Lies You Never Told Me(72)

On him. I can see that as soon as I take a step closer. He’s a kid—my age, I think, Latino, with dark curls plastered to his forehead from the rain. When I see that he’s breathing I take a shuddering gulp of air myself. I kneel down to get a better look, holding up my umbrella with one hand.

He stares up at the sky with a blank, dazed expression. There’s a raw-looking scrape on one cheek, and his arm is lying at a strange angle to his body. A few yards away is a splintered skateboard, one wheel still spinning.

A rattling groan escapes from his chest. It scares me for a second, until I realize he’s had the wind knocked out of him. He’s trying to find his breath.

“Shhhhh,” I whisper, resting a hand on his cheek. “Don’t move.”

His eyes roll around frantically. I pull out my phone and type in 911. “I need to report an accident. Hit-and-run. There’s a . . . a boy. He’s hurt. It’s at Merritt and Bantam. Please hurry.”

I hang up before they can ask any questions.

My stomach churns. I should have been paying attention. I shouldn’t have fiddled with the radio. I shouldn’t have taken the car out just before a rainstorm. I should . . . but the list of what I should or shouldn’t have done goes back and back for what feels like forever. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and when I open them again, my hands are steady. I don’t want to leave him here in the middle of the street, in the rain, but I have to go before the police get here. If Aiden finds out I talked to the cops he’ll lose his mind.

The boy’s eyes sink closed. I watch him for a moment. There’s something about his face that I don’t know how to describe—something gentle. Though maybe that’s just because he’s in repose. Maybe everyone looks kind in their sleep. For a fleeting moment, I wish I could stay. I want to hold my umbrella over him, keep him from the rain. But the faint echo of sirens cuts through the night. I have to go. I jump up and run back to the car.



* * *



? ? ?

Back home I let myself in the front door as quietly as I can. I’m still jittery with adrenaline, but I keep my movements careful and controlled.

“Where’ve you been?” The question pounces on me the moment I open the door. Aiden glowers from the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of tea.

He’s traded in the mustache for a full beard, and he highlights it with silver every few weeks. It does a reasonable job of making him look even older than he is. He’s taken out his contacts for the night, so I can see the gleaming hazel of his eyes, like coins under water.

I put down my umbrella and bend to untie my shoes.

“I wanted ice cream,” I say.

His eyes narrow.

“Where is it?”

“Oh, I just got a bar. I ate it on the way.” I give him what’s left of my smile. It’s a ragged, paltry little thing now, but I try to make it convincing.

He disappears back into the hall and comes back with one of our thin thrift-store towels. Instead of handing it to me, he wraps it around my shoulders.

“Don’t go out like that without telling me,” he says. He rubs my hair a little too roughly with the towel. I flinch.

“I should’ve left a note. I’m sorry,” I say.

He looks down into my face and finally smiles. “It’s okay. I just worry,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words are automatic. I don’t even think about them anymore. Like many things, it’s easier that way.

When he kisses me I fight the urge to pull away. I close my eyes. The image of the skater floats back up to my mind, and I imagine what it’d be like to be with someone like that. Someone my age. Someone I’m not scared of.

But it’s useless to imagine something like that. I made my choice a long time ago. I’m stuck here, and there’s no way out.

“Let’s get you out of those wet things,” Aiden says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”





FORTY-ONE


    Gabe




It’s a forty-five-minute drive to the Hill Country Motel, just outside Austin. I put Caleb’s jeep through its paces, stepping on the gas all the way. The roads are narrow and rough; scrubby ranchland alternates with shaggy cedar and mesquite trees. As dusk comes, I see more and more deer bounding along the side of the road. I send up a silent prayer to whatever saint looks out for deer that they stay out of my way. I don’t want to hit Bambi—but I’m not about to slow down.

Please hurry.

I don’t know what “hurry” means to her—don’t know what the timetable is, don’t know what might be happening even now. I texted her before starting out but I haven’t heard another word. Is she in trouble? Is she hurt? Every second feels like a fully encapsulated panic attack. My fingers are tight on the wheel, and I rattle over potholes and cracked pavement without slowing down.

The sun slips behind the curtain of trees and leaves a bloody smear along the horizon as I catch sight of the sign nestled against the forest’s canopy. Hill Country Motel. It’s a long, low building, paint peeling away in strips. The parking lot is gravel. Trees fringe the little clearing. There’s nothing else around.

I pull into the parking lot and turn off the truck. Then I sit there for a moment.