Seven Ways We Lie (21 page)

“Look, I, uh, I fucked up. I just, I was talking to someone and I—it sort of fell out that you . . . that you're not straight.”

For a second he looks confused, and his confusion makes the lump of guilt in my chest ache. Then the perpetual smile leaks off his face, sliding away like water downhill, and without it, he looks like a different person, no curved lines in his cheeks, his brown eyes blank and serious. He says quietly, “But why would you do that?” and suddenly I don't want to ever smoke again or give myself any opportunity to screw up someone else's life with my own carelessness, and any excuse I had evaporates from my mind, and I can't think of anything to say except, “I don't know, dude. I saw you and Valentine, and it was on the top of my mind, and I—”

Lucas frowns. “Saw me and Valentine? What do you mean?”

“Weren't you two—weren't you just—?”

“But it's not like that,” he says. “Crap. Did you say anything about Valentine?” and I say, “No,” and he says, “Thank goodness. He'd hate that, I think.”

He's quiet for a long minute, and I can see the smile trying to hoist itself back onto his face, his lips twitching bravely, but it doesn't make it. “What am I going to do?” he says, and thoughts churn in my head, sluggish with guilt. “If anyone says anything to you,” I say, “I'll beat the hell out of them,” and he says, “I appreciate
the thought, but, um, I'm more than capable of punching anyone who's being a douche canoe.”

“Okay,” I say. “Um, I—I told Olivia not to tell anyone else,” and he says, “Olivia Scott?” and I nod, and his remaining composure fractures, his eyes widening and his lips slackening, and he says, “She's going to tell Claire.”

I search for words, but he says, “Later, man,” and he strides up the path, gripping the straps of his backpack so tightly that all the color drains from his knuckles. I stand there looking after him with the feeling that—just like that, in one careless moment—I might've ruined somebody's life.

BETWEEN SIXTH AND SEVENTH PERIOD—SO CLOSE TO
the freedom of Friday afternoon, I can taste it—Olivia finds me in the hall. She pulls me into a corner, breaking the news so carefully, you'd think she was telling me somebody died.

For a moment, I'm not sure what to do. My first instinct is to scream it out, because if Lucas would keep that secret from me for thirteen months of a relationship and half a year of aftermath, he doesn't deserve for it to stay quiet.

Panic surges in my throat like bile. “I have to go,” I choke, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Claire,” Olivia calls after me, but I don't turn back.

I NEVER SKIP CLASS. SKIPPING IS FOR SMOKERS AND
underachievers. But halfway through seventh period, I'm still standing in the bathroom, forehead to the mirror.

I gnaw on my cuticles. My third finger beads up with blood. Who's the boy? Has he ever looked himself in the mirror with the sole intent of finding everything that's wrong with him? Has he agonized for months over how to transform himself into something worthy of Lucas's attention?

The door opens. I prepare to glare whoever it is into leaving, but Juniper's and Olivia's heads poke in. They approach me. Olivia stands stiff and upright, skeleton rigid. Juniper's eyes glisten with sympathy.

I look back at the mirror. They stand beside me, Juniper with her blow-dried white-gold hair, Olivia with slim, dark jeans on her long legs. And me . . .
Look
at me, splotchy-faced and stumpy and never quite assembled correctly.

“You've got to talk to him,” Olivia says.

I grit my teeth. I have nothing to talk about with Lucas. Not our relationship, apparently based on misplaced trust, or the breakup, apparently the equivalent of a mercy killing. I have nothing to discuss with the boy who said I
couldn't compare—
apparently comparing me to people I'd never imagined were competition.

Lucas and I never had sex, but we got close. How does that make sense? He wouldn't have been able to do the things we did, right, if he's gay? He must be bi; he has to be.

Leave it. Who cares?
He has a boyfriend now. That's the only thing I can think about. Him and somebody else, some nameless male concept.

“It's not healthy, bottling it up,” Olivia says. “You stopped talking about it, so I thought—”

“I know.” Of course they thought I was over him. I'm supposed to be on top of my shit. I have better things to worry about than boys. Getting stuck like this is so humiliating.

“What are . . . how are you feeling?” Olivia asks.

My throat closes like a drawstring bag. Eventually, I manage, “Like you care.”

Juniper and Olivia trade a glance. “Wh—” Olivia starts.

“No,” I say. “I've started being the last person to hear about anything in your lives, so why should I tell you what this is like?”

I back up, heading for the door. “I'm just going to shut up. Forget about it.” I swallow. “Have a great time Saturday. I'm not coming.”

As I walk out, their expressions match. A dose of helplessness, a healthy serving of resignation . . . and the tiniest bit of exasperation.

I OPEN JUNIPER'S DOOR AND STAND BACK, LETTING
in the first swarm of people. “Hey, guys,” I say. “Drinks are in the kitchen, that way. Right through the living room.”

Word has spread fast about this party, but since Claire's blowup yesterday, Juniper's heart hasn't seemed to be in it anymore. We had a miniature pregame with just the two of us, but it was a downer, since we spent most of it talking about our missing third.

“You think she wants to friend-dump us?” Juniper asked between aggressive gulps of hard cider.

“Kind of seemed like it,” I said. “But maybe we do need to go on a friend-break while she sorts things out. I mean, she snapped at me for, like,
talking
to a boy. At this point, I'm kind of maxed out on that shit, you know?”

