If I Lie
Page 37
Shame swallows me, and I wish I could disappear into its belly. I did use him. At first.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the words aren’t enough to make up for what I’ve done.
He turns away, and I can see his Adam’s apple slide when he swallows. “Yeah . . . so am I. When Jamie posted that picture, I thought, ‘Good. Let Q see what it feels like to be stabbed in the back.’ ”
Ouch.
He adds, “But then I saw how they were treating you . . . I meant to confess a long time ago. I really did.”
“So what happened?”
“The Breens happened.” He kicks a leg out, making a small splash. “They’re not doing great. They fight all the time. Mrs. Breen kind of fell apart after Carey deployed. I’m doing everything I can to help them keep it together. Working at the shop extra hours, so Mr. Breen can spend more time at home. Taking care of things around their house, things Carey would do if he were here on weekends.”
I imagine Carey’s mother as I’ve seen her these last months. It’s hard to picture her clearly when I’ve hardly been able to look her in the eye. Part of me hates that she hasn’t guessed that I didn’t cheat on Carey—she should know I’d never betray her son. The problem with looking down to avoid obstacles, though, is missing what’s up ahead. I didn’t see what Blake obviously has.
He continues. “When Mrs. Breen found out about the picture, she lost it. Carey refused to speak to any of them about you. He said they didn’t know what they were talking about. She thought for sure he’d go off and get himself killed because he was upset about you. I couldn’t tell her I’d betrayed him too. I couldn’t do that to her. And now that he’s missing . . . I promised him I’d take care of them if anything happened to him.”
I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling sick. How frustratingly ironic.
I sacrificed Blake for Carey. Blake sacrificed me for Carey’s parents. The whole thing is so screwed up. I don’t know how to even begin to unravel the mess we’ve made.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone it was me?” Blake asks. He gives me the same look he used to give me when I’d done something he thought was illogical. Like when Carey and I started dating years ago.
“Why, Q? If he knows, and you were broken up, why not tell everyone?”
His eyes are bleak and shadowed. We’ve really done a number on him, Carey and me. Blake isn’t perfect—far from it—but he loves us. And I brought him into this mess, even if I didn’t mean to.
“I made a promise to Carey, too.” He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask. The thing is . . . if I say more, I’ll be breaking that promise to him.”
He thinks about that, and then Blake laughs. The raw, tired anger threading through it echoes in the room. “Damn, Carey.”
I know what he means. Carey’s at the heart of everything that’s happened between us. Almost everything.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. I pull my legs from the water and rise. Standing over him, I study the top of his head and wish things could be different.
He must be thinking the same thing because he looks up and says, “I’m sorry. If I could figure out a way to confess and keep my promise to Carey, I would. Tell me you know that.”
“I do.” On impulse, I lean over and touch his face, running my fingers over his shadowed jaw just to feel the scratch of his sandpaper whiskers. “You were wrong, you know.”
“About what?” he asks, confused.
“I could never pretend that night never happened.” I surprise him by bending over and kissing him. It’s dangerous because I want more, but my loyalty is still with Carey. I let my lips tug on his for one-two-three seconds before I reel myself back in. “It meant too much.”
Then I leave, taking my ice bucket with me, while he reaches for the place where I used to be.
Chapter Nineteen
George looks frail today. More so than usual.
Today’s lesson—how to shoot a textured photo in dim light—creates deep valleys of frown lines on his forehead and neck. His room sits in shadows with the blinds cracked on one window so we can control the sunlight dancing on his food tray. He shifts from his wheelchair to the hard-backed chair at the table. I have to force myself not to help him when he groans in pain. My hands want to ready themselves to support him. My body tenses to catch him if he falls. The fact that he gets there on his own doesn’t make it any less painful to watch.
George settles himself.
“You can relax now,” he says with sarcasm. “I’m not going to keel over on you.”
I load my sigh with drama and roll my eyes. “Don’t give me a hard time, old man. I’m younger and meaner than you are.” I give up pretending not to care and grab a blanket off his bed. Crouching on my heels so I’m not standing over him, I toss the throw over his leg and glare up at him, daring him to say something.
So, of course, because he’s George, he says something. “Your mama.”
It takes a second to process. I pause, smoothing the blanket over his foot. Then I start laughing, really more of a snicker that turns into a chuckle, when he glowers at me from under furry eyebrows. I laugh harder, clutching my stomach, and he gives me a light shove that lands me on my backside on the tiled floor.
“Did you just bust out with ‘Your mama’ to insult me?” I mimic the proper way he said it, and he throws a napkin from his food tray at me. He tries to hide his smirk, and I squeeze his foot, giving him a pleading look. “Please, George. Please promise me you won’t ever say that again. You’re just not cool enough to carry it off.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the words aren’t enough to make up for what I’ve done.
