The Truth About You & Me (19 page)

I was just in time to see you reach for that pumpkin-orange sheet of paper, the one that fluttered at your feet. And in that moment, my entire world shattered, and nothing else I'd been thinking, not the fears or the hopes, the reality or the dreams …

None of it mattered, because you'd just found the truth.

I froze, halfway
between the door and the bed, halfway between what we'd become and where I knew we were about to go. Every ounce of blood drained from my body as you unfolded the sheet, your eyes darting across the words on that stupid,
stupid
piece of paper.

I wanted to lunge at you, yank it out of your hands and come up with some way to explain it in a way that would make you understand.

You jerked slightly as you finished skimming, and then you went still, your breathing turning labored as your fingers tightened, gripping the paper so hard your knuckles turned white. You didn't look up at me at first, but you knew I was standing there, waiting.

Dreading, fearing, breaking.

“Why?” Was all you said, your face gray and ashen, your control unraveling.

“I—” And on that one tiny word, my voice cracked, just like the fissure splintering through my heart. You still didn't look at me, just stared right at that page, unblinking.

“Why. Do. You. Have. This?”

And then you stood and were across the room in an instant, standing so close I was forced to crane my neck to look up at you. And when I saw the fear and the rage swirling in your eyes, it became impossible to breathe, let alone speak, and in that moment I knew the thoughts racing through your head, knew that every thing you knew about me was rearranging, creating an entirely new image

You tipped your chin down, just the tiniest bit, until our noses were nearly touching, and you met my gaze with such fire I stepped back.

“
Why
,” you growled.

You knew why. You had to have known. There's only one reason why a girl would have a high school newsletter, the one I'd grabbed from the mailbox at home two days ago and shoved into my backpack without giving it a second thought. Every professor at GRCC knew that Running Start existed, that a small percentage of the overall student base might be high school students. They'd probably mentioned it to you in passing, sandwiched between budgets and construction and mandatory office hours, and you'd never thought of it again.

As you stared down at me, those thousand puzzle pieces clicked back together and you finally saw the picture you'd somehow missed all along. You
knew
, but you wanted desperately for me to give you some other reason.

And in that moment,
I
wanted desperately to have another reason, to lie, to patch up the giant crack that gaped between our feet, separating us. That beautiful vision I'd had earlier—of us together, somehow surviving the next two years—it fell into the ocean that now separated us.

“Because I'm still in high school,” I whispered, closing my eyes, bracing myself. For what, I'm not sure. I didn't expect you to hit me or shove me, but I had to brace for the impact of the truth.

“How old are you?” The words came out so low and guttural, so drawn out, that it must have been painful for you to speak them out loud.

I took a deep breath as the dam holding my lie back finally broke, and the impending wave washed us away. “Sixteen,” I whispered, still not opening my eyes, still not facing you.

Not facing the truth of what I'd done.

The door crashed open and slammed against the wall so loudly I jumped, my eyes popping open because I hadn't heard you crossing the room, and yet once I looked at the place you'd been, all I saw was dead air, emptiness.

And before I could move, I heard you. Heard you retching into the snow bank outside, heave after heave, such an ugly sound com
pared to the things you'd whispered last night, compared to the heavy breaths and the soft, sweet sounds that had torn from your throat. I slumped to the floor and curled over, closed my eyes against the sting of the tears already spilling over my cheeks, listening to what my lie had
done to you.

You went silent a few moments later, but by then it was hard for me to breathe. Yet I couldn't bear the idea of you seeing me that way so I scrambled toward the bathroom, desperate to pull myself together, like that would somehow fix the ugliness of what I'd created. I turned on the sink, splashed cold water over my face, then blew my nose and stared at my reflection in the mirror for only a moment before turning away.

I couldn't look at myself.

I stepped out of the bathroom and there you stood, near the front door, one hand on the door jamb as if it was all that was holding you upright. You stared me down and it took everything I had to meet your eyes. You didn't speak, not even a single word.
Not one.
The moments swirled around us, the clock ticking but the moment stuck.

“It's not illegal,” I said, desperation leaking into every word. “I looked it up. Sixteen is the age of consent in Washingt—”

“Do you think I fucking care?” you said.

You never cussed.

“I slept with a fucking
sixteen-year-old
!”

The words rang out around us, falling like anvils, and my throat was so dry I couldn't speak for long moments.

“I'm sorry,” I finally said, my voice so sad and empty.

“Don't.”

“But I'm—”

“Don't.”
The words were spoken with such absolute vehemence it broke me all over again, spun my world and tore it apart. Because in that instant, I knew. Knew you couldn't forgive me, knew I'd done something so horrible you couldn't even find the words.

I'd lost you, just like I'd feared.

I swallowed and nodded, making no effort now to stop the tears. Your eyes swept over me for a long, silent moment and I think you must have been asking yourself,
How could I not have noticed she looked so young? How could I have not ASKED her?