Juniper nodded. “There's got to be something else going on there. I'm trying to see it from her perspective, but that's sort of hard when she won't, you know, talk to us.” She took another swig of cider. “Maybe she'll show up tonight, and we can hash it out?”

“I wouldn't count on it, Juni. Especially since Lucas'll probably show.”

Barely half an hour in, that prediction comes true. Lucas enters with a bang, tugging in half the swim team, and navigates the crowd with his usual smile. When he waves my way, guilt gnaws at me. I shouldn't have told Claire. He's obviously not out yet—I don't know a single kid at Paloma High who
is
out. A couple of kids seem pretty obviously gay, but it's sure not on their Facebook or anything. At school, the most out-of-the-box person by far is Burke Fischer, wearer of jeggings and heels, who doesn't seem to give a solitary damn what people think. But Burke's a loner, and I doubt Lucas could survive without his constant swarm of bros.

I get that it's scary, and that Paloma High School isn't hyper-progressive-gay-friendly-land, but I still can't believe he didn't tell Claire. That's a huge thing to keep quiet for that long. Especially for someone you say you're in love with.

Though I guess if you love someone, the thought of losing their approval is probably twice as terrifying.

The party's in full swing when I realize I forgot my overnight bag. Juni offers me the use of everything in her house, of course, but I need contact solution, and her whole family is 20/20. She also offers her clothes, which gets a hearty laugh from my end. Wearing Juni's clothes would be like trying to wear one of those little sweaters that people stuff their Scottish terriers into.

I call Kat. “What?” she grunts. About as cheery a greeting as I expected.

“Yo. Is Dad home yet?” I ask.

“Negative.”

“I left my bag on the kitchen table. You think you could maybe drop it off at Juni's when he brings the car home?”

Kat heaves a sigh. “Fine. God knows when that'll be.”

Dad must be closing up, because by an hour in, Kat still hasn't shown. People have filled the long halls of Juni's house. There's packs of athletes, crews of yapping sophomores, and nervous clumps of freshmen who look so tiny, I get this urge to swat the drinks out of their hands and hand them
The Land Before Time
DVDs. Edging around a guy who's doing a pretty decent Chewbacca impersonation, I enter the kitchen and find Juniper sitting at the counter playing DJ.

I sidle up, eyeing the beer in her hand. “How many is that? Be honest.”

“Hey! Three. I'm going slow.”

“Awesome. Not that last week wasn't great, but like . . .”

Juni grins. “Vomiting, bad. I know.”

“So. Vital question. Do you still have that sparkling lemonade from my birthday party?”

“There might be a bottle in my parents' fridge,” she says. “They've been using it as a mixer, though, so no promises. Also, if you find anyone in there, can you kick them out?”

I make a face. “Will do.” In August, during my birthday party, we caught not one but two couples making out on Juniper's parents' bed. Simultaneously. Although I doubt anyone's doing that now—10:15 is a little early for those sorts of messy shenanigans.

As I make my way past the study toward the wide, curling staircase, I hear someone yelling, “Shots!”

I sigh. Juniper better not join in.

I jog up the staircase that wraps around the circular foyer wall, framing a heavy chandelier that weeps golden beads. The rug on the second-floor landing is thick under my feet, hushing my steps as I pad toward Juniper's parents' bedroom. Plaques with Juniper's
achievements plaster the walls, first place in violin contest after violin contest.

I shoulder the door open. This room is a lavish, two-tiered confection. Oil paintings hang on paneled walls, and a mirrored bar shines on the second level, up the oak-dark stairs. A banister of the same dark wood cordons off the bar area, and looking past it, I freeze. Matt Jackson is standing by the counter. His presence is a strange, warm shock.

I break the silence. “Matt. What are you doing here?”

“I . . . everything downstairs was sort of loud, so, uh,” he says. “I don't know. I didn't see anyone I knew, and I felt weird. What are you doing?”

“I wanted lemonade,” I say lamely. “But I meant, what are you doing
here
-here? At Juniper's?” I close the door, heading for the stairs. “I don't see you out usually. Ever.”

“I was actually . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. I hop up the steps, cracking open the miniature fridge as he searches for words.

“I was hoping to maybe run into you,” he finishes.

“O-oh.” I look up. “Well. Success.”

Matt laughs. His mouth draws a bit to one side, making his laugh goofy and off-kilter.

I wonder what kissing him would be like. I wonder that about most guys, even if it's a passing curiosity, but the thought of kissing Matt twists my stomach up. Which is weird, since, objectively, he isn't that hot. I've kissed way hotter guys, guys with balanced features and actual musculature, guys who could make me forget I'm five foot ten.

But something in Matt's guardedly blank expression makes me feel awake. Every second in his company feels acute. Maybe it's
how he holds himself, careful and calculated. Maybe it's the sharp edges of his features and the sharper, shyer focus of his eyes.

I pull my attention away from him, crouching to grab the lemonade bottle. Among the range of fancy-looking metal implements on the bar, I find something pointy to pry the cork back out.

“Juniper's house is, like, holy shit,” Matt says.

“I know, right?” I say. “This room is nicer than my whole house.” I take a sip. The lemonade fizzes across my tongue, sugary-sweet.

“The hell do her parents do?”

“Her mom worked on Wall Street for however long, and now she's the owner-slash-mastermind person for the Paloma bank. And . . . well, I don't know what her dad does, but he's always traveling. He's probably an international spy.” I lean against the counter. “So, what's going on? Why were you trying to find me?” I give a coy lilt to my voice, hoping that it's the reason guys usually seek out girls at parties.