The Lies About Truth(2)

Back then wasn’t that long ago.

“Neither of us ever meant”—she held up empty hands and gestured toward my face, toward the scar I called Idaho—“to hurt anyone.”

I knew that.

Knowing something wasn’t worth shit sometimes. This was exactly why I avoided talking to Gina. She always brought this up. Always told me she was so, so sorry. Always shoved me toward the past. And here we were back on that same treadmill.

The thing was, I believed her. Gray, too, for that matter. Neither made idle apologies or hurt people, especially me, intentionally. But they had, and I still couldn’t muster up an It’s no big deal. Or even an It’s a huge deal and I can’t forgive you. So she went on apologizing, and I went on keeping grudges.

Thank God for home school. At least I hadn’t heard this every day.

Gina continued her babble. “Wouldn’t it be nice to hang out again? You could walk over there with me, sit down, have a drink, ignore Gray if you want, tell me about running or surgeries or how Max is or . . . anything. I . . . miss you.”

I missed her, too. The words wouldn’t come out. I was immediately glad they hadn’t, because Gray’s hands landed on my shoulders, soft and gentle, interrupting everything. I knew they were his without spinning around. Body movements were like fingerprints; they were all unique. His was a choreography I used to dance to.

“Hey, you,” he said.

How did a voice hovering over an ear have that much power?

“Hey, you,” I said, and turned to face him.

Gray, with his boyish face and perfectly kissable nose. No scars, no imperfections, except a right ear the tiniest bit lower than the left. He spread out his arms—a clear invitation—and out of either obligation or habit, I hugged him. His chin landed on top of my head, my face smooshed against his chest, his hands crisscrossed against my back.

Rubbing alcohol on open wounds hurt less.

One, we weren’t a couple anymore. Two, once you’ve been held, you know what it feels like when there’s no one to hold you. And three, he was Gray, both the guy and the color of this situation. Max and I emailed, but a computer couldn’t whisper in my ear. A computer didn’t have arms.

Gray let me go. “I’m glad you’re out of the house,” he said.

Not only was I out of the house, I was having a conversation with two—count them—people. Other than my parents, that didn’t happen very often. I wasn’t exactly scared of people, but people seemed scared of me.

“I was out for a run,” I explained again, taking several steps back.

“Oh. I thought maybe . . .” His words trailed away, but the implication was clear. He thought I had come to see him or Gina. They’d both texted me about this party earlier in the week.

On a whim, I tested a theory. More to remind myself I was right than because I believed he’d changed.

I looked Gray straight in the eyes.

He looked away.

That didn’t make him a monster, but it sure made me feel like one. Friendship, much less a relationship, was impossible when he couldn’t stand the sight of me. So I was the one who had officially broken it off.

“Still can’t do it,” I said.

He knew what it meant, and sighed his regret. Gina reined us in, placing her hands on our shoulders. Always the peacemaker.

“I need to go,” I said.

Before I sprinted away, Gina stopped me with a question. “Is Max coming back for the . . . anniversary?”

I nodded. If some people are knotted in friendship, we were all one big tangle. Gray and me. Gina and Trent. Max, Trent’s tagalong little brother. Our foursome, occasionally fivesome, used to be inseparable. Neighbors, couples, and the second generation of friends in our families.

Our parents had stuck together over the past year.

We hadn’t followed in their footsteps.

The wreck happened June 29. We were twenty-two days away from the one-year anniversary of Trent’s death.

“I need to go,” I said, more urgently than before.

“What about school?” she asked. “Are you coming back in the fall?”

I didn’t want to talk about school or the anniversary. I wanted to run.

“Sorry. I gotta go,” I said, in full retreat mode.

“I’ll check in later,” she said.

Gray just stood there sighing with his fingers laced behind his head. I’d heard him sigh more in the past year than in all the time we were a couple.

As I took off, my eyes drifted in the direction of the party. My old classmates were probably sighing too. Everyone out there knew about Trent, knew I’d gone through the window of his Yaris, knew why Gray and I broke up. They probably assumed I blamed Gina and Gray for more than cheating. (Fair assumption, as she was driving the car that caused my face to have a scar named Idaho. And he was right beside her.)

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Blame was crazy complicated. Some days, everything—Trent’s death, my face, all the breakups, Max leaving the country—was Gina and Gray’s fault. Some days, God was the fall guy. Some days, blame never entered my mind. I liked those days best. I didn’t want to be an angry jerk who sat around reminiscing about old grievances and pointing fingers, but I couldn’t seem to control the emotion with any accuracy.

All I knew was that the farther I got from the party, the more I wished Gina or Gray would come after me. Neither of them did, so I cranked up my music and ran. I wasn’t a sprinter, and after a mile, my lungs reminded me of that.