If I Lie
Page 16
“I have something to tell you, Quinn. Don’t freak out, okay?”
I hesitated, waiting.
He rubbed both palms on his jeans. “Geez, this is hard.”
The swing jerked beneath me when he rose, and I grabbed for the chain to keep my balance. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Carey didn’t pace. In control of his body, if not his emotions, he walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the railing, putting a mile of space between us.
A bead of sweat trickled in an S curve from his forehead to his cheek, and I eyed him with worry.
“You know I love you, right, Quinn?”
He cheated on me, I thought. He didn’t want me anymore, and this was his way of telling me. I couldn’t take the stalling. “Just say it already.”
His hand rasped over his head, and he tucked his arms over his chest like he did when he was nervous.
“I’m gay.” He expelled the words on a long sigh.
I froze. No, no, no. Hell no.
His eyes locked on my face, searching. Everything in me wanted to reject his words, and I could see he knew it by the way his lips pressed together. So I shut down, clamping down tight on any emotion so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. Because for one tiny moment, when I thought he might confess he’d cheated, I’d mostly felt relief. And because somehow his news wasn’t unexpected.
“Say something,” he whispered.
Like what? How could I tell him the things running through my head? It’s my fault. How long has he known? Why now? Why is he telling me now? Has he met someone? Who else knows? How could he love me and still be gay? Because I didn’t doubt he loved me.
“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”
“I’m . . . thinking.” And I was. My mind raced through conversations and kisses, trying to figure out how I could have been so stupid. Two years we’d been together and never once had sex, or even come close to it. Why did I think that was normal? All our time together, and he’d never wanted me. And what about me? Why hadn’t I pushed harder?
“You lied to me.” I winced when I heard my voice sounding tiny and pathetic. Worse, I started crying.
“Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” he said, and I heard, I thought about not telling you.
“Have you met someone?” I asked, and instantly I could see he had.
Guilt. From the tips of his red ears to the white lines at the corners of his mouth pinched into a grimace, he looked guilty. He shrugged.
“Geez, you’re an asshole, Carey. You were really going to leave me here waiting for you?”
He’d considered leaving me here, pining after him, not knowing the truth, waiting for him while he risked his life overseas. Something had changed his mind, though.
“I’d thought about it, but I couldn’t do that to you.” He crouched down, his thigh muscles shifting from the strain as he balanced on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I fought against it for so long. Hoping I could be . . . normal.”
Honesty. Pain. Shame. His emotions battered me, leaving no space for me to breathe, and through it all, he kept watching me, his brown eyes terrified.
“I didn’t want to be different. Not like this.”
Then he was crying too. I choked out sobs, torn between wanting to comfort my best friend and feeling betrayed by his sadness when I was the hurt one.
My stomach heaved, picturing him kissing another guy like he’d never kissed me.
I ran for the screen door, but his arms encircled me from behind, pulling me back against his chest.
“Quinn, please,” he begged. “I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”
For one moment, I let him hold me. And then I remembered the first time he kissed me. I won’t ever let you down.
“No!” I fought him until he let me go, then whipped around to glare at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but I didn’t care. He reached for me again, and I shoved him as hard as I could.
“Get the fuck away from me, Carey.”
He didn’t try to stop me again.
I went into the house, closing and locking the front door behind me. It took ten minutes—ten agonizing minutes—before I heard his boots scrape across the porch and his car drive away.
Two hours after that, I backed my Jeep out of the driveway, knowing I needed to get away but unsure where I was going until I ended up parked outside Blake’s house.
* * *
In the days after the candlelight vigil, I am stoic. My classmates can’t hurt me worse than they already have. I carry my books in my backpack and avoid my locker and any nasty surprises it might contain. I arrive early to class so I can pick a rear seat where I can put my back to the wall and nobody can fuck with me. The whispers are easier to blast out with earbuds and loud music on my iPod. When they shove me or trip me, I pick myself up and move on. Blake doesn’t exist when I keep my eyes straight ahead and my focus on praying for Carey’s return.
I know life here is not the norm. But in our town, there are three classes—poor, middle, and Marine. When money runs in short supply, so do your options. You want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to get your education paid for. You don’t want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to learn a trade that can get you out of Sweethaven. Otherwise, you’ll end up slinging pancakes at the diner.
My entire life, I’ve watched the people of Sweethaven rally around one another, banding together, feeding one another, and sometimes, when things get really bad, taking one another in. The military is the backbone of our community, helping us to stand tall. Giving us pride because our men and women are serving our country.
