The Lies About Truth(31)

I slipped down the row so he could cry in peace. While I waited, I rewrote the list in the dust on the hood of an old Buick.

1. Wear a tank top in public

2. Walk the line at graduation

3. Forgive Gina and Gray. And tell them the truth.

4. Stop following. Start leading.

5. Drive a car again

6. Visit the Fountain of Youth

As I stared at those six lines, I realized something I hadn’t noticed on the beach. Seven was now six. I had kissed someone without flinching. The list, the impossible list, wasn’t impossible.

Someone else might laugh at my revelation. Let them laugh. Taking a real step forward in life was frickin’ hard.

For the first time in a year, I was proud of myself.

I stretched my arms wide into the crystal-blue sky that even this far from the ocean smelled like salt, and thanked God for vitamin D and possibilities. Then, I ripped off my long-sleeve shirt and danced around like an idiot while the courage lasted.

Three claps stopped me dancing.

I whipped around to see Max crawling out of the Yaris wearing a red face and a smile. Embarrassed that I was dancing in the salvage yard and that my boyfriend had caught me, I slipped my shirt back on, but I kept my grin in place.

He met me halfway, near the Buick.

“Hey, Sadie, that was a tank top.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Glancing over at the list, he ran his finger through number one.

“I’m not sure it counts since I didn’t know you were watching,” I said.

“It’s a beginning.”

“Did you have a new beginning?” I asked, indicating the Yaris.

“Nah, I had an end.”

I took his hand and stopped him from walking down the aisle. He lifted the fedora off my head and held it against my back as he hugged me. Our chests rose and fell until they were in harmony.

Our hearts faced each other.

We danced, standing still.

Finally, he said, “We lived.”

“Exactly.”

Max put his wet cheek next to mine. “That’s why you come here,” he said.

“That’s why I come here,” I repeated.

“I like the way you think, Kingston.”

“I like the way you understand, McCall.”

On our way to the Spree, I stopped in the office. Metal Pete was back. He thanked me for the coffee and doughnuts and apologized for being in the house when I got here.

“I’ve got a favor to ask you,” I said.

“Okay. Shoot.”

The words propelled out of me of their own accord. “Will you help me drive again?” I asked.

Metal Pete knocked his knuckles against the desk in triumph and said, “Ah, hell, kid, I’ll even throw in a car.”

“None of these cars run,” I teased.

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers.”





CHAPTER NINETEEN


Hours later, the universe jumped on board my anti-pity party and shoved life at me in the form of my mother.

She met me at the door with another envelope.

The envelope went in my pocket—to be dealt with the moment I got out of the living room.

“So,” Mom began. “I’ve talked to the McCalls, the Adlers, and the Garrisons and . . .”

I anticipated what she was going to say: Pirates and Paintball.

“. . . and everyone agrees we should resume the tradition of attending Pirates and Paintball,” she continued.

Before the accident, the Pirates and Paintball game was an annual thing our four families attended together. Sonia’s former hospital sponsored the community game, and we’d been participating for years. Who wouldn’t? Cosplayed pirate paintball was a win from every angle. (Unless you’d developed a sudden hatred for crowds.) Over time, we stretched the Saturday morning game into a full weekend. On the Friday before, the fourteen of us, or fifteen, if Gray’s sister, Maggie, was on leave, piled onto the McCalls’ boat with our gear and headed toward a campground near the little island where it was played. After we prevailed as paintball victors, we stuck around to shell and fish and camp, wasting away the weekend in proper beach-bum fashion.

“Mom.”

She held up her hand, not letting me speak. “We haven’t gone anywhere as a family in a long time.” She threw in some bait. “At least this would be with Max.”

I tossed back some truth. “And Gray and Gina.”

Mom nodded. “Maybe it would be an opportunity to patch some things up.”

“We’re not a quilt.”

She’d armed herself with more reasons, and she kept them coming like balls at the batting cage. “You love paintball. And camping. And Dad insists you get out more, and this will be so good to do together before—”

“Mom, I’m in.” I rode the wave of this morning’s success: “And, I’m going to kick everyone’s asses at paintball.”

Her high-five hand shot up. I tagged it hard, but not too hard.

“You do that,” Mom said, not even bothering to warn me about language.

I darted off to my room with the new envelope, before she started singing “Kumbaya.” Big’s huge eyes followed me from my bed to my dressing chair to the closet.

“What are you looking at, Big Mouth?” I asked the ostrich.