The Lies About Truth

  “You’re really good at this,” I yelled.

  If he heard, he acknowledged by increasing the speed. Trent rocketed us away from the coast and toward the part of Florida no one visits. Out where bales of cotton lay in the fields and abandoned peanut stands leaned between trees. Angling with him on the curves, leaving my hands on my thighs, I sat slightly to the right and watched our world streak by. The blur was beautiful.

  My ponytail would be a rat’s nest for days, but I didn’t care. There were endless roads and endless smells. Pine. Leather. The lingering scent of coconut sunblock. The sun sat so high in the sky that it looked like the end of a flashlight.

  And I was with Trent, the magician of unusual days.

  When he opened the motorcycle up, my heart beat patty-cake, thrilled at the wind and speed. Somewhere between sixty and “Oh damn, that’s fast,” my hands locked around his stomach. I felt his laughter in my fingers as his belly shook with delight from scaring me.

  A stop sign held us up. He dropped his feet to the ground and swiveled back to me. “Your turn.”

  I took my turn, and his instructions. Curves were hard to handle because of our weight ratios. The straight stretches were a different story. On the open road, I let the needle climb to 101 before I brought it back to reasonable and braked.

  “Hot damn,” Trent said. “Can’t do that in a book.”

  I didn’t tell him that I absolutely could, because he didn’t understand fiction.

  We swapped seats two more times, and got lost on the back roads until Trent pulled over in the grass and said, “Hey, I know this place. Take a walk with me, Sadie May.”

  I was game.

  Game. (n.) my willingness to follow Trent McCall into the heart of Mordor, or the Forbidden Woods, or a field with a No Trespassing sign.

  Long weeds kicked at his calves as he left the side of the road and took a few steps into a field.

  “Come on,” he said in that breadcrumb way.

  “Right behind you.”

  Our shoes sank into the soft earth. As we arrived at the top of a tiny rise in the land, I saw more of what I’d already seen: a whole lot of northern Florida that was exactly like the rest of northern Florida.

  Trent took off Callahan’s jacket, spread it out, and gave it a pat.

  Invitation accepted.

  When we were on the ground, he angled toward me. “Sometimes the sky is my favorite photograph,” he said.

  “It’s more like a movie,” I argued.

  “Not if you lock the perfect shots in.” He tapped his temple and said, “Snap. Snap,” as if he were taking a picture. “I’m keeping this one of you forever.”

  I shoved him over. “Please don’t. I haven’t brushed my hair in days.”

  “No one brushes hair in the summer,” he maintained.

  I agreed.

  The sky was a denim-blue dome. A shade the ocean couldn’t hit on its best day. I was as happy in this story as I’d been in the book.

  “Dad used to bring me here when I was a kid,” Trent said. “Usually there are jets.”

  “And Max?” I asked. “Did he bring him here too?”

  “No, this was our spot. He took Max to the library.” Trent’s hands worked the field like a tiny plow, pulling up clumps of dirt and sand. “I’ve only been here with one other person.”

  “Gina?”

  “Naw. We always go to her house.” He shrugged. “She likes the couch.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Gray?”

  Trent didn’t answer. “You have anywhere in particular you go with Gray? You know . . . when the four of us aren’t together?”

  “Can’t kiss and tell,” I said.

  “Not even with me?”

  I debated my answer. Trent and Gray were tight enough to trade stories, but telling Trent was a slight betrayal of Gray. Not telling him, after he’d asked, felt worse.

  “You know that salvage yard near Ferry Park? Metal Pete’s. Well, sometimes we go out there and sneak under the back fence. There’s this old RV and . . .”

  I let Trent fill in the rest of the details.

  “Nice,” he said after a pause. “But not as nice as this field. I mean, look at that azalea. Metal Pete doesn’t have those, does he?”

  They were odd things to compare. Trent rolled his head toward me. His eyes were the same color as the sky.

  He said, “Sometimes I wonder . . .”

