Lies You Never Told Me(33)

It’s Mr. Hunter.

I’m so surprised I just stand there and stare. He’s got a black umbrella unfurled, his shoes damp in the rain. His golden-green eyes are warm and curious. I’m suddenly hyperaware of my own getup: sweatpants, a bandana tied over my greasy hair.

“Hey, Elyse. Sorry to just stop by like this.” He smiles, and the dimple appears in his cheek. “I’ve been worried about you. I thought I’d swing by and bring some soup.” He holds up a plastic tub, steaming in the cold.

“Mr. Hunter. Uh . . . thank you. That’s so . . .” I stammer.

That’s when Mom’s door swings open, and she staggers out in her sweats. Her hair is plastered to her forehead. She doesn’t even look at us—just disappears into the bathroom. I can hear her banging around inside. Then I hear the unspeakable sound of her losing the toast and egg I managed to coax her to eat this morning.

Mr. Hunter stares at the closed bathroom door. I try to convince my body that now’s the time to dissolve, to vanish into thin air. To disappear into the shadows. But I’m still corporeal a moment later, still standing with the door open and the cold air rushing in and the soup tub held out, stranded midair between us.

I grab him by the arm and spin him around. “Mom, I’m going to check on the laundry. I’ll be back in a minute!” I shout, following him out and shutting the door firmly behind me.

The rain patters lightly on his umbrella overhead. The sweat I’d worked up cleaning the apartment grows clammy out here in the chill air. I close my eyes and feel the tremble start along the surface of my skin and work its way down, until I’m shaking all over, cold to the bone, scared and exhausted.

“So,” he says softly. “You’re not sick. Your mom is.”

“I know that’s not an excused absence, Mr. Hunter, and I’m really . . .” I start to apologize, but he holds up a hand.

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee, okay?”

I shake my head. “I can’t leave my mom.”

“Just for a few minutes. Come on, you look like you need it.” He rests his palm in the center of my back. It takes little pressure to propel me forward; I let him push me gently toward the stairs.

He opens the door of his plain white sedan for me, and wordlessly I climb in the passenger seat. When he starts the car he turns the heat up full blast.

We don’t say anything for a few minutes. My fingers twist together in my lap. I’m afraid to look at him. I’m not sure what’s worse: that he caught me in a lie, or that he knows what my life is like. If he ever really thought I was special, now he knows just where I come from.

The car glides through the rain, stoplights smearing into bloody streaks as we pass. I still feel the apartment clinging to me, the smell of sweat, the tang of sickness. The sticky, cloying feeling of shame.

It’s not until we’re in line at the drive-through that he says anything. “You must be worried about her. Not a lot of kids stay home to take care of their parents.”

I stare down at my hands.

“She’s detoxing,” I say. “From Oxy. We’ve done it a few times before, but this time it’s really bad. She’s been sick for days.”

I’ve never told anyone except Brynn. It’s dangerous to tell a teacher; he could report my mom to CPS. He could tell the school counselor. Hell, if he were an asshole, he could let it slip at rehearsal and tell everyone.

But the way he looks at me, it’s like he really sees me. Like he knows me. And after fighting so long to keep my family problems hidden from the world, it’s a relief to finally say them out loud.

I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He doesn’t look mad. His brow is crinkled in a look of sympathy. Not pity—sympathy. I know the difference.

Before he can say anything we’re at the window. He smiles at the barista. “Black coffee, please. And . . . what can I get you?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

“How about a grande mocha?” he says to the barista. He looks back at me. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want. But it might warm you up.”

We wait in silence for our drinks. When the barista comes back, Mr. Hunter hands me my cup before paying. It warms my fingers, filling the car with the smell of sugar and coffee.

He pulls into a parking space and lets the car idle. Then he turns in his seat to face me. “Elyse, I’m glad you told me.”

“Please don’t tell anyone else,” I say, a shot of panic ricocheting through my chest. “Not anyone. My mom’s . . . complicated, but I don’t want to lose her again. I don’t want to get taken away.”

“I won’t.” He takes the lid off his coffee to let it cool, resting it in the cup holder. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Tears well up at the corners of my eyes. “It’s just . . . it’s so hard. It’s hard when she’s high. It’s hard when she’s not high. I have to take care of everything.”

He nods. “I know. It’s not fair, Elyse. You’re taking on more than your friends can even imagine. I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

“I don’t, either. Some days it doesn’t feel like I am.” I give a brittle laugh. “Sometimes I just wish I could pack up and leave. Leave my mom, my friends. Go somewhere where I have no ties, so I’d be free to just . . . be whoever I wanted to be. I know that’s awful.”