The Truth About Keeping Secrets(27)

‘You should go back, Whitaker. It might be good for you. If you were to, like, actually see it again – I’d bet it’s prettier than you think. Anyways. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make some new memories there, either. Reclaim the place. You know?’

I looked at her, traced the soft outline of her face with my eyes: the curve of her nose, her chin, her cupid’s bow. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

It was becoming increasingly apparent that I did, in fact, like June Copeland in a way that was more than platonic.

I’d smile whenever I saw her, the action as reflexive as kicking when your knee’s tapped. It was more embarrassing than anything; we wouldn’t even be talking about anything funny and I’d have to try to keep a straight face.

In algebra, I started dashing a short line through the middle of my sevens, the way I’d seen she’d done it in some worksheets she left in the back seat.

I was thrilled and surprised in equal measure at the ease with which I could say things to her, strange or otherwise. I told her everything. Well, most things. I told her how I was feeling on my bad days. I left out the parts where I thought maybe Dad was murdered, where I spent most of my free time watching people die.

Of course, I couldn’t act on my feelings towards her. Of course I couldn’t. Even if she realized on her own (because I liked to act as if it wasn’t obvious), my life could have been made even worse than it already was. I’d have to move schools, maybe. Change my name. Local girl’s dad croaks – is still horny for June Copeland. Despite the likelihood of her being straight. Despite her being taken. So I kept it quiet, kept it selfish, and just absentmindedly basked in her presence, bathed in it, lived in it. I was happy just being with her, living on the same planet, breathing the same air.

But there was always an element of uncertainty. The understanding that there had to be something else to all this.

Dad. She never mentioned whatever had happened while she was seeing him. She never even brought it up again. And everything else about her: she’d barely ever talk about Heath or her parents, either. Of course, I never really asked. What would I say? ‘So, tell me a little bit about your home life.’ I didn’t necessarily think it weird that the subject never came up naturally in conversation, because I didn’t exactly expect it to – but when your entire relationship with someone is based on your late father I thought maybe there’d be something. Anything.

Her reluctance to share fed a particularly ugly fear that maybe she could hardly even tolerate me. That this was all only happening because she felt some strange sense of obligation to my dad after ‘what happened’. The ‘what’ of that sentence was as elusive as she was. On days where I could say ‘Dad’, I tried to ask.

‘So, uh, how long did you see him for?’

‘Oh, man.’ June thought, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. ‘Six months, I think.’

‘So, I guess … how was he?’

‘In what way?’

‘I mean, did you like him? Or, I guess … what was he like?’ I knew what he was like, of course. But I wanted to know what he was like with her.

‘He was great. He was patient and understanding and had this, essence, I guess. Just really warm. Funny. I get why you loved him so much. Of course I do. I know that’s part of the job but he never made it feel like that.’ She paused. Swallowed once. ‘And he gave me incredibly discounted sessions.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Like, almost free. My parents were – they’re weird, about that stuff, so, yeah.’

‘What do you mean weird?’

‘Like …’ She let out something between a sigh and a grunt. ‘It’s hard to explain. Sorry, I don’t want to dump this on you or anything, but my parents are divorced and I’m not close at all to my dad, and my mom – eh. She’s one of those people that thinks mental illness can be cured with, like, a positive attitude and multivitamins. And she would not have agreed with me going.’

‘So she didn’t even know?’

She shook her head. ‘She doesn’t really know anything about me at all.’

‘Yeah. I get it.’

We were quiet for a moment. Longing for all the things we lacked filled the empty space.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘I guess I was kind of on my own trying to figure stuff out. Yeah. He was a good dude. Or maybe I was such a head case that he thought it was his civic duty to sort me out.’

‘Did he?’

‘Eh. Almost.’

Something about the conversation made it feel like Dad had been sitting in the back seat this whole time, but I’d just never turned to look.

Of all the issues with my less-than-innocent fondness for June, the most physical was Heath.

I caught myself looking out for him at school, paranoid he’d be able to tell how I felt just by seeing my face when I looked at her. But truthfully, I didn’t really want anything bad to happen between them because as much as everything in me fought against it, I liked the guy. I couldn’t help it.

In December, while I was waiting for June after school, I was on the ToD, watching this particularly incriminating video of a building jumper, and Heath had come up beside me without me noticing.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled and puffed out his cheeks. Yeah. He saw. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’