ve made things worse for her. But still, I fight the urge to touch her. I want to pull her into my arms and make sure she’s intact. “I’m sorry. I wanted … I wanted to see if you were okay.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment.

  Then she opens them again. “Meet me at Pease Park in thirty minutes,” she whispers. “Near the bridge.”

  Then she turns and runs into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  *

  • • •

  The park is quiet. I sit on a picnic table in a clearing, my feet on the bench, leaning on my knees. I can hear the muffled sounds of traffic in the distance, but closer in it’s just birdsong and breeze.

  I force myself not to jump up and go to her when she finally appears.

  She glances nervously around, rubbing her shoulders even though it’s a warm day. She sits down next to me, so close our legs touch.

  For a few minutes neither of us says anything. I lean back against my hands and look up at the clouds.

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” she finally says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” She sighs. She twists a lock of hair between two fingers. “I didn’t mean to ghost on you. I just … I freaked out, and I didn’t know what to say.”

  “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have followed you. But I had to see you,” I say.

  She picks at a hole in her jeans.

  “Why was your dad so pissed, anyway?” I ask. “I mean, that wasn’t my imagination, right? He was definitely not happy.”

  “No, he wasn’t.” Her hands fall still in her lap, as if they’ve suddenly gotten self-conscious. “I’m not really supposed to talk to boys, is the thing.”

  “What, are you supposed to avoid one half of the population?” I frown. “That’s nuts.”

  She gives a hollow laugh. “I’m lucky. He wanted to homeschool me. When we moved here I begged to go to public school. He finally gave in, but it was on a bunch of conditions. No dating, no flirting, no extracurriculars. I have a six P.M. curfew.”

  “Six?” I spit. “I mean, what if you want to …”

  “Want to what?” She looks up at me. “I can’t go out, Gabe. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I … I really like you. But this isn’t going to work.”

  The words jerk me back and forth. I soar for a moment before the crash. I like you … but. “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying I don’t get to be a normal girl, okay? If I were …” She blushes, looks down. “You deserve to be with someone fun and easygoing and … and normal. Someone who can actually talk to you in public. But that’s not me. My life is … complicated.”

  “I don’t care,” I say immediately. “I don’t mind complicated.”

  “You don’t understand. If we got caught …”

  “We’ll be careful,” I insist. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Catherine.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. She brushes them away with the back of her hand. “That’s sweet. But there’s nothing you can do. He’ll move us again—I know he will. I told you we came here from California, but the truth is, we lived three other places before that. Every time I get attached to something, or someone—every time I might be just an iota out of his control—he finds some excuse to yank me out of school and hit the road again.” She looks up at me, a few teardrops clinging in her lashes. “If he finds out I like you, he’ll take you away from me, too.”

  “He won’t find out,” I say urgently, knowing even as I say it that I can’t promise that.

  “And Sasha …”

  “I told you, Sasha and I are through,” I say quickly.

  Her forehead crinkles, and I have to fight not to reach a fingertip up, to smooth the worry away. “Are you sure about that?”

  My body goes rigid. “Why? What’s she been saying?”

  She shakes her head. “She’s been really friendly in astronomy—sitting next to me, trying to start up conversations. She invited me to go to the mall with her the other day. Obviously I made an excuse. But something about it is … off. I don’t know, maybe it’s all in my head. But I get the feeling she’s seen us … talking. Girls like that scare me. I can’t get in the middle of whatever is going on between you two. I can’t invite more chaos into my life.”

  I hesitate, thinking about the Snap I got last week. The picture of Catherine with a death’s head. But Sasha’d seemed so earnest when I asked her about it. Whoever’s messing with you … it’s not me. I don’t know who else would do something like that. But I want to believe it.
More than that … I want Catherine to believe it.

  “She’s over me,” I say. “She’s dating someone else now. You don’t have to worry.”

  She gives a rueful laugh. “See, but this is the point. Between Sasha and my dad, maybe it’s just a sign. Now’s not our time. If I’d met you … God, if I’d met you any other time in my life, I’d be …”

  I wait for her to finish the sentence. She doesn’t.

