Lies You Never Told Me(32)

She gives a hollow laugh. “I’m lucky. He wanted to homeschool me. When we moved here I begged to go to public school. He finally gave in, but it was on a bunch of conditions. No dating, no flirting, no extracurriculars. I have a six P.M. curfew.”

“Six?” I spit. “I mean, what if you want to . . .”

“Want to what?” She looks up at me. “I can’t go out, Gabe. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I . . . I really like you. But this isn’t going to work.”

The words jerk me back and forth. I soar for a moment before the crash. I like you . . . but. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t get to be a normal girl, okay? If I were . . .” She blushes, looks down. “You deserve to be with someone fun and easygoing and . . . and normal. Someone who can actually talk to you in public. But that’s not me. My life is . . . complicated.”

“I don’t care,” I say immediately. “I don’t mind complicated.”

“You don’t understand. If we got caught . . .”

“We’ll be careful,” I insist. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Catherine.”

Her eyes fill with tears. She brushes them away with the back of her hand. “That’s sweet. But there’s nothing you can do. He’ll move us again—I know he will. I told you we came here from California, but the truth is, we lived three other places before that. Every time I get attached to something, or someone—every time I might be just an iota out of his control—he finds some excuse to yank me out of school and hit the road again.” She looks up at me, a few teardrops clinging in her lashes. “If he finds out I like you, he’ll take you away from me, too.”

“He won’t find out,” I say urgently, knowing even as I say it that I can’t promise that.

“And Sasha . . .”

“I told you, Sasha and I are through,” I say quickly.

Her forehead crinkles, and I have to fight not to reach a fingertip up, to smooth the worry away. “Are you sure about that?”

My body goes rigid. “Why? What’s she been saying?”

She shakes her head. “She’s been really friendly in astronomy—sitting next to me, trying to start up conversations. She invited me to go to the mall with her the other day. Obviously I made an excuse. But something about it is . . . off. I don’t know, maybe it’s all in my head. But I get the feeling she’s seen us . . . talking. Girls like that scare me. I can’t get in the middle of whatever is going on between you two. I can’t invite more chaos into my life.”

I hesitate, thinking about the Snap I got last week. The picture of Catherine with a death’s head. But Sasha’d seemed so earnest when I asked her about it. Whoever’s messing with you . . . it’s not me. I don’t know who else would do something like that. But I want to believe it. More than that . . . I want Catherine to believe it.

“She’s over me,” I say. “She’s dating someone else now. You don’t have to worry.”

She gives a rueful laugh. “See, but this is the point. Between Sasha and my dad, maybe it’s just a sign. Now’s not our time. If I’d met you . . . God, if I’d met you any other time in my life, I’d be . . .”

I wait for her to finish the sentence. She doesn’t.

“No one else gets to decide if we’re right for each other,” I say fiercely. I picture her dad again, his jaw tense, his eyes cold shards. I picture Sasha, smirking. Both of them so sure they can control us. Both of them so sure they’re in charge. “I won’t let fear keep me from someone who makes me feel like this.”

I’m suddenly hyperaware of the way our legs and hands touch, of the warm smell of pomegranates in her hair, of her pale and narrow face turned toward mine. The dark gray-blue of her irises seems lit from within, like some luminous deep-cave crystal.

Our lips find each other. The kiss is light and lingering, her breath warm on my mouth. We never fully break apart, our foreheads resting against each other. Her eyes close. My pulse drums in my ear.

“This isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” she says. “But it’s close.”





SIXTEEN


    Elyse




Thursday afternoon there’s a soft, almost tentative knock at the front door.

I’ve been out of school for three days. I’m trying to help my mom through the worst parts of detox; she’s been shaky and weak and crouched over a toilet vomiting almost the whole time. Neither one of us has made it to work, which is scary because we don’t have much padding in our bank account—but more frustrating to me is missing three days of play rehearsal. I told Brynn to tell everyone I had strep throat, and she reassured me that Mr. Hunter was rearranging the schedule so they could focus on scenes without me in them—but I hate feeling like I’m letting everyone down.

At least I’ve had a chance to finally clean up the apartment. Mom’s in bed, so I’ve been taking loads of clothes down to the laundry room, vacuuming the floor, throwing out all the detritus that’s collected around the living room. It’s not magically transforming into Downton Abbey, but it’s an improvement.

When I hear the knock I pause with the duster in my hand, listening. The knock comes again, a little louder this time. I set down the duster and go to open the door.