One of Us is Lying(6)

He says it with a note of finality, because he refuses to see anything but the best in me. If that ever changed, I honestly don’t know what I’d do.





Nate


Monday, September 24, 4:00 p.m.


When Bronwyn and I get to the parking lot it’s nearly empty, and we hesitate once we’re outside the door. I’ve known Bronwyn since kindergarten, give or take a few middle-school years, but we don’t exactly hang out. Still, it’s not weird having her next to me. Almost comfortable after that disaster upstairs.

She looks around like she just woke up. “I didn’t drive,” she mutters. “I was supposed to get a ride. To Epoch Coffee.” Something about the way she says it sounds significant, as if there’s more to the story she’s not sharing.

I have business to transact, but now probably isn’t the time. “You want a ride?”

Bronwyn follows my gaze to my motorcycle. “Seriously? I wouldn’t get on that deathtrap if you paid me. Do you know the fatality rates? They’re no joke.” She looks ready to pull out a spread sheet and show me.

“Suit yourself.” I should leave her and go home, but I’m not ready to face that yet. I lean against the building and pull a flask of Jim Beam out of my jacket pocket, unscrewing the top and holding it toward Bronwyn. “Drink?”

She folds her arms tightly across her chest. “Are you kidding? That’s your brilliant idea before climbing onto your machine of destruction? And on school property?”

“You’re a lot of fun, you know that?” I don’t actually drink much; I’d grabbed the flask from my father this morning and forgotten about it. But there’s something satisfying about annoying Bronwyn.

I’m about to put it back in my pocket when Bronwyn furrows her brow and holds out her hand. “What the hell.” She slumps against the redbrick wall beside me, inching down until she’s sitting on the ground. For some reason I flash back to elementary school, when Bronwyn and I went to the same Catholic school. Before life went completely to hell. All the girls wore plaid uniform skirts, and she’s got a similar skirt on now that hikes up her thighs as she crosses her ankles. The view’s not bad.

She drinks for a surprisingly long time. “What. Just. Happened?”

I sit next to her and take the flask, putting it on the ground between us. “I have no idea.”

“He looked like he was going to die.” Bronwyn’s hand shakes so hard when she picks up the flask again that it clatters against the ground. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I say as Bronwyn takes another swig and makes a face.

“Poor Cooper,” she says. “He sounded like he left Ole Miss yesterday. He always gets that way when he’s nervous.”

“I wouldn’t know. But what’s-her-name was useless.”

“Addy.” Bronwyn’s shoulder briefly nudges mine. “You should know her name.”

“Why?” I can’t think of a good reason. That girl and I have barely crossed paths before today and probably won’t again. I’m pretty sure that’s fine with both of us. I know her type. Not a thought in her head except her boyfriend and whatever petty power play’s happening with her friends this week. Hot enough, I guess, but other than that she’s got nothing to offer.

“Because we’ve all been through a huge trauma together,” Bronwyn says, like that settles things.

“You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”

I forgot how tiring Bronwyn is. Even in grade school, the amount of crap she cared about on a daily basis would wear down a normal person. She was always trying to join things, or start things for other people to join. Then be in charge of all the things she joined or started.

She’s not boring, though. I’ll give her that.

We sit in silence, watching the last of the cars leave the parking lot, while Bronwyn sips occasionally from the flask. When I finally take it from her, I’m surprised at how light it is. I doubt Bronwyn’s used to hard liquor. She seems more a wine cooler girl. If that.

I put the flask back in my pocket as she plucks lightly at my sleeve. “You know, I meant to tell you, back when it happened—I was really sorry to hear about your mom,” she says haltingly. “My uncle died in a car accident too, right around the same time. I wanted to say something to you, but … you and I, you know, we didn’t really …” She trails off, her hand still resting on my arm.

“Talk,” I say. “It’s fine. Sorry about your uncle.”

“You must miss her a lot.”

I don’t want to talk about my mother. “Ambulance came pretty fast today, huh?”

Bronwyn gets a little red and pulls her hand back, but rolls with the quick-change conversation. “How did you know what to do? For Simon?”

I shrug. “Everybody knows he has a peanut allergy. That’s what you do.”

“I didn’t know about the pen.” She snorts out a laugh. “Cooper gave you an actual pen! Like you were going to write him a note or something. Oh my God.” She bangs her head so hard against the wall she might’ve cracked something. “I should go home. This is unproductive at best.”

“Offer of a ride stands.”

I don’t expect her to take it, but she says “Sure, why not” and holds out her hand. She stumbles a little as I help her up. I didn’t think alcohol could kick in after fifteen minutes, but I might’ve underestimated the Bronwyn Rojas lightweight factor. Probably should have taken the flask away sooner.