Now Is Not the Time to Panic(59)

“What?” I replied.

“That I hurt you,” he said. “More than once, you know? I did that awful thing to you in the car, after my dad, when you were trying to help me. I messed up so bad. I’m sorry that I hurt you on the porch, and even worse, that I didn’t help you and that I left and that I never talked to you again. Things were just really bad for me. And then time passed, you know? It kept going and going, and I kept trying to get away from that summer, because it had ruined my life a little, and there was just no way for me to get back to you or apologize. And it’s just been this guilt, always, and it’s never left. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want to admit how badly I had needed him to say all this. I needed him to say that he’d hurt me, had done something pretty bad, and then I could say that I’d survived it. I thought about reaching for him, but of course I didn’t. “Zeke, you didn’t hurt me. Or, like, yeah, my arm, whatever, but I’m okay.”

“Are you?” he asked, and I could see a little panic move across his features. “Like, you’re here, right? Something must be wrong.”

“Not . . . wrong, exactly. It’s just . . . Zeke, the thing is, a reporter found out that it was me. She knows I made the poster—”

“Oh,” he said, shaking his head.

“—but it’s okay. I told her that I did it. I’m just . . . I’m ready to admit it. And she’s going to write this article about it, and she’s going to interview me. It’s all going to come out.”

“Shit, Frankie,” he said, still shaking his head. “How did she find out?”

“It’s so complicated. I’ll tell you, but, just, right now, I wanted to let you know. It’s going to come out. People are going to know.”

“Did you tell this reporter about me?” he asked.

“I haven’t,” I admitted. “Not a word, I promise.”

“But you’re going to tell her?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I? Like, you made it, too. We made it, you and me.”

“But, you haven’t told her?” he asked, like he’d found some loophole that he could exploit, the way he leaned forward to look more closely at me. “She doesn’t know?”

“Not yet. That’s what I’m saying, Zeke. I wanted to let you know before I told her.”

There was a long pause. I had to keep scooting a little bit at a time to keep from sinking into the sofa.

“I’m scared, Frankie,” he finally said.

“Me, too,” I told him. “But I don’t know what else to do. I just . . . I think I need to admit it. I feel like I have to say it was me and just kind of see what happens.”

“Frankie?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Could you not tell this reporter about me?” he asked. “Like, just tell her that you did it by yourself?”

“I . . . no, why would—”

“I’m scared. You’re a famous writer, and you can admit it, and it might be interesting to see what happens, but I think I know what will happen to me. I think it will do bad things to me.”

“But, maybe not?” I offered, and it felt so lame. It felt cruel. But I couldn’t stop. “Because it won’t just be you, right? I’ll say that we did it. You and me. And I think maybe I can take whatever scares you and I can handle it.”

“I don’t think so, Frankie,” he said.

“I just . . . I can’t imagine it not being the two of us,” I told him.

“It was so long ago,” he said.

“It doesn’t feel like that long ago to me, honestly,” I told him. “I think about it all the time. I think about that summer. I say the phrase to myself. If I’m just sitting by myself, not really thinking about anything, I see those hands that you drew, just kind of hovering there in my mind. You don’t have that?”

“No,” he admitted, and he looked so sheepish, so sad. But I think he was sad for me. “I work hard not to think about it. And I don’t.”

“That summer is why I’m who I am,” I said.

“Me, too,” he told me.

I had thought I was going to bring Zeke back, and I had thought he’d be grateful, once the shock wore off. We’d be friends again. Or at least when people thought of the poster, they’d think of us that summer, the two of us, and even if we never saw each other again, we’d be linked. I wanted to cry.

“It was our secret,” he said. “We said we’d never tell. It was just you and me. And I really did like that, Frankie.”

“I have to tell,” I said. “It’s happening, whether or not I tell.”

“But, couldn’t it still be our secret?” he asked. “You can tell them a story. You can tell them that it was you. And that will be the truth. And people will believe it. From here on out, even after we die, that will be the story of that summer. And it will just be you and me who still know what the truth is.”

“I think I’m a little scared to do it by myself,” I said. “I don’t think I would have done any of it that summer if I hadn’t met you. I feel . . . Zeke, I feel like you made me the person that I am. I’m really grateful for that.”