  “No one else gets to decide if we’re right for each other,” I say fiercely. I picture her dad again, his jaw tense, his eyes cold shards. I picture Sasha, smirking. Both of them so sure they can control us. Both of them so sure they’re in charge. “I won’t let fear keep me from someone who makes me feel like this.”

  I’m suddenly hyperaware of the way our legs and hands touch, of the warm smell of pomegranates in her hair, of her pale and narrow face turned toward mine. The dark gray-blue of her irises seems lit from within, like some luminous deep-cave crystal.

  Our lips find each other. The kiss is light and lingering, her breath warm on my mouth. We never fully break apart, our foreheads resting against each other. Her eyes close. My pulse drums in my ear.

  “This isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she says. “But it’s close.”

  SIXTEEN

  Elyse

  Thursday afternoon there’s a soft, almost tentative knock at the front door.

  I’ve been out of school for three days. I’m trying to help my mom through the worst parts of detox; she’s been shaky and weak and crouched over a toilet vomiting almost the whole time. Neither one of us has made it to work, which is scary because we don’t have much padding in our bank account—but more frustrating to me is missing three days of play rehearsal. I told Brynn to tell everyone I had strep throat, and she reassured me that Mr. Hunter was rearranging the schedule so they could focus on scenes without me in them—but I hate feeling like I’m letting everyone down.

  At least I’ve had a chance to finally clean up the apartment. Mom’s in bed, so I’ve been taking loads of clothes down to the laundry room, vacuuming the floor, throwing out all the detritus that’s collected around the living room. It’s not magically transforming into Downton Abbey, but it’s an improvement.

  When I hear the knock I pause with the duster in my hand, listening. The knock comes again, a little louder this time. I set down the duster and go to open the door.

  It’s Mr. Hunter.

  I’m so surprised I just stand there and stare. He’s got a black umbrella unfurled, his shoes damp in the rain. His golden-green eyes are warm and curious. I’m suddenly hyperaware of my own getup: sweatpants, a bandana tied over my greasy hair.

  “Hey, Elyse. Sorry to just stop by like this.” He smiles, and the dimple appears in his cheek. “I’ve been worried about you. I thought I’d swing by and bring some soup.” He holds up a plastic tub, steaming in the cold.

  “Mr. Hunter. Uh … thank you. That’s so …” I stammer.

  That’s when Mom’s door swings open, and she staggers out in her sweats. Her hair is plastered to her forehead. She doesn’t even look at us—just disappears into the bathroom. I can hear her banging around inside. Then I hear the unspeakable sound of her losing the toast and egg I managed to coax her to eat this morning.

  Mr. Hunter stares at the closed bathroom door. I try to convince my body that now’s the time to dissolve, to vanish into thin air. To disappear into the shadows. But I’m still corporeal a moment later, still standing with the door open and the cold air rushing in and the soup tub held out, stranded midair between us.

  I grab him by the arm and spin him around. “Mom, I’m going to check on the laundry. I’ll be back in a minute!” I shout, following him out and shutting the door firmly behind me.

  The rain patters lightly on his umbrella overhead. The sweat I’d worked up cleaning the apartment grows clammy out here in the chill air. I close my eyes and feel the tremble start along the surface of my skin and work its way down, until I’m shaking all over, cold to the bone, scared and exhausted.

  “So,” he says softly. “You’re not sick. Your mom is.”

  “I know that’s not an excused absence, Mr. Hunter, and I’m really …” I start to apologize, but he holds up a hand.

  “Let’s go get a cup of coffee, okay?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t leave my mom.”

  “Just for a few minutes. Come on, you look like you need it.” He rests his palm in the center of my back. It takes little pressure to propel me forward; I let him push me gently toward the stairs.

  He opens the door of his plain white sedan for me, and wordlessly I climb in the passenger seat. When he starts the car he turns the heat up full blast.

  We don’t say anything for a few minutes. My fingers twist together in my lap. I’m afraid to look at him. I’m not sure what’s worse: that he caught me in a lie, or that he knows what my life is like. If he ever really thought I was special, now he knows just where I come from.

  The car glides through the rain, stoplights smearing into bloody streaks as we pass. I still feel the apartment clinging to me, the smell of sweat, the tang of sickness. The sticky, cloying feeling of shame.

