Truest (12 page)

Instead, I pulled the radio from my pocket and we listened to
August Arms.
Tonight's stories were about the search for another dimension, theories on the JFK assassination, and a hypothetical roller coaster designed to kill its passengers. The show's host explained how a PhD candidate at a London art school created an art concept for a coaster with seven consecutive loops that inflict an intense gravitational force on the passengers that starved the brain of oxygen.

Silas turned the radio off. “That makes me sick,” he said, leaning back again. “Hypothetical shit. Why do people spend so much time thinking about ridiculous things?”

“I don't know. Sorry.”

“It's okay. It's not the show. I just—” We sat in the dark, quiet for a while, and then Silas said, “My dad got an offer from UA–Fairbanks to go back to teach an eight-week summer session, and he told them before that he wasn't sure, but now . . . well, I guess he's gonna do it. He tried to pass it off as some great opportunity, but I can tell he just wants to get away. Especially after today.”

“That's terrible!” I said, shocked. “He's
leaving?
”

“I mean, it's been on the table all summer—actually, since before we left. We already had the tickets even. The timing just”—he sighed—“really, really sucks. Now, when Laurel's so messed up. And it's just . . . unceremonious.”

It was a weird choice of words, but seeing as he was the human thesaurus, I let it go.

“And ignoble. And risky. And
necessary.
”

I narrowed my eyes at him, confused. “Um, are we still talking about your dad leaving?”

Silas put his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes as if he was exhausted—or gearing up for war. Green Lake was smooth as black ice in front of us. All the way across the lake we noticed Silas's neighbors in Heaton Ridge, or rather, their yard lights, which were perfectly reflected in the dark, still waters. Silas exhaled deeply, pressed his lips together, then looked at me and said, “So, what do you want, Westlin Beck?”

“From you?” I asked.

He laughed. “From life. From the universe. Everyone has
some deep-seated desire, don't they? What's yours?”

“Oh.” Silas's question made my blurry outline appear like a strange fog. “I guess I want to go to college and get a good job. Get married someday.”

“Do you?” he asked.

This time I laughed. “Uh, yes. Was that answer not good enough for you, Mr. Hart?”

He shrugged. “I just don't think that's it, that's all. I mean, sure, you might want those things—a lot of people do—but I don't think they're your real passion.”

My mind raced, looking for a place to land—a passion, a real passion. “I don't know,” I conceded. “I have no goals. My life is so—unremarkable.”

He looked at me suddenly, frowning hard. “Okay,
false
,” he said.

“No, it's true,” I said. “I have no solid outlines.” I hoped he would know what I meant, because I wasn't sure I could describe it to him. “I'm undefined.”

“I can define you,” he said. “Or start to, at least.”

“Oh, you can, can you?” I teased. “Well, let's hear it, Hart.”

He pulled his hood off now and treated me to that grin of his—the one that made me want to take flight, the one that felt like a storm cell was raging in my chest, thunder and lightning and hurricane-strength winds and all.

The one that left me so, so confused.

I needed Trudy to come sort me out. Something. Someone.

“Let's see. Westlin Beck,” he said, “you're hilarious, and you
like quirky, vintage humor, and you're so brilliant it's actually intimidating. You're jealous that every person in Green Lake gets your dad's attention before you do.”

“Is it that—”

“Shh, don't interrupt. You'd do anything for a friend, and you're fascinated by words because there's nothing you love more than a good story—though I think we disagree on what makes a story
great
, a capital-
S
Story, you know? I'm still untangling it all, to be honest, but knots intrigue me. I mean, you're this incredible contradiction, but you're not
undefined
.”

How did he—? An incredible contradiction? Flustered, I asked, “And what do you want?”

He didn't hesitate: “I want Laurel to be happy. I want to
not care
if Laurel's happy.”

“But she's not,” I whispered.

“And I do,” he added, as the sky came close to hear us breathe.

Elliot called when I was already in bed that night. “Do you think I'm a contradiction?” I asked him. “An
incredible
contradiction,” Silas had said. “Knots intrigue me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Like, that I'm complicated.”

“I guess so.”

“Is that something you like about me?” I prompted. I smelled my pillow, then some strands of my hair—did I really smell like black cherries and book pages? Maybe. The brown sugar smell was from my soap.

“I like everything about you,” he said.

“You're sweet,” I said, yawning.

“Did someone say you're complicated?”

“Not exactly.”

“Was it Hart?”

I was quiet. I knew that bringing up Silas would only make Elliot mad. “No,” I lied. “It was Libby.” I rolled my eyes at my stupid choice: yeah, my twelve-year-old sister would totally be using words like “contradiction.”

“I stopped by your place tonight.”