  “About?”

  “Everything.”

  “Take one of your pictures and describe it to me,” I said.

  The skin around his closed eyes wrinkled like an old man’s.

  “Well, I think about graduation, and what I’ll do with my life, and who I’ll do it with, and if I believe in God, because I think I do. Nothing feels accidental. I think about how deliberate everything in the universe is when I see the ocean and know it’s the moon that moves it around, or when I watch a crab digging a hole or a shark nosing through the water, or a jet leaving contrails, or even those azaleas over there. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but they’re beautiful. I want to be like that.”

  I tapped out a little rhythm against his thigh, letting the way he lingered on the word beautiful tickle my ears.

  “You wish you were beautiful?” I asked, slightly teasing him.

  He tapped his chest. “In here, Sadie May. I want beauty.”

  Trent was so serious, I nearly cried. “You have beauty.”

  My smile didn’t inspire him.

  “Doesn’t seem that way. Life’s more like that damn bird of yours. We stuff it full of moments we hope matter, but we can’t tell until later if they do.” He stopped and covered his face with his hands. “I wanted to watch the sky today, but now that we’re out here and we’re talking, I kind of want to tell you something.”

  “So tell me,” I said. His knuckles were almost white with tension. I tugged his fingers apart until I could see one eye. “Hey, why are you so keyed up? It’s just me, and we’re lying here in a field on a perfect day. We rode a motorcycle so fast I practically pissed myself. I declare it to be a day of revealing secrets.”

  His face relaxed momentarily, but then the familiar wrinkles formed around his eyes.

  “Here’s a secret. I want to matter. I want to be known. I want to be myself. I want you to write this day on a piece of paper and put it inside Big. And one day, when you open him, you’ll read about me and think, ‘God, that day with Trent was one of my favorite days ever.’”

  Caution crept into my voice. “Trent, what’s going on? You sound worried about us.”

  “Just let me get this out, okay?” he pleaded. “I figured out it’s possible to fall in love with two people at the same time. I figured out . . . it’s very inconvenient.”

  My eyes wide open, I stared at my best friend. At his chin, and his forehead and cowlick, and long blond eyelashes: all the little details and pores and skin that made Trent who he was.

  What was he saying? That he loved Gina? And me, too?

  I loved Gray. No doubt. His was the only name I’d ever doodled on a folder. The only last name I’ve ever tried on as my own. Sadie Garrison. But . . . Trent was Trent, my Trent, and I loved him, too. I’d never asked what type of love it was, because it had always been so damn platonic.

  I allowed myself to question it now.

  I imagined a future where Trent opened the door to a coffee shop and bought me a vanilla latte with two shots of espresso, wondering whether it was in bad taste to ask Gray Garrison to be his best man at our wedding.

  My imagination was so terrifying that I wanted to kill the thought before it took root. Tension filled Trent’s face. This conversation was about to go to an uncomfortable place.

  Trent pulled me toward him. “Sadie.” He was so close, his breath landed on my lips, smelling like ChapStick and spearmint gum.

  I was frozen in thought.

  I thought about Gray. About ruining everything we’d built.

  I thought about spearmint and how I
love to taste it on my tongue.

  I thought about that vanilla latte.

  I thought about Gray again and how he hated coffee.

  I thought about his sweet face and how it would leak hot tears if he found out I cheated on him with his best friend.

  I thought about how this moment didn’t have an exit strategy. How it was lose-lose. I would regret it if I kissed Trent, and I might regret it if I didn’t.

  “We can’t,” I whispered.

  “Oh God,” he said, face red, realizing my conclusion. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m not saying I’m in love with you.”

  “Oh! I just thought from—”

  “No, oh, no, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He laughed nervously. “It’s not you. It’s Chris.”

  “Chris who?”

  Trent unpacked a smile I’d never seen before. “Callahan,” he whispered.

