Seven Ways We Lie(84)

I smile. It’s weak but genuine. I feel like somebody who hasn’t stood in months, finding her feet under her again. Complete with the rush of blood from my head. “Okay. I will. I’ll see you.”

Then I head inside. Down the hall, toward the office, gaining speed. I gather my courage, clenching it in my fists, ready to tell them that I’m the one who lied.





I HURRY UP TO THE ARCHWAY THAT LEADS INTO THE lunchroom. I hate eating here, hate it more than bad traffic and bullies combined, but after three days, I still don’t know what to say to Lucas about Monday. My method of resolute avoidance has worked so far.

As I approach the arch, a nasal-sounding voice says behind me, “Hey, look who it is.”

I turn. “Dean.” I step to the side of the arch, allowing the traffic to pass us. The bridge of his nose is thick and red. I say, “I’ll accept your apology anytime.”

He laughs. “Apology? You think I owe you an apology?”

“Yes.” I fold my arms. “I said it wasn’t true, what everyone was saying about Lucas. So I was right. So you can apologize anytime.”

“You are really asking for it.” He moves forward, and I stand my ground, preparing to duck and run the second his curled fists move.

“Stop,” says a tired voice. Lucas’s voice. I turn toward him.

As people pass, they avoid his eyes. Most look embarrassed, and rightfully so, given what they’ve been saying since Monday. “Stop, Valentine,” Lucas says. “Don’t.”

I point at Dean. “But he keeps saying you’re—”

“He’s right.”

I flounder. “W-what?”

“I am?” Dean says.

“Sort of.” Lucas digs his hands into his pockets. “I’m not gay, but I’m pansexual, which is like—it’s a little like bisexual, but—”

“I know what it is,” I break in.

“Great,” Dean says. “So I was right, Simmons. So take this back.” He points at his nose.

I round on him, narrowing my eyes. “I didn’t punch you for saying he was gay, you cretin. I punched you because you were being an * about it.”

“Whatever. I don’t need this.” Dean gives Lucas a scathing look as he stalks toward the archway. “Glad the season’s over.”

We both look after him for a second; then Lucas moves toward an empty classroom nearby. I follow him inside, and he shuts the door, locking out the sound. We stay quiet for a minute, and then I clear my throat, feeling strange. “You’re . . . and you never told your swimming friends?”

He rolls his shoulders in that easy shrug. “I was scared,” he says, as if it’s nothing, as if admitting you’re scared isn’t gut-wrenchingly personal.

“Why did you tell Dean the truth, then?” I ask. “He would’ve believed it was a rumor.”

Lucas’s smile twists. It looks painful. “I wanted it back in my own hands, man. Didn’t want to start lying all over again.” He runs a hand through his hair. “By the way, we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I—I can go; I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

“What, like I’m going to get all, no homo?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes.”

“Go ahead and homo,” I say dryly. “I couldn’t care less.”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. After Monday, I thought you were . . .”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know. Not interested.”

“No,” I say, not quite grasping his expression. Caution, maybe? “You’re still interesting,” I say. “I avoided you because I doubted you’d take kindly to my punching—”

He leans down and kisses me.

It feels like I thought it would. Skin on lips, lips on skin. Of all things, the closeness is the strangest: the knowledge that Lucas’s mind is inches from mine, churning with his skipping, jumping thoughts, compiling lists and collections, cataloging everything that’s happening even now. He tilts his head, his nose presses into my cheek, and his hand finds the back of my head. One of his big, sturdy arms circles my back. It is too much sensation, almost, to process.

I frown as the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine. Odd feeling. I wait for something new to happen in my head, something different.

Eventually, he pulls back, and his hand falls from my hair. “You’re not into it,” he says as I inhale slowly. The taste of him is cold on my lips, tingling mint. Not unpleasant. Not life-changing. Just another experience.

“Because I’m into you,” he says, his eyes holding mine. They are darker than I’d realized, spokes of dark chocolate on oil. “Really into you, Valentine.”

I sway. My cheeks burn. “Right. I sort of gathered that from the. Um. Yes.”

“And you . . .”

“I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”

“Right. You’re not into guys,” he says, disappointment settling onto his face.

Frustration mounts in my chest. He’s attractive; that’s obvious. I’ve never connected with a human being the way I have with him. And still—still . . . “I’m not into anyone,” I say desperately. “I don’t know if it’s because I’ve hardly had a friend, or what, but conceptualizing crushes has always been a problem, and I just—I don’t.” The words stick in my throat. I say them again, a broken record spitting broken words: “I don’t.”