“I was hanging out with Laurel.”
Dammit.
I hated that I couldn't stop lying.

“Oh.” He sounded relieved. “Your brother said you went somewhere with Silas.”

“Well, yeah,” I backpedaled. “He drove me there. To hang out with Laurel.”

“Oh—I guess that's good. Is she okay? I know you said something was wrong at the movie. And she was all quiet and skittish.”

“Like Libby?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Hey, Lori and Laney have been begging to have Libby over—you should come too. They miss you.”

“I miss them too.”

“West, what do you like about
me
?”

The sudden switch back to our previous topic jarred me. In Elliot's voice, there was so much insecurity that it broke my heart. “All our history,” I said. “And that you respect me. And that you're not into high school drama. And all the thank-you notes you write to the seventh-grade girls who buy you roses on Valentine's Day.”

He laughed. “My mom makes me do that.”

“Good cover story, tough guy,” I said. “I know better.”

Elliot laughed again; I loved the sound of it, so wholesome, so familiar.

“Know what else I like?” I added.

“What's that?”

“The way you take care of Whit.”

“When I can,” he said, his voice bittersweet. “When he lets me.”

“It's all you can do,” I said, thinking yet again of Silas and how this town was full of heroes.

I was supposed to leave for my cousins' place the next day, but my aunt called in the morning, saying that she and Mae were en route from the lab to the pharmacy. Strep throat, still contagious.

With my day suddenly free, I called Silas to see if he wanted to go to the beach. He didn't answer, not all morning, so finally I just stopped over at his house. I stepped inside and shouted, “Hello?” up the stairs.

I was halfway up the flight when Teresa called from the kitchen, “West, is that you?”

“Hi! Yeah. Is Silas home?” I asked, pausing on the stairs.

She came out of the kitchen and gave me a funny little frown. “No, he's not. I thought—didn't you see him last night?”

“Well, yes, but I guess I usually see him most days.”

“No, I mean, I thought he said he was going to tell you that he was going back to Alaska with his dad.”

It was like a punch in the gut. “Back to Alaska?” I said, as if the three words were in another language.

“Well, shame on him,” she said. “I would have thought he'd have mentioned it to you. He and Glen have had tickets for forever, but they really only made the decision yesterday. He didn't tell you?”

“No,” I said, my throat feeling dry and scratchy. I clutched the stairway railing hard. “Back to Alaska?” I asked again, hoping I'd misheard her when she'd really said her son was out getting groceries.

She nodded.

I was panicking far more than was appropriate. “I should go,” I said to Teresa, a little breathlessly.

“Laurel's upstairs if you want to say hi. I'm sure she'd love to see you,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“I'll have to come back later.” I was going to start crying in about four seconds.

As I biked back over the bridge and toward my house, I thought of the words he had used just the night before: “unceremonious,” “ignoble,” “risky,”
“necessary.”

Angry tears of betrayal ran down both of my cheeks.

“We already had the tickets,” he had said.
Tickets
, not ticket. One for his dad. One for
him.

I thought I might throw up.

I had even asked him last night if we were still talking about his
dad
, and he had never answered.

My legs were shaking, so I got off the bike, let it crash to the ground, and sat down in the ditch. What had all that been about last night—all the “What do you want?” and “I can define you.” It was bullshit—and a heartless, cowardly good-bye.

And I had thought him a hero.

I knew I shouldn't, but I pulled out my phone and texted him: Silas Hart, you are a FUCKING BASTARD.

I called Elliot. Voice mail. Trudy. Voice mail. I called Gordon, even though I
never
called Gordon.

Voice mail.
And Gordon never went anywhere.

“I really don't care,” I said aloud through a rasping voice and tears that proved otherwise. “Really,” I said again and walked my bike down the main road into town.

Mark Whitby intercepted me before I got there. “You need a ride?” he asked, looking at my bike.

“I need a friend,” I admitted.

We went to the beach, me and Whit, and we sat together on top of a picnic table in the shade, our feet on the same bench. The breeze coming from over the lake felt nice, but I spotted Silas's house on the other side and felt sick all over again.

“You gonna tell me what's wrong?” Whit asked, nudging my knee with his.

But it was difficult to explain my extreme reaction over a boy who was
not
my boyfriend to my boyfriend's best friend. I just said, “I'm really, really lonely.”

“Did you and Elliot break up?” he asked, looking shocked.

“What? No, of course not!”

Whit's shoulders relaxed and he exhaled deeply.

“Why would you even
ask
that?” I demanded.

Whit shrugged, his classic escape maneuver.

I wondered if he was thinking of the drive-in. He said, “So tell me about Laurel,” and I knew that he was.

“She's cool. She's a dancer.”

“Nice.”

