The Lies About Truth(51)

She stood up and left. When she returned, she had a package of alcohol wipes. Very carefully, in neat, gentle strokes, she cleaned the Sharpie off my face. I pushed up my sleeve for her to see Tennessee.

She cleaned it, too.

I lifted the covers, and let her see Pink Floyd.

There was so much sadness as she scrubbed away the damage I’d done to myself. In a quiet tone, as she threw away the supplies, she said, “I’m calling Dr. Glasson.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Where are your Sharpies?” she asked, as if they were drugs.

“In my drawer. The one beside my bed.”

Mom slipped both markers into her pocket and walked toward the hall. When she closed my door behind her, she opened it again immediately. “I love you,” she said fiercely.

Mom threw those sweet words at me, and I snatched them out of the air and tucked them to my chest.

“I love you too,” I echoed back.

The door closed for good, and Mom retreated toward the kitchen. Toward the phone. Toward the safety net of my father and his jambalaya that boiled on the kitchen stove. He cooked when things were off. Sometimes at two in the afternoon; sometimes at two in the morning.

He cooked. Mom cleaned. I stared at the back of my eyelids.

But I didn’t Sharpie any more scars.

Around me, the air-conditioning hummed and the ceiling fan rotated slowly, and the two little chains that hung down from the center globe clicked against each other—click, silence, click—and my fish swam in their gurgling prison. All familiar white-noise sounds that usually lulled me to sleep.

This afternoon they kept me awake and distracted.

Maybe an hour later, my bedroom door swung on its hinges and two fragrances crawled into bed without an invitation. Ocean salt and sandalwood, the scent of a million sleepovers.

Gina.

“I had to come,” she said. “Please don’t ask me to leave.”

The duvet separated us. Her arm fell over me, and she wiggled as close as she could. Gina and I had talked for hours in this bed. About the guys, and nail polish, and sex, which clothes to wear, extra pounds from french fries, and . . . I could write a Tolkien-length book of things we’d discussed.

After a year of push-and-shove, I rolled over. Into her.

My best friend held me.

Anger or not, it was glorious.

“Gray told me what happened,” she said. “I was going to tell you after this weekend.”

I stayed tucked against her chest where I couldn’t see her. She took a breath so deep, it was as though she used the air in my lungs.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

If there was one thing I knew, it was that Gina Adler was sorry. But I hadn’t known until today what she was sorry for. She worked her hands through the snarls in my hair as if she could somehow untangle everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I asked.

Gina had an answer and question ready. “Because it wasn’t just my lie. Or even one lie. Why didn’t you tell me Trent was gay?”

“Same reason,” I said.

Gina twisted a strand of hair around her finger until it was tight against her scalp, pulling so hard I was afraid she’d rip it out. I stopped her.

She and I had been friends since kindergarten. When you know someone that well, she reads like a newspaper. Smiles and frowns are front-page stories. Tears are obituaries and birth announcements. And little habits: they’re the human-interest stories. This hair thing with Gina . . . she did that when she deeply regretted something.

“Can we tell each other everything now?” she asked.

“Please.”

Gina thumbed down her eyebrows, massaging away the stress. She looked at my face, from the top of Idaho down to the scar at my mouth, and traced the lines with her index finger.

I let her. Max had kissed those lines and kept his eyes open.

This was Gina’s kiss. It was acceptance.

“I hate looking at you,” she whispered.

“I’m aware.”

“I hate it because I feel responsible,” Gina said.

I focused on the fish tank instead of Gina’s silent sobs. I wanted to put my arms around her, and eventually I did. She cried in earnest while the water bubbled in the tank and the fish swam in circles. I listened with my heart. And for once, I know she felt heard.

The memory of the wreck burned fresh in Gina’s eyes when she spoke.

“Gray and I heard screeching tires and turned around. . . .” She cuffed the back of her neck and rubbed. “We watched it. Heard it. That sound of his car crashing into the tree—that’s what I hear at night, and when I wake up, and when I look at you, and when I think about Trent.”

“I hear it too.”

She swept my bangs farther to the side and looked, really looked, at Idaho. “Gray probably said this, and you probably don’t understand, but you were so hurt. And not just here.” Slowly, she moved her hands from Idaho to Tennessee to the center of my chest. “You were broken here. We all were in different ways, and we just messed up.”

She paused to breathe, but I continued to listen. To the silence. To her words.

“Gray and I thought we were saving you from more pain. But keeping that secret backfired. It created a weird . . . intimacy . . . a guilt pact. After you caught him kissing me, God, I knew all we’d done was make another scar for you to wear. And that scar had my name on it. Sadie, please understand, I couldn’t bear to give you another scar.”