The Truth About Keeping Secrets(43)

And then, ‘You’re so great, Whitaker.’

I twisted my neck to look her in the eye. Giggled. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, no, no. You’re exceptional. I’m so happy to have you. You’re honestly so great and it makes me really, really sad that the whole thing with Bea happened because now you don’t believe that anyone could really, actually, like you.’

‘OK,’ I said, like a complete idiot who fantasizes day in and day out about affection like this but shuts down when actually receiving that affection and says fucking OK.

She snorted. ‘See? That’s what I’m talking about. You have no idea what to even do right now.’

I felt thoroughly called out. But the interaction was tinted with such a carefree deliriousness that I didn’t even care, the sort of lightness that suggested nothing we’d say here would ever prove of any consequence.

She fell back on to the bed, the aftershock making me bounce. ‘Whi-ta-ker,’ June said, sounding it out like a chant. ‘Whi-ta-ker at the Ri-ver Styx.’

‘June,’ I cooed, like a baby’s first word. ‘That’s a month. Why are you named after a month?’ I said, as though it was very clever.

June changed the subject. ‘Oh. Dude. Hey. Speaking of. I was watching you chewing out Bea.’ Ugh. This. I willed her telepathically to rewind the tape. I preferred the babbling. ‘That was kinda wild. What happened?’

I could have lied. But it wouldn’t have been a good one; mine and Bea’s conversation obviously had some kind of context and honestly, I wanted to tell June about the messages. Maybe I’d just been rendered brave by what happened at the River Styx – that I’d convinced myself tonight would be a night of sharing – but also, maybe I wanted her to know. Or maybe it was too exhausting to continue lying by omission.

So I told her. I told her about the first one after the funeral and each one after, and the ‘present’ I’d been given, every relevant event, all with drunken flair, and she listened intently the whole time, wincing at the parts that were bad enough to merit a wince; though not a complete night of sharing because I decided to leave out the parts where I thought all of this was perhaps the work of a murderer who’d happened to kill my dad. ‘Olivia and I thought for sure that it had to have been Bea, but, I don’t know. You tell me. Did she look guilty?’

‘She looked fucking terrified, is what she looked like.’

I laughed. ‘Well, yeah. So I don’t know. I just don’t think – now I feel like there’s something going the fuck on and it’s pissing me off.’

‘Well – who else … do you think it could be?’ Halfway through the question something changed on her face; maybe it was just because she was drunk, or maybe because she realized the magnitude of the situation, or maybe she could see the red lights flashing murder behind my eyes.

‘That’s the thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’

That was when I became really nauseous.

It was mostly the alcohol. Definitely mostly the alcohol.

‘Uh, sorry, June,’ I managed to squeak through the rising vomit. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

‘Yeah, out and left – do you want me to come with you?’

‘No,’ I said, already halfway out the room. ‘Definitely not. Thanks.’

I made it just in time. And then I was sick. Completely, beautifully sick.

I carefully wiped the seat with toilet paper and washed my hands twice, already feeling the fog lifting from in front of my eyes. Ah, yes. This was what the world actually was. I leaned on the sink, held on for dear life. Wiped at the wetness underneath my eyes. My braids had gone all loose and wispy, and there was a stain from an unidentifiable source smack dab in the middle of my hoodie. But there was still something lighter about me. My shoulders or my stance, or something. I wasn’t sure.

‘Did you puke?’ June asked when I reclaimed my spot beside her.

‘Oh, did I,’ I said. It seemed there was still some alcohol in my system.

‘God. Tomorrow we’re both joining AA. And … going to church.’

I laughed. ‘Repentance!’ I squealed, and while we were laughing, I just started thinking about Dad, about how he knew her and I knew her but never at the same time. She could have been a uniting force but instead she was only a last desperate fibre from which the old world hung. I wanted to introduce her to him as I knew her, not as he did. What did he think of her? I was sure he loved her just as much as I did. I was sure he knew more about her than I did. I wanted more than anything to talk to him about her, everything, all this …

Tears prickled at the backs of my eyes and June, ever the empath, noticed and wrapped an arm round me. ‘Hey, hey. What’s up?’ she asked. So embarrassing, crying in front of her. It never really got less embarrassing. But then she started crying too, just a little. ‘Are you – is it – out of my field of capabilities?’

I nodded, and she pulled me in.

‘Oh, Whitaker. Look at us. What a pair!’ She glanced towards the window. It was pitch-black outside now and it occurred to me that I had no idea what time it was. ‘Come on,’ June said. ‘I think we both need some fresh air.’ With a grunt of exertion, she lifted the window and manoeuvred a leg through.