  Hot Chris Callahan who worked at the kiteboard shop. Sexy Chris Callahan with a five-o’clock shadow, leather pants, and the motorcycle we rode here on. Kind Chris Callahan who winked at Trent.

  “Oh. Wow. Okay, then,” I said. “Well, huh.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  “Hate you? Of course not. Why would you even think that?” I said indignantly. We didn’t have any gay friends, but I’d never given him any reason to think I’d judge him if he was in love with a guy instead of a girl.

  “’Cause . . .”

  He looked like a lost boy.

  “Look, I don’t care who you love as long as I get to be in your life,” I told him.

  He tucked a tangle of hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. “Sadie May, you are a wonder of wonders.”

  “Well . . . you being in love with Chris Callahan is much easier than you being in love with me.”

  “What do you think about the others?” he asked.

  The others were Gina, Gray, and Max.

  “You need to tell Gina,” I said.

  He stared up at the sky. “Even if I don’t have my head around this yet?”

  “Does Chris know?” I asked pointedly.

  Trent nodded shyly, and in a way that told me his feelings weren’t one-sided.

  “Then you’ve got to tell Gina something. She deserves to know,” I said.

  “You’re right.” He gave a slow, painful exhale. “But give me some time. I wasn’t expecting to have these feelings, and I’m still not sure what I should do with them.”

  I pulled him away from the sky and back to my face with an honest question. “What do you want to do, Trent?”

  “Understand.”

  That made sense to me. These weren’t easy feelings to navigate.

  “Okay,” I said. “But if you follow through on those ‘feelings’”—I threw some air quotes around the word—“and don’t tell Gina, I’ll kick your ass. Got it?”

  He saluted. “Got it.”

  We lay there for a little while.

  “You know Gina better than anyone. What will she say?” he asked.

  I could only guess, but that didn’t seem wise to do. “Trent, you can’t know how she’ll respond, but that doesn’t mean hiding this is okay. Ya know, maybe she’ll surprise you.”

  “Will Max and Gray hate me?” he asked.

  “I don’t think hate has a role in this. They’ll be surprised.”

  “Were you?” he asked.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Uh, remember that time I thought you were going to confess your undying love for me and then it turned out you were gay?”

  He laughed. “I’m not gay.”

  I rolled my eyes toward him and latched my hand with his.

  Trent tried out the words. “Okay, I might be gay.”

  That was far enough for one day.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “Understanding.”

  I wished Trent had given Max and Gray and Gina that same opportunity to understand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Max stayed on the Jet Ski as I disembarked. His eyes were glazed over in thought and didn’t meet mine when I asked, “Can we talk later?”

  “I’m sure we can. I’ll call.”

  That response was better than I expected.

  I zombied my way inside, wondering if this was how Trent felt in that moment before he told me about Callahan—as if he might lose me.

  Even though it was lunchtime, I took a long, hot shower, Sharpied my scars—even Idaho and Nameless—and crawled into bed feeling worse than I had in a year. How in the hell had life ended up like this? This was why we’d all lied. We wanted to avoid this explosion, and destruction came all the same.

  I slept on that thought until late in the afternoon, when my parents returned early from Pirates and Paintball. Drawers and doors slammed shut as Mom and Dad put away camping and food supplies. I listened for their whispers among the noises, but they weren’t talking. The crashing and banging sounds communicated enough. They were home . . . and angry.

  Mom’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood hall floor, slapping toward my bedroom door like Godzilla. My doorknob turned.

  “Sadie.”

  Slam. She dropped my weekend bag on the floor and glared at me.

  “What did you do?” she asked. Her voice pinched each word.

  “I came home early.”

  “No. What did you do to your face?”

  I slowly lifted the covers over my mouth and then over my whole head, remembering the Sharpie session I’d done before I’d fallen asleep. There was no explanation.

  Mom walked over to the bed and sat down. “Baby, what’s going on?”

  I had a one-word answer. “Life.”

