Lies You Never Told Me(51)

“Well, anyway, I’m glad it’s over. I feel like . . . like a different person. Especially since I met you,” I say.

Our eyes meet, and my body sparks like a live wire. The sun is bright behind her, the light lost in her glossy hair. Almost without realizing what I’m doing, I leave my seat and climb across to where she’s sitting. The boat rocks hazardously, and we laugh, clinging to one another, before it steadies. I rest my cheek against the crown of her head and take a deep breath.

“I do too,” she says softly. I can feel the vibration of her voice against my chest. “It’s probably obvious, but I was scared at first. It’s been a long time since I . . . since I had anyone. I mean, friends, or . . .” She trails off. I can see that she’s blushing from the pink in the part of her hair. “And the last time I trusted anyone it didn’t go well.”

I don’t speak for a few minutes. I’ve known from the first time I saw her that something, someone, hurt her. You can see it in the angle of her shoulders, in the wounded curve of her mouth. You can hear it in her voice. I’m not sure if I should ask more, or let her tell me in her own time.

Finally, I swallow my curiosity. Because whatever happened, it was bad enough that it’s kept her lonely and locked up ever since. She’s the one who has to decide what it means. But I tilt her face upward to look at mine. “I’ll never hurt you.”

“Don’t say that,” she murmurs. “You can’t promise that. Not really.”

I rest my hand against her back, feeling the way her breath moves in and out, the way our bodies gently conform to one another’s. “Why can’t you trust me?”

“I do,” she says quickly. “I just mean . . . things happen, sometimes. People get hurt.”

“Give me a chance to show you,” I say softly. I look down into her face again, and a desperate ache twists in my chest. “Cat, I love you.”

The words are out before I can think about them, but I know as soon as I’ve said it that it’s true. Her lips part in surprise. Then she puts her forehead to mine, closes her eyes.

“I love you too,” she whispers.





TWENTY-EIGHT


    Elyse




“Hey, Elyse, you coming?” Frankie asks.

It’s nine on Saturday night, and we’ve just wrapped our last performance of the week. Everyone’s gathering up their stuff and getting ready to go, but I’m still in the green room’s vanity, wiping away my makeup. I’m taking my time so I have an excuse to linger behind when everyone else is gone. The rest of the cast is going downtown tonight—there’s talk of trying to get into a bar, but really they’ll probably just get donuts and coffee and wander around the Pearl District watching hipsters stagger from one cocktail bar to another.

Brynn’s crouched next to one of the big plastic tubs we keep our props in, helping the stagehands pack the swords and things away, but I can tell she’s listening. We’ve been tentative with each other, a little halting. I realize with a pang that we’d probably make up by midnight if I went out with them tonight. Nothing like the camaraderie of getting kicked out of a gay club, or eating too much sugar and horsing around Pioneer Square, to bring people together.

But I already have plans.

“I can’t tonight,” I say. “I’ve got work.”

“The night of the performance? That sucks.” Brynn frowns. “It’s already ten.”

“Yeah, Rita’s sick. I said I could cover the last few hours of her shift,” I say, smiling. “But I’ll be at the cast party next week.”

Trajan slides an arm around Brynn’s waist. They look adorably ridiculous; she comes up only as far as his shoulder. “Text when you get off. If we’re still out, I’ll come get you.”

“Thanks.” I smile, truly grateful.

In the dressing room, I change slowly into my street clothes. When I get out, everyone’s gone. I pick up my phone and text my mom.

Going out with the cast to celebrate—is it okay if I stay at Brynn’s tonight?

A few minutes later, her reply comes.

Sure see u tomorrow

I grab my bag and turn out the green room’s light. When I step back out into the theater, Aiden’s waiting.

“Ready?” he asks.

I lean up to kiss his cheek. “Ready.”



* * *



? ? ?

He drives toward the Columbia River Gorge. It’s dark, so I can’t see much, but the high canyon wall looms to our right, a slice of darkness that blocks out the sky. The moon’s hidden behind the clouds. Even with the heat on in the car I can feel the crisp chill of the air whipping across the river.

We don’t talk much, but it’s a comfortable, intimate quiet. The radio is on low, and I lean against the window. It feels like a luxury to be driven somewhere—to lie back and trust in the person at the wheel.

After almost two hours he pulls onto a small side road that wends its way up the mountains. He turns on his brights, flooding the narrow road ahead of us with light. I can see needles of rain, lichen-covered trees. I sit up as the gloom closes in around us.

It feels like forever before we pull up in front of a small A-frame cabin. The forest crowds in on all sides, so it feels like a fairy-tale cottage in an enchanted wood.