I hesitated, waiting.
He rubbed both palms on his jeans. “Geez, this is hard.”
The swing jerked beneath me when he rose, and I grabbed for the chain to keep my balance. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Carey didn’t pace. In control of his body, if not his emotions, he walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the railing, putting a mile of space between us.
A bead of sweat trickled in an S curve from his forehead to his cheek, and I eyed him with worry.
“You know I love you, right, Quinn?”
He cheated on me, I thought. He didn’t want me anymore, and this was his way of telling me. I couldn’t take the stalling. “Just say it already.”
His hand rasped over his head, and he tucked his arms over his chest like he did when he was nervous.
“I’m gay.” He expelled the words on a long sigh.
I froze. No, no, no. Hell no.
His eyes locked on my face, searching. Everything in me wanted to reject his words, and I could see he knew it by the way his lips pressed together. So I shut down, clamping down tight on any emotion so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. Because for one tiny moment, when I thought he might confess he’d cheated, I’d mostly felt relief. And because somehow his news wasn’t unexpected.
“Say something,” he whispered.
Like what? How could I tell him the things running through my head? It’s my fault. How long has he known? Why now? Why is he telling me now? Has he met someone? Who else knows? How could he love me and still be gay? Because I didn’t doubt he loved me.
“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”
“I’m . . . thinking.” And I was. My mind raced through conversations and kisses, trying to figure out how I could have been so stupid. Two years we’d been together and never once had sex, or even come close to it. Why did I think that was normal? All our time together, and he’d never wanted me. And what about me? Why hadn’t I pushed harder?
“You lied to me.” I winced when I heard my voice sounding tiny and pathetic. Worse, I started crying.
“Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut,” he said, and I heard, I thought about not telling you.
“Have you met someone?” I asked, and instantly I could see he had.
Guilt. From the tips of his red ears to the white lines at the corners of his mouth pinched into a grimace, he looked guilty. He shrugged.
“Geez, you’re an asshole, Carey. You were really going to leave me here waiting for you?”
He’d considered leaving me here, pining after him, not knowing the truth, waiting for him while he risked his life overseas. Something had changed his mind, though.
“I’d thought about it, but I couldn’t do that to you.” He crouched down, his thigh muscles shifting from the strain as he balanced on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I fought against it for so long. Hoping I could be . . . normal.”
Honesty. Pain. Shame. His emotions battered me, leaving no space for me to breathe, and through it all, he kept watching me, his brown eyes terrified.
“I didn’t want to be different. Not like this.”
Then he was crying too. I choked out sobs, torn between wanting to comfort my best friend and feeling betrayed by his sadness when I was the hurt one.
My stomach heaved, picturing him kissing another guy like he’d never kissed me.
I ran for the screen door, but his arms encircled me from behind, pulling me back against his chest.
“Quinn, please,” he begged. “I’m so sorry. Don’t go.”
For one moment, I let him hold me. And then I remembered the first time he kissed me. I won’t ever let you down.
“No!” I fought him until he let me go, then whipped around to glare at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but I didn’t care. He reached for me again, and I shoved him as hard as I could.
“Get the fuck away from me, Carey.”
He didn’t try to stop me again.
I went into the house, closing and locking the front door behind me. It took ten minutes—ten agonizing minutes—before I heard his boots scrape across the porch and his car drive away.
Two hours after that, I backed my Jeep out of the driveway, knowing I needed to get away but unsure where I was going until I ended up parked outside Blake’s house.
* * *
In the days after the candlelight vigil, I am stoic. My classmates can’t hurt me worse than they already have. I carry my books in my backpack and avoid my locker and any nasty surprises it might contain. I arrive early to class so I can pick a rear seat where I can put my back to the wall and nobody can fuck with me. The whispers are easier to blast out with earbuds and loud music on my iPod. When they shove me or trip me, I pick myself up and move on. Blake doesn’t exist when I keep my eyes straight ahead and my focus on praying for Carey’s return.
I know life here is not the norm. But in our town, there are three classes—poor, middle, and Marine. When money runs in short supply, so do your options. You want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to get your education paid for. You don’t want to go to college? Then you’d better enlist to learn a trade that can get you out of Sweethaven. Otherwise, you’ll end up slinging pancakes at the diner.
My entire life, I’ve watched the people of Sweethaven rally around one another, banding together, feeding one another, and sometimes, when things get really bad, taking one another in. The military is the backbone of our community, helping us to stand tall. Giving us pride because our men and women are serving our country.