I was irritated thinking about the Harts, Silas's betrayal still slicing through my heart. The tears threatened to start again.

“I'm sorry you're lonely,” Whit said quietly.

“It's okay,” I said back, even though it wasn't.

“You should come with me out to Sloane's tonight.”

“Tonight?” I looked hard at Whit. “Simon's having a party on a
Monday?
”

“It's not a party, just a group of people hanging out.”

“Oh. So a party, then?” I said, annoyed.

Whit frowned. “It's not a big deal. What's your problem with it anyway?”

I pretended to think. “Let's see . . . last fall . . . me, Trudy . . . following Elliot around while he called your phone till we found you
passed out in the cornfield
next to your puke? Yup, I
think that's it. Trudy was about five minutes from calling her dad.”

Whit pressed his lips together, stared out at the lake. “Sorry you're lonely,” he said again. I lay my head on his shoulder; it was as close as Whit would come to saying, “Me too.”

“Hello?” I shouted when I walked into my house after Whit had dropped me off. “Anyone home?”

“Hi,” said Shea, sitting on the couch, looking small.

“Hey, kid,” I said, my voice softening at the sight of him. “Where is everyone? Are you okay?”

“Mom took Libby over to see Lori and Laney. Dad's at the church; Mom told me to stay on the couch and watch cartoons till he came home to make me lunch. She said it would only be a few minutes.”

“But he didn't come?”

Shea shook his head.

“Did you eat?”

He shook his head again.

“Why didn't you have cereal? Or call Mom? Or walk over to Dad's office?”

He burst into tears. “Mom said to stay on the couch!”

“Oh,
Shea
,” I said. “I'm sorry, bud.” I sat beside him and pulled him into a hug. His little body curled into me. I wanted to cry too. “It's okay,” I said, rubbing his back. “It's okay. It's okay.”

After his tears stopped, I made him a grilled-cheese sandwich and, welling up with sisterly generosity, even removed the crusts. He ate at the breakfast bar and told me about the cartoons he'd watched, already bouncing back strong, but when my dad walked into the house a half an hour later, I glared at him. “You were supposed to make Shea lunch,” I accused. “He waited all afternoon for you.”

Dad's face fell, and for a moment, I almost abandoned my anger for pity.

“Oh, Shea,” he said. “I'm sorry. I was just headed over when Rob Taylor stopped in, and then we got talking, and then I . . . I forgot. You okay?” Shea nodded, quick to forgive as he eagerly chewed his grilled cheese. Dad ruffled Shea's hair. “Good.” Then, to me, he added, “Thanks, Wink.”

I nodded curtly, feeling less charitable than Shea, when my phone started to vibrate.

My blood pressure skyrocketed just seeing the name on the screen. Silas.

I took his call on the porch. “Hi,” I said, my voice cold and cruel. “I hate you.”

“What the hell, West?” he asked.

“Are you in Fairbanks?”

“Layover in Anchorage. West, what's
wrong?
Are you with your cousins?”

“What the hell do you think is wrong, you bastard?! You went
back to Alaska
and didn't even tell me? How am I supposed
to do all our detailing alone? I thought we were supposed to be—to be
good
to each other.” I bit back tears. “And I'm just so—
mad at you.
”

“West.”

I started to cry; his voice sounded so far away—because it was. “Who
does
that?” I half berated, half sobbed into the phone. “Who just packs up and leaves without saying good-bye?
Assholes
, that's who.”

“West,” he said again. He sounded amused. “I'll be back in three days.”

I sniffled. “What?”

“In time for the Fourth of July. I get to meet Trudy, remember?”

“But—but your mom said you went back to Alaska with your dad,” I stuttered, confused.

“I
did
,” he said. “We already had the tickets, and you were
supposed
to be out of town this week, so I went along.”

“You'll be back in three days?” I repeated, my heart a little lighter.

“You weren't even supposed to notice I was gone. Why aren't you in the Cities?”

“Mae got sick. Why didn't you just tell me? Last night at the beach?”

His sigh was audible through the phone. “It's complicated. I'll try to explain when I get back.”

“In three days.”

“In three days,” he repeated.

“Okay.” I felt like an imbecile about overreacting, but relief swallowed all my other emotions whole.

“Missing me already, huh?” he said, his voice smug and thick with amusement. I pictured the twisted smile on his face.

“No,” I said.

“You're a shitty liar, Westlin Beck.”

I was quiet, reveling.

“Hey, want to know something?” he asked.

“What?”

“I already miss you, too.”

I set my face against the grin that threatened to take over my lips. “Just hurry back.”

“To the girl who hates me?”

“That would be me.” In a voice that didn't mean it.

“Can't wait.” In a voice that did.