If I'm Being Honest(83)

“You know,” I say, looking out on the water, “you’re not the guy I thought I knew before we were friends. You’re . . . funnier, stronger, braver.” I face him. “I’m grateful,” I say, “and I’m sorry.”

Brendan’s brows join in puzzlement. “Sorry for what?”

“For my nickname. I know we’ve gone over this,” I say when he opens his mouth, “but here with you now, I need to say it one more time. I’m sorry what I called you forced a wonderful, charismatic, honorable guy into the shadows.”

I’m not expecting the way Brendan’s face falls when I finish my speech. His eyes drift downward. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he says. I feel a tremor in my stomach until he continues. “I . . . didn’t hide away because of your nickname. It wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to me. But I let it become an excuse. I used it to justify not finding my own friends, keeping myself closed away with homework and grades. I let it define me and told myself it was your fault. But I’m done doing that, Cameron, and it’s because of you. I think it might be literally impossible to be your friend and not be inspired to be yourself. Be real. Be brave.”

His confession throws me off balance. I say nothing, not really knowing how to contend with what he’s just told me. But Brendan’s not expecting me to reply. He draws in a breath to continue and stares deeply into my eyes.

Just like that, it’s back. The tightness in my chest, threatening to choke off my words.

“Brendan, I don’t—”

“I need to say this,” he interrupts me earnestly. I itch to step back, but the railing holds me.

He takes my hand, and I want to tear free. I want to push past him and run inside. I want to disappear. Because I know what he’s leading up to. From the flush in his cheeks, the tremor in his fingers, and the burning, overwhelming emotion in his eyes.

And I’m not ready to hear it. For a little while on the dance floor, I could lose myself in this terrible-turned-wonderful night. But the more Brendan says, the harder I fight the feeling I don’t deserve this night—don’t deserve him. I’m spoiled. Pathetic. I’m none of the things Brendan believes, and it’s only a matter of time before he figures it out.

“I love you,” he says. The words tumble from his lips and slip beneath the roar of the ocean. “I love you, Cameron,” he repeats, louder this time.

For one moment the declaration hangs between us. His chest expands like he can breathe freely now that he’s voiced his feelings. He smiles, and his entire face glows under the moonlight. I want to live in the moment forever, to stare at him and admire how beautiful he is inside and out while his words echo in my ears.

But his expression shifts. His brow furrows, his eyes dim. He’s waiting for my reply. I open my mouth to say the words back, to smile and kiss him. It wouldn’t be a lie. I do love him, and it’s that realization that steals my breath and stays my tongue. I’m not good enough for him. It’d be better for both of us if I stop ignoring what I’ve known deep down since the day we first spoke.

“I—can’t.” I rip my hand from his and dash past him. Tears blur my vision, but I can’t break down here. What I need is to run, but these shoes, this ridiculous dress, and miles of ocean are in the way.

I head for a bathroom. A slow song is playing on the dance floor, and dozens of couples hold each other, swaying like the sea beneath us. I hurry through the room, praying no one will notice me.

But in the narrow hallway, I stop short. In front of the restroom, there’s a girl in tears, holding her phone to her wetted cheek.

It’s Bethany Bishop. She doesn’t notice me for a moment or two, and I overhear her conversation. “He went off with Kim Shepherd in the middle of winter formal. It’s like I don’t even exist.” It’s easy enough to guess what’s going on here. Jeff Mitchel’s never been an upstanding guy.

Bethany’s eyes find mine. I watch her recognize me, then take in the tear trickling down my cheek, the dampness of my forehead. She hangs up hastily.

My stomach churns. At first, I think it’s seasickness, but then I recognize it. The bitter, oily current coursing through my veins. “Bethany,” I say with a familiar sneer. “You have only yourself to blame. I told you not to go for Jeff in September. Remember?” The cruelty comes back easily, blunting the pain in my chest and distracting me from my heartache. “You knew he could never care about you. You knew you were wasting your time trying to get him to like you. Now you’re left with nothing, and it’s your own fault.”

It feels good. Even if I’m not only talking about Bethany. For a moment, I can breathe again.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re pathetic,” I say, dredging the words from the well of anger I’ve found deep in me.

Bethany’s face crumples. I watch her eyes go glassy with a hurt she doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make me feel better—only different. But I can handle different. Guilt and remorse are more palatable than the empty sadness waiting for me. They’re old friends, the only ones who’ll never leave me.

I want Bethany to lash out, to tell me I’m an awful person. A bitch. It’s what I deserve. Hot and angry words. Hateful glances. Instead, her lip wobbles, and the fire fueling me falters. I turn before it can die out completely.