The Lies About Truth(39)

Below us, the battle intensified.

Gray and Max shoved and parried positions. Max was stronger than Gray had anticipated. Long, wiry muscles broke Gray’s holds before he did any damage to our balance. The game ended when Max dove at Gray and all four of us went under together.

“Tie,” Sonia yelled from the beach.

“No way,” Gray argued. “We were up the longest.”

“By half a second,” I said.

“Exactly,” Gray agreed.

Worn-out but no longer hot, we made our way to the tents and forced ourselves to be productive.

Max whispered to me at one point, “Not bad for my first attempt.”

“You’ve never chicken-fought before?”

“Odd man out,” he said.

As soon as Max said it, I had a memory of him sitting on a cooler, his hands on his knees, watching. Now he’d made himself a participant. Ironically, while no one was watching.

Campground quiet hours were totally pointless, as we were the only people stupid enough to camp when it was this hot. Sonia made sure the tents were up and the genders separated, before she went back to her air-conditioned palace.

We all changed clothes, and since it was dark, I put on a T-shirt and shorts.

Max stole a private moment between the bathhouse and the tents. “I’ve had fun today,” he said, and kissed me.

“Me too.”

I buried my nose in his fresh shirt and took a drag of Max: bar soap, aloe, and sea salt.

“Sleep in it if you want,” he offered.

On a scale of one to ten, having your boyfriend offer you his shirt scored 101.

I thanked him appropriately.

“Do I get to keep yours?” he teased.

I shoved him away and, despite the heat, slid his shirt over my own. “I’m heading out for a walk.”

“Want some company?” he asked.

“Love some, but I need to unwind.”

“You saying I wind you up?”

I bit my lip and grinned. “Maybe.”

As I got away from him, his voice crept up as high as it could go. “Go write something sweet about me, and put it in Big.”

I’d already done it. Just before I’d walked to the bathhouse, I’d torn the corner of a weathered band poster from a wooden pole and written: Max McCall keeps surprising me with his strength.

I’d stuff it in when I got home. I imagined a parallel universe where there was another version of me. That me had a Big, some excellent resolve, and wrote things like that about herself: Today, I surprised myself with my own strength.

As I walked farther from the campsite, I rehashed my list. In the past week, I’d driven a car. Not on the road. Not even forward, technically, but I’d sat in Metal Pete’s yard and shifted an old Civic from park to drive and back to park. Tonight, I’d chicken-fought and played Nertz with Max, Gina, and Gray.

Progress.

Maybe forgiving Gina and Gray wasn’t letting go of what they’d done or dulling it down. Maybe forgiveness was giving the past less power to hurt me. Or even building new memories that were stronger than the painful ones. We’d done a little bit of that tonight.

“What do you think, Trent?” I asked the breeze.

I conjured a picture of him. Earth-toned board shorts, a light-blue Billabong tank top, and a pink trucker cap that hid his bleached-blond hair. The same clothes he’d worn on the day he died. I imagined what he’d tell me. The mental chorus of words came as they often did.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

“To the grudge? Or to Gina and Gray?” I asked, frustrated.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Early Saturday morning, Max scratched on my tent. Gina pulled a pillow over her face and groaned as I unzipped the tent. The sun stretched and yawned with me.

Max looked as if he’d been up for hours. He held up a Diet Coke and a Sharpie. I sipped on the Coke and rubbed my eyes before I realized I was still in my shorts in the daylight. Tennessee and Pink Floyd said hi to both of us.

“I’m trying to stop,” I said to Max, putting the Sharpie back in his hand. We’d discussed my Sharpie problem at length one night by instant messenger.

“No. No.” He tapped his bare chest. “I need a treasure map.”

“You want me to draw on you? What time is it?”

“Too early,” Gina moaned from inside the tent.

“It’s pirate time,” Max answered as loudly as he could. He kicked the bottom of the tent. “Up and at ’em, Adler.”

She groaned again.

I unzipped the tent halfway. “Let me put on some pants, and I’ll draw your treasure map.”

He stopped the zipper and tapped his throat. “Does my voice bother you?”

“You know it doesn’t.”

I never even thought about his voice unless I had to have him repeat something. I let him zip the tent to the top and took the Sharpie.

Max of small victories struck again.

I penned a pirate map worthy of Blackbeard. Drawing on myself was therapy. Drawing on him was sexy. The dotted line led this way and that, but ended at his heart. I circled a big X and handed him the Sharpie.

Tucking his chin, he admired my work. “Nicely done.”

“Expert,” I said with a shrug.