Maybe that's not what you were thinking at all. Maybe you were trying to keep yourself from throttling me. Maybe you felt as broken as I did. Maybe you were watching our future—that thing we'd talked about so often—slip through your fingers over the issue of two measly years.

Why did those two years have to matter so much? In the eyes of the law they didn't matter at all, not once you weren't my teacher anymore. But I knew they mattered to you, mattered to everyone around us.

Was I really going to change that much in two years, become a different person, someone worthy of being loved by you?

You crossed the living room and grabbed your bag, then shoved your clothes in and zipped it shut. You glanced at me once more, and your look said it all. I scurried over to my own bag, ignoring the pain in my chest, the dark gaping nothingness, and picked up my stuff, yanking my jeans on. I wasn't even wearing a bra or T-shirt underneath the hoodie, and it suddenly didn't feel so soft against my bare skin.

I followed you into the snow—the sparkling white that had been so beautiful the night before now looked deathly, cold and empty.

I slid into the passenger seat and you fired up the truck and the silence in the cab was so heavy I felt like I was choking on it. You hit the gas so hard the truck almost fishtailed in the snow and gravel. You barely saved it, and then we were on the pavement, hitting the highway.

It was early, around six, and the few cars on the road were going the opposite way, toward Crystal Mountain, with snowboards and skis strapped to the roof. That morning, whenever there were no other cars in sight, it was almost like we were the only two people left on earth. I kept wishing that was how it really was, so that those two years wouldn't matter, so we could just be what we wanted to be without any repercussions.

I pressed my lips together to try to keep the bottom one from trembling, but it was impossible to breathe through my nose so I had to stop.

“Why?”
you asked again. You didn't look at me, just stared straight out through the windshield, your face all hard lines and shadows in the early morning light. “Why would you do this to me?”

How could I make you understand? How could you possibly see why I'd done it when all you could see was the number sixteen?

“I wanted to be with you,” I finally said.

“In what world could we be together? You're fucking sixteen!” You slammed your fist into the wheel, making the horn chirp as your shoulders heaved. You never cussed, and you were already up to three or four that day. “You're a fucking kid!”

The anger turned abruptly into something else—pity and disgust and fear, and you slumped, barely keeping your eyes on the road. “Oh God, you're just a kid.”

And I knew in that moment you were thinking of what we'd done last night. And the sound of the repulsion in your voice broke me in a way nothing else had.

“Please don't,” I whispered, bringing my feet up onto the seat and resting my forehead against my knees.

“Don't what?” you snapped.

“Don't make it sound like what we did is so … revolting.”

“It is! Don't you understand that? What we did … that never would have happened if I'd known!”

You were back to anger again, which was easier to handle.

I looked up at you, the tears streaming down my cheeks unhindered, my throat raw and my eyes burning as everything shattered all around me and I had no one to blame but myself. “But I'm in love with you.”

You laughed, an ugly bark of laughter that was like stomping on my already broken heart. “You don't even know what lo
ve is.”

It was such an ugly thing to say. I knew what I felt, what I still feel as I write this, days after we left the cabin. I was in love with you, and I'm still in love with you. Maybe you don't think I'm old enough to feel true love, but I can promise you I am. Maybe when you're done reading this, you'll finally understand.

“I had to lie,” I said again.

“No,” you say, a single word. The only word that mattered. There was a finality to it.

A decision.

I turned away and watched all those soaring fir trees stream by the window in a big haze of green and brown, blurring until they didn't exist anymore.

We were never going to have a happily ever after.

You still didn't
know where I lived, and I had to give you directions through town. I bet you were kicking yourself then, realizing you should have asked, realizing you should have paid more attention to the clues. Then again, it was a community college, so most of the freshman still did live with their parents.

Besides, it wasn't like I could have introduced you. You were my professor, and so eager to hide our relationship.

And that's how I was able to lie for so long. Because we'd agreed to the secret … even if you hadn't really known what you were agreeing to.

“The yellow one,” I said, pointing to an old colonial on the right-hand side of the road. You slowed, then stopped at the curb. You didn't look at me, at the house, at anything but the road, and yet I doubt you even saw the road either. You were staring straight ahead, your eyes sort of glazed, your grip on the steering wheel unwavering, like it was the only thing holding you together.

I glanced up at the house, and it took only a half a second for suspicion to rise through my limbs. I blinked and scanned the windows.

Lights.

“Benn—” My voice cut off and I blinked again, twisting around to glance behind your truck.

Across the street sat a dark blue Dodge Charger, the windows tinted.

Fear snaked through me, white hot as I glanced back at the house again.

Too many lights. It was half past six, and my parents never got up before eight on a Saturday. It was the one day my mom let herself be human instead of a robot.

I yanked my backpack off the floor.

“You have to go,” I said, my voice trembling. “Now.” I shoved the door open so fast I tumbled out, narrowly saving myself from falling face-first onto the ground. “I'll tell them nothing happened. That we talked for hours and that's it. Got it?
Nothing happened,”
I said. The desperation in my voice must have registered, because you looked at me with an entirely different expression: confusion.