If I'm Being Honest(78)

Morgan’s expression softens. She opens her mouth, but Elle’s impatient voice interrupts her.

“Morgan. You coming or what?” Elle asks, her arms crossed.

Morgan gives me an apologetic glance, then nods. “I hope you guys figure this out soon, Cam,” she says before heading in Elle’s direction.

I watch them leave, the physical ache of their absence worse than ever before.

Elle wasn’t a perfect friend. Our friendship wasn’t perfect. I know that now in a way I didn’t before. But just because it wasn’t perfect doesn’t mean it’s worth giving up on.

I’ve made enough apologies in the past few months to know when I need to make one more.





Thirty-Seven



I DRIVE RIGHT FROM CROSS-COUNTRY TO WEST Hollywood, where I proceed to hunt for parking for thirty minutes before finding a meter. Crossing the street, I take in the crowd of elaborately dressed twentysomethings congregated outside one of Melrose Avenue’s many murals. The pink-and-white wall faces a patio with rows of folding tables holding stacks of T-shirts with intricate logos I don’t recognize. A DJ spins hip-hop in one corner as girls in ankle-high Nikes and pristine makeup peruse the hats and jackets. Word only spreads for pop-up shops like this one on social media. I had to hunt surreptitiously for half an hour in Computer Science to figure out where I’m going.

I ignore the DJ and walk to the back, where an unmistakable yellow van waits. When a gorgeous model exits in fresh makeup, I catch the open door. Inside, Elle’s cleaning her brushes.

She glances up, anger quickly settling on her features.

“You’re following me now?” she asks shortly.

“I’ll admit,” I say, keeping my voice light, “I stalked you on Instagram to find you.” Elle doesn’t laugh, not that I expected her to. Her mouth remains a hard line. I pull in a breath, needing to say what I came here for. “Elle, I want to apologize.”

She crosses her arms. “Added my name to your list, huh?”

“I have,” I say evenly. “But not for Andrew. For you.”

Elle says nothing. I know it’s the closest I’ll get to permission.

I continue. “You were right about part of what you said. I was wrong to change myself for someone else. No guy—nobody—is worth that.” Not even Brendan. If the only way for us to be together would be for me to change, I wouldn’t. I’m done chasing people who don’t want the real me. “And I admire how you don’t compromise yourself or your goals. You never apologize for your ambition. I want to be like that,” I admit.

It could be wishful thinking, but Elle’s eyes might soften a little.

“But, Elle,” I go on, “there’s a difference between apologizing for who you are and apologizing for what you’ve done. I don’t regret my decision to make amends for how I’ve hurt people. I don’t want to change who I am, but I don’t think trying to be kinder is necessarily the same as changing. I know it’s a fine line. Sometimes I was on the wrong side of the divide between kindness and compromising myself,” I say. “But sometimes I wasn’t.”

I watch Elle for even the touch of a reaction. Finally, she uncrosses her arms.

“Maybe,” she says. She drops into the chair in front of her vanity. “I understand what you were doing,” she continues after a pause. “And I would’ve understood if you’d told me. But you didn’t.”

I lower my eyes. “I should have,” I admit. “And I wanted to. But I just . . .” I pause, searching. “I just think you’re untouchable. Unflinching. Completely you. I didn’t want to get in your way, and I . . . thought you wouldn’t care.”

When Elle speaks again, her voice is even, but I know her well enough to hear the hurt that’s replaced her anger. “You were my best friend, Cameron,” she says quietly, and I don’t miss her use of the past tense. It stings. “I would have cared. I do care. And you might think I’m untouchable”—she emphasizes it with momentary fierceness—“but I do depend on people. I depended on you.” Her words gather force as she continues. “And you confided in people you hardly knew instead of me. You used the personal information I told you for your own agenda. Worst of all? You judged me. I’ve collaborated and encouraged and been there for you for years, and you decided I only use people for my own ends. My best friend determined I wasn’t a good enough person to be a part of what she was doing.”

“That’s not—” I begin. But she’s right. Everything she said is right.

And in a horrible lurch, I realize for the first time how the past few months have felt for Elle. How confusing and lonely they’ve been for this person I thought didn’t care. How I pushed away the closest friend I had, who needed me more than I knew.

“I’m sorry,” I say in nearly a whisper. “I’m going to fix this.”

“Why? Just to ruin it again the next time you think I’m not worthy of being your friend?” Elle’s voice finally wavers. “You can’t fix betrayal with an apology.”

I say nothing. My mind works furiously to bridge the impossible gap between us. Four feet that could be infinite, a lifetime’s journey. Nothing comes, and I only watch her helplessly. Elle pretends not to notice, her eyes returning to the vanity, and begins rearranging her bottles of foundation with what I know is forced precision.