He turns away, and I can see his Adam’s apple slide when he swallows. “Yeah . . . so am I. When Jamie posted that picture, I thought, ‘Good. Let Q see what it feels like to be stabbed in the back.’ ”
Ouch.
He adds, “But then I saw how they were treating you . . . I meant to confess a long time ago. I really did.”
“So what happened?”
“The Breens happened.” He kicks a leg out, making a small splash. “They’re not doing great. They fight all the time. Mrs. Breen kind of fell apart after Carey deployed. I’m doing everything I can to help them keep it together. Working at the shop extra hours, so Mr. Breen can spend more time at home. Taking care of things around their house, things Carey would do if he were here on weekends.”
I imagine Carey’s mother as I’ve seen her these last months. It’s hard to picture her clearly when I’ve hardly been able to look her in the eye. Part of me hates that she hasn’t guessed that I didn’t cheat on Carey—she should know I’d never betray her son. The problem with looking down to avoid obstacles, though, is missing what’s up ahead. I didn’t see what Blake obviously has.
He continues. “When Mrs. Breen found out about the picture, she lost it. Carey refused to speak to any of them about you. He said they didn’t know what they were talking about. She thought for sure he’d go off and get himself killed because he was upset about you. I couldn’t tell her I’d betrayed him too. I couldn’t do that to her. And now that he’s missing . . . I promised him I’d take care of them if anything happened to him.”
I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling sick. How frustratingly ironic.
I sacrificed Blake for Carey. Blake sacrificed me for Carey’s parents. The whole thing is so screwed up. I don’t know how to even begin to unravel the mess we’ve made.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone it was me?” Blake asks. He gives me the same look he used to give me when I’d done something he thought was illogical. Like when Carey and I started dating years ago.
“Why, Q? If he knows, and you were broken up, why not tell everyone?”
His eyes are bleak and shadowed. We’ve really done a number on him, Carey and me. Blake isn’t perfect—far from it—but he loves us. And I brought him into this mess, even if I didn’t mean to.
“I made a promise to Carey, too.” He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask. The thing is . . . if I say more, I’ll be breaking that promise to him.”
He thinks about that, and then Blake laughs. The raw, tired anger threading through it echoes in the room. “Damn, Carey.”
I know what he means. Carey’s at the heart of everything that’s happened between us. Almost everything.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. I pull my legs from the water and rise. Standing over him, I study the top of his head and wish things could be different.
He must be thinking the same thing because he looks up and says, “I’m sorry. If I could figure out a way to confess and keep my promise to Carey, I would. Tell me you know that.”
“I do.” On impulse, I lean over and touch his face, running my fingers over his shadowed jaw just to feel the scratch of his sandpaper whiskers. “You were wrong, you know.”
“About what?” he asks, confused.
“I could never pretend that night never happened.” I surprise him by bending over and kissing him. It’s dangerous because I want more, but my loyalty is still with Carey. I let my lips tug on his for one-two-three seconds before I reel myself back in. “It meant too much.”
Then I leave, taking my ice bucket with me, while he reaches for the place where I used to be.
Chapter Nineteen
George looks frail today. More so than usual.
Today’s lesson—how to shoot a textured photo in dim light—creates deep valleys of frown lines on his forehead and neck. His room sits in shadows with the blinds cracked on one window so we can control the sunlight dancing on his food tray. He shifts from his wheelchair to the hard-backed chair at the table. I have to force myself not to help him when he groans in pain. My hands want to ready themselves to support him. My body tenses to catch him if he falls. The fact that he gets there on his own doesn’t make it any less painful to watch.
George settles himself.
“You can relax now,” he says with sarcasm. “I’m not going to keel over on you.”
I load my sigh with drama and roll my eyes. “Don’t give me a hard time, old man. I’m younger and meaner than you are.” I give up pretending not to care and grab a blanket off his bed. Crouching on my heels so I’m not standing over him, I toss the throw over his leg and glare up at him, daring him to say something.
So, of course, because he’s George, he says something. “Your mama.”
It takes a second to process. I pause, smoothing the blanket over his foot. Then I start laughing, really more of a snicker that turns into a chuckle, when he glowers at me from under furry eyebrows. I laugh harder, clutching my stomach, and he gives me a light shove that lands me on my backside on the tiled floor.
“Did you just bust out with ‘Your mama’ to insult me?” I mimic the proper way he said it, and he throws a napkin from his food tray at me. He tries to hide his smirk, and I squeeze his foot, giving him a pleading look. “Please, George. Please promise me you won’t ever say that again. You’re just not cool enough to carry it off.”
