The Lies About Truth(15)
You were trapped in the backseat. I went flying. Trent . . .
I can’t write any more. Sorry.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 20
Subject: restitution
Oh, Max, I’m so sorry. All this time, I didn’t know you were conscious. That you held his hand. You’re . . . braver than anyone I know.
Don’t beat yourself up. There’s nothing you could have done. It’s okay to feel. Jesus, I sound like Dr. Fletcher Glasson. Ignore that shit and do whatever you want.
I just want everything back the way it was. For you. For me. For our families. I want Trent to knock on my window . . . want to get in the car tomorrow and drive to the Fountain of Youth.
Okay, I’m out of juice. I’m going to turn out the light and pretend to sleep.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 25
Subject: Trent
Max,
I want to go back to your last statement: I don’t think my brother trusted me the way he trusted you. He only told me what he had to.
Max, Trent absolutely trusted you. As for confiding in you about breaking up with Gina, you can’t go by that. There are a million reasons why he hadn’t told you he was considering it. Maybe he was embarrassed or something? He always had this idyllic vision of how you saw him, and he wanted to protect that. But more than likely, he wasn’t ready to act and didn’t want to upset the group chemistry until he understood how he felt.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 28
Subject: Seafood festival
Max,
Thanks for understanding.
No, Gray and I aren’t going to the seafood festival. No need for you to be jealous about missing out on the food. I’m still not going out in public, and Gray . . . well, who knows about him right now.
We wrecked more than the car.
Sadie
CHAPTER TEN
The Social Experiments, as I decided to call them, continued that afternoon. I’d expected a quiet evening with Max—maybe a walk on the beach, some Star Time on the dock, a game of Tell Me Something—instead, I got a joint McCall-Kingston meal. At least Mom and Dad eased me into their high expectations.
Lights shone through every window of the McCall house. Such a strange sight to see after a year of darkness. Sonia had invited us to dinner, her need for community stronger than her weariness from traveling and the need to accomplish a long to-do list. We carried over a key lime pie and a loaf of fresh bread. I carried over some panic, and I wasn’t even sure why. I loved these people, and they loved me.
Mom knocked.
“You have a key,” I said.
“They live here again,” Mom said.
They did. We’d met them at the airport, I’d said hello, and somehow it felt like I was hearing it for the first time.
Sonia ushered us inside, and we re-exchanged hugs. I’d chosen a thin yellow sweater and a pair of ripped-up jeans. My hair was down and half hidden under a straw cowboy hat, but Sonia didn’t stand still long enough to look at me. She pushed around boxes with her feet, opened a bottle of wine, apologized for messes that weren’t there, and transferred the roses from a table in the foyer to the dining room.
My parents put their hands to work, and I watched. Sonia noticed me loitering and said, “Max is still in his room. Would you go get him?”
“Happy to,” I said, and headed down the hallway.
While the McCalls were away, we took care of their house. Dad sprayed for bugs, checked for water damage, and manicured the lawn. Mom cleaned, and changed the vanilla plug-ins every month. Practical stuff. I hadn’t helped much. Being in and out of here had made me want to sit at Trent’s desk, borrow one of Max’s T-shirts, or eat Froot Loops at the kitchen bar. Once I’d curled up in Trent’s bed and napped—though I’d never done that when he was alive—and Mom caught me. That little mistake ended my visits. So, when I knocked on Max’s door, and he answered with a hoarse “Come in,” it felt as if I was seeing a brand-new world.
My eyes roamed over the particulars of his room.
“No more Power Rangers,” he said.
“Max, dang. I mean, wow.”
“Pretty cool, huh? Dad built it at Christmas.”
Plywood board covered in rock-climbing holds consumed an entire wall and part of the ceiling. Mr. McCall’s bouldering wonderland hung like a miniature version of the one at my old gym. He’d finally found a use for ten-foot ceilings that didn’t involve cobwebs. A small crash mat leaned in the corner, and a pegboard held various clips and things. The rest of the room looked normal: a bed, a dresser, and a closet. Max had Everest and Abercrombie.
“We went to Jacksonville for Christmas,” I said. “I didn’t even know your dad came home, much less built all this. You never mentioned climbing in your emails or messages.”
“I only did it a few times.” He stuffed his hands into a chalk bag hanging from a hook. “There were a bunch of crags near the convent and some of the locals took me bouldering. This is . . .”
“Over the top,” I finished.
“It’s over-something. Dad’s . . . had a hard time sitting still. Check it out.” Max put his feet on the lowest toeholds, grabbed on, and moved hand-over-hand toward the ceiling. Hanging from one arm, he pulled up and said, “You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty cool.”