  “I thought you were getting better,” she said, completely forlorn.

  “I am better.”

  She tugged the covers down, peeled my hands away from my face, and held on. “Honey, this doesn’t look better. This looks scary.”

  “I am scary.”

  She kissed me all over my face, like the Sharpie was a million boo-boos that needed her love. Over and over, with each kiss, she said, “Be okay,” as if they were prayers.

  Maybe they were.

  When she finished, she didn’t let go of my face. “Are you listening to me?”

  She made sure I was.

  “What you did today was rude and selfish. Leaving in the middle of the weekend. Not even telling us why. You left us to pick up your campground site and get your bag. You ignored my texts.” She growled, and then sighed deeply. “Your father and I were . . . I don’t know what we were, but this”—she squeezed my cheeks and softened her voice—“needs to be addressed first.”

  She stood up and left. When she returned, she had a package of alcohol wipes. Very carefully, in neat, gentle strokes, she cleaned the Sharpie off my face. I pushed up my sleeve for her to see Tennessee.

  She cleaned it, too.

  I lifted the covers, and let her see Pink Floyd.

  There was so much sadness as she scrubbed away the damage I’d done to myself. In a quiet tone, as she threw away the supplies, she said, “I’m calling Dr. Glasson.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Where are your Sharpies?” she asked, as if they were drugs.

  “In my drawer. The one beside my bed.”

  Mom slipped both markers into her pocket and walked toward the hall. When she closed my door behind her, she opened it again immediately. “I love you,” she said fiercely.

  Mom threw those sweet words at me, and I snatched them out of the air and tucked them to my chest.

  “I love you too,” I echoed back.

  The door closed for good, and Mom retreated toward the kitchen. Toward the phone. Toward the safety net of my father and his jambalaya that boiled on the kitchen stove. He cooked when things were off. Sometimes at two in the afternoon; sometimes at two in the morning.

  He cooked. Mom cleaned. I stared at the back of my eyelids.

  But I didn’t Sharpie any more scars.

  Around me, the
air-conditioning hummed and the ceiling fan rotated slowly, and the two little chains that hung down from the center globe clicked against each other—click, silence, click—and my fish swam in their gurgling prison. All familiar white-noise sounds that usually lulled me to sleep.

  This afternoon they kept me awake and distracted.

  Maybe an hour later, my bedroom door swung on its hinges and two fragrances crawled into bed without an invitation. Ocean salt and sandalwood, the scent of a million sleepovers.

  Gina.

  “I had to come,” she said. “Please don’t ask me to leave.”

  The duvet separated us. Her arm fell over me, and she wiggled as close as she could. Gina and I had talked for hours in this bed. About the guys, and nail polish, and sex, which clothes to wear, extra pounds from french fries, and . . . I could write a Tolkien-length book of things we’d discussed.

  After a year of push-and-shove, I rolled over. Into her.

  My best friend held me.

  Anger or not, it was glorious.

  “Gray told me what happened,” she said. “I was going to tell you after this weekend.”

  I stayed tucked against her chest where I couldn’t see her. She took a breath so deep, it was as though she used the air in my lungs.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  If there was one thing I knew, it was that Gina Adler was sorry. But I hadn’t known until today what she was sorry for. She worked her hands through the snarls in my hair as if she could somehow untangle everything.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I asked.

  Gina had an answer and question ready. “Because it wasn’t just my lie. Or even one lie. Why didn’t you tell me Trent was gay?”

  “Same reason,” I said.

  Gina twisted a strand of hair around her finger until it was tight against her scalp, pulling so hard I was afraid she’d rip it out. I stopped her.

  She and I had been friends since kindergarten. When you know someone that well, she reads like a newspaper. Smiles and frowns are front-page stories. Tears are obituaries and birth announcements. And little habits: they’re the human-interest stories. This hair thing with Gina . . . she did that when she deeply regretted something.

  “Can we tell each other everything now?” she asked.