Lies You Never Told Me(37)

“Hm,” he says, frowning.

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps telling me how easy it was to get emancipated at sixteen,” I say.

“Touché.” He glances at me, his glasses catching the light for a moment so I can’t see his eyes. “How’re things at home?”

“A little better,” I say. “Mom felt good enough to make a meeting this afternoon.”

“NA?” he asks.

“Yeah. I went with her—just to give her some support.”

He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I raise an eyebrow.

“You don’t approve?” I ask.

“It’s not that.” His fingers tap the edges of the steering wheel. “I just worry that you’re taking her sobriety on your own shoulders a little bit. You know you’re not responsible for her.”

I look out the window, biting the edge of my thumbnail.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says quickly. “It’s not my place.”

“No, you’re right. I always feel like somehow, this time, I can make her stay clean. If I just figure out the right mixture of meetings and nagging and support, if I can just will her to try a little harder . . . if I can make things perfect. If I can be perfect.”

“And how’s that been working?” he asks.

I give a little laugh. “About as well as you’d think.”

We pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex. My heart sinks; the ride was too short. He parks in an empty spot, but he doesn’t turn off the engine.

“Look, Elyse, I can’t tell you how to feel. What you’re going through is . . . really hard. But if I could encourage you to do anything . . .” He pauses. “It’d be to protect yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I turn sideways in the seat to look at him.

“Just don’t let yourself believe any of this is your fault. Or your responsibility,” he says carefully. “It’s really noble to want to help your mom. But her sickness isn’t something you can control. And if you let yourself get pulled into her mess, it’ll hold you back.”

I look down at my backpack on my lap.

“I . . . I can’t just let her fend for herself.”

“I know.” His hand comes to rest gently on my elbow. I draw in my breath a little. “Just . . . make sure you don’t sacrifice your own hopes for hers. That’s all.”

I glance up at him. The car suddenly seems very small, our faces very near one another.

“Thanks, Mr. Hunter.”

“Aiden,” he says. “You can call me Aiden. At least when we’re not at school.”

“Aiden.” Maybe it’s all the Shakespeare I’ve been reciting, but I love the rhythm, the shape, the poetry. Aiden.

We sit in silence for a moment. I know I need to get out, but I don’t want to. Not yet.

I don’t know why—maybe it’s the residual adrenaline from being startled, or maybe it’s the memory of the kiss, brief and breathless in the green room. Maybe it’s the curve of his lips in the moonlight, the lock of hair resting carelessly against his forehead. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion kicking in and making me foolish.

What it feels like, though, is bravery.

I lean across the console and kiss him, a quick, nervous peck on the side of his mouth. “There.” I laugh. “Now we’re even.”

He looks down at me, his lips parted in surprise. And I think, Oh God, I’ve done it now. I’ve made it awful. Now I’ll be in trouble, and lose everything, and he’ll never want to see me again . . .

But then his hand is cradling the back of my head and our lips are together, and I taste chocolate and peppermint, and lose myself in the softness of the kiss, the softness of our lips together. His mouth plays against mine without pressure. His tongue traces the gentlest line and then disappears. A sound escapes from my throat.

Abruptly, he stops. He looks around. The parking lot is quiet, but there are lights on in some of the windows.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” he whispers. But he doesn’t move away. He runs a fingertip along my cheek, and I shiver.

“No one’s watching.” I lean up toward him, and we kiss again, but this time he keeps it short.

“We can’t risk it.” He gently shifts away from me. “Sunday. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Where will we go?” I ask. He smiles and shakes his head.

“It’ll be a surprise. Now go on—get upstairs before someone starts to wonder about my car.”

I want to kiss him again, but it feels like a dismissal. The last thing I want is to seem desperate, needy, grasping—even though it’s almost painful to rip myself away. I grab my backpack from between my legs.

“Okay. Sunday.” I open the door and get out. But before I close it behind me, I lean down to peer back at him. “Aiden.”





NINETEEN


    Gabe




The living room blazes with light. I sit next to my mom on the red flower-print sofa, my hands clutching my knees. Two uniformed officers sit in the chairs on the other side of the coffee table, one balancing a mug of tea on her knee.

“No one at the school saw where she went,” says one of the officers, a young woman with wheat-colored hair and a hawklike nose. Her nameplate reads HUNTINGTON. “Her teacher says she left with a young woman, brunette, in her teens or early twenties.”