  It’s not until we’re in line at the drive-through that he says anything. “You must be worried about her. Not a lot of kids stay home to take care of their parents.”

  I stare down at my hands.

  “She’s detoxing,” I say. “From Oxy. We’ve done it a few times before, but this time it’s really bad. She’s been sick for days.”

  I’ve never told anyone except Brynn. It’s dangerous to tell a teacher; he could report my mom to CPS. He could tell the school counselor. Hell, if he were an asshole, he could let it slip at rehearsal and tell everyone.

  But the way he looks at me, it’s like he really sees me. Like he knows me. And after fighting so long to keep my family problems hidden from the world, it’s a relief to finally say them out loud.

  I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t look mad. His brow is crinkled in a look of sympathy. Not pity—sympathy. I know the difference.

  Before he can say anything we’re at the window. He smiles at the barista. “Black coffee, please. And … what can I get you?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  “How about a grande mocha?” he says to the barista. He looks back at me. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want. But it might warm you up.”

  We wait in silence for our drinks. When the barista comes back, Mr. Hunter hands me my cup before paying. It warms my fingers, filling the car with the smell of sugar and coffee.

  He pulls into a parking space and lets the car idle. Then he turns in his seat to face me. “Elyse, I’m glad you told me.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone else,” I say, a shot of panic ricocheting through my chest. “Not anyone. My mom’s … complicated, but I don’t want to lose her again. I don’t want to get taken away.”

  “I won’t.” He takes the lid off his coffee to let it cool, resting it in the cup holder. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Tears well up at the corners of my eyes. “It’s just … it’s so hard. It’s hard when she’s high. It’s hard when she’s not high. I have to take care of everything.”

  He nods. “I know. It’s not fair, Elyse. You’re taking on more than your friends can even imagine. I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

  “I don’t, either. Some days it doesn’t feel like I am.” I give a brittle laugh. “Sometimes I just wish I could pack up and leave. Leave my mom, my friends. Go somewhere where I have no ties, so I’d be free to just … be whoever I wanted to be. I know that’s awful.”

  “It’s not awful, it’s normal. I get the feeling you’ve been taking care of your mom for a long time. It’s a heavy burden to bear.” He looks intently down at me. “I told you about my dad, how we lived. God, all I ever wanted was to be normal. To have a TV and to get prepackaged cereal at the groc
ery store and to turn on the thermostat when it was too cold. That wasn’t going to happen with him. So when I was sixteen I ran away.”

  “You … did?” My eyes go wide.

  He nods. “I hitchhiked into Missoula. Lived in a tent for a whole summer and showered at the YMCA. I found under-the-table work—that was the good thing about growing up with a survivalist. I knew how to do a lot of odd jobs. Carpentry, basic repair work. By the end of the summer I applied for emancipation and got my GED.”

  “Wow,” I say. I try to picture him as a sixteen-year-old, and it’s impossible. “That’s brave.”

  “It was better than staying with my parents.” His gaze goes faraway for a few seconds, then sharpens again. “Point is, it’s possible. You could leave. You’re already taking care of yourself; it’d probably be easy for you.”

  I try to imagine it. Where would I go? What would I do to make money? I don’t want to work in a movie theater for the rest of my life. And I don’t want to be on my own—not really. I just want to have what normal people have.

  “Not that I’m recommending it,” he says suddenly, looking closely at my expression. He smiles a little. “I don’t exactly want to lose my lead. It’s too late to recast.”

  “Don’t worry. Brynn knows my part by heart,” I say, but I keep my voice light so he knows I’m teasing.

  His eyes meet mine. “Brynn’s not the one I want.”

  The words hang in the air. Every sensation feels heightened beyond bearing. The seat belt is too tight, the upholstery rough against my skin. The coffee cup feels molten, resting on my thigh. My body aches, but for what, I don’t know.

  “I need to get back,” I whisper. “My mom …”

  “Sure.” He starts the car again, but before he backs out, he turns to look at me, one more time. “Here, give me your phone.”

  I hand it over. He types his number in.

  “Call me anytime. If you need anything. Even if you just need to talk.” He hands it back to me. “There’s no pressure. But if I can help, I will.”