The Lies About Truth(50)

“Hate you? Of course not. Why would you even think that?” I said indignantly. We didn’t have any gay friends, but I’d never given him any reason to think I’d judge him if he was in love with a guy instead of a girl.

“’Cause . . .”

He looked like a lost boy.

“Look, I don’t care who you love as long as I get to be in your life,” I told him.

He tucked a tangle of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. “Sadie May, you are a wonder of wonders.”

“Well . . . you being in love with Chris Callahan is much easier than you being in love with me.”

“What do you think about the others?” he asked.

The others were Gina, Gray, and Max.

“You need to tell Gina,” I said.

He stared up at the sky. “Even if I don’t have my head around this yet?”

“Does Chris know?” I asked pointedly.

Trent nodded shyly, and in a way that told me his feelings weren’t one-sided.

“Then you’ve got to tell Gina something. She deserves to know,” I said.

“You’re right.” He gave a slow, painful exhale. “But give me some time. I wasn’t expecting to have these feelings, and I’m still not sure what I should do with them.”

I pulled him away from the sky and back to my face with an honest question. “What do you want to do, Trent?”

“Understand.”

That made sense to me. These weren’t easy feelings to navigate.

“Okay,” I said. “But if you follow through on those ‘feelings’”—I threw some air quotes around the word—“and don’t tell Gina, I’ll kick your ass. Got it?”

He saluted. “Got it.”

We lay there for a little while.

“You know Gina better than anyone. What will she say?” he asked.

I could only guess, but that didn’t seem wise to do. “Trent, you can’t know how she’ll respond, but that doesn’t mean hiding this is okay. Ya know, maybe she’ll surprise you.”

“Will Max and Gray hate me?” he asked.

“I don’t think hate has a role in this. They’ll be surprised.”

“Were you?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “Uh, remember that time I thought you were going to confess your undying love for me and then it turned out you were gay?”

He laughed. “I’m not gay.”

I rolled my eyes toward him and latched my hand with his.

Trent tried out the words. “Okay, I might be gay.”

That was far enough for one day.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“Understanding.”

I wished Trent had given Max and Gray and Gina that same opportunity to understand.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Max stayed on the Jet Ski as I disembarked. His eyes were glazed over in thought and didn’t meet mine when I asked, “Can we talk later?”

“I’m sure we can. I’ll call.”

That response was better than I expected.

I zombied my way inside, wondering if this was how Trent felt in that moment before he told me about Callahan—as if he might lose me.

Even though it was lunchtime, I took a long, hot shower, Sharpied my scars—even Idaho and Nameless—and crawled into bed feeling worse than I had in a year. How in the hell had life ended up like this? This was why we’d all lied. We wanted to avoid this explosion, and destruction came all the same.

I slept on that thought until late in the afternoon, when my parents returned early from Pirates and Paintball. Drawers and doors slammed shut as Mom and Dad put away camping and food supplies. I listened for their whispers among the noises, but they weren’t talking. The crashing and banging sounds communicated enough. They were home . . . and angry.

Mom’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood hall floor, slapping toward my bedroom door like Godzilla. My doorknob turned.

“Sadie.”

Slam. She dropped my weekend bag on the floor and glared at me.

“What did you do?” she asked. Her voice pinched each word.

“I came home early.”

“No. What did you do to your face?”

I slowly lifted the covers over my mouth and then over my whole head, remembering the Sharpie session I’d done before I’d fallen asleep. There was no explanation.

Mom walked over to the bed and sat down. “Baby, what’s going on?”

I had a one-word answer. “Life.”

“I thought you were getting better,” she said, completely forlorn.

“I am better.”

She tugged the covers down, peeled my hands away from my face, and held on. “Honey, this doesn’t look better. This looks scary.”

“I am scary.”

She kissed me all over my face, like the Sharpie was a million boo-boos that needed her love. Over and over, with each kiss, she said, “Be okay,” as if they were prayers.

Maybe they were.

When she finished, she didn’t let go of my face. “Are you listening to me?”

She made sure I was.

“What you did today was rude and selfish. Leaving in the middle of the weekend. Not even telling us why. You left us to pick up your campground site and get your bag. You ignored my texts.” She growled, and then sighed deeply. “Your father and I were . . . I don’t know what we were, but this”—she squeezed my cheeks and softened her voice—“needs to be addressed first.”