If I Lie
Page 46
Carey did not ask me to keep his secret. Not then.
That came later that night, when he showed up in my room with bruises all over his body and a bloody face. It turned out “Don’t ask, don’t tell” also meant “Don’t get caught.”
Carey broke that rule and paid for it.
* * *
Sometimes I wonder how Carey’s parents would have reacted if he’d told them the truth right away. Sure, his dad acted macho. A former Marine himself, plus the owner of the only auto shop in town kind of locked that in. He put a lot of pressure on Carey, pushing him to be more, do more. His mother worked long hours, teaching history at the high school and coaching the cheer squad. Like me and my father, his family sat down to dinner every night too. Aside from the fact that both his parents attended, the shining difference was the glaring love in his house.
If they cared about you, the Breens spilled that love all over you, making you feel it right down to your toes. Carey got his ability to love wholeheartedly from his parents. But I’m not sure he trusted them to treat him with the same affection if they found out that he was gay. Part of me thinks he betrayed them, too, with his lack of trust.
* * *
It’s Saturday and I’m still upset from the run-in the day before with my mother. So it completely figures that I run into Carey’s mom when my father drags me to the home-and-garden center two towns over. He’s determined to solve the puzzle of why his garden refuses to grow. Guilt gnaws at me. I decide to buy new bottles of weed killer and plant food to replace the ones I switched. That is, as soon as I can I abandon him in front of a table of kitchen herbs.
Mrs. Breen stands in front of a shelf of clay pots, which is right across from the Miracle-Gro. She sways slightly, her eyes staring blankly at the six-inch pots. I consider walking away, but something holds me there. This woman hugged me when I showed her my report cards. She listened to me complain about Nikki and comforted me when I fought with Angel. And when Carey and I began dating, she threatened him, telling him he’d better treat me right or he’d have her to deal with.
The very sensible thing to do would be to leave. My presence causes her pain. Everyone, especially her, has made that clear.
Yet . . . I can’t do it. I can’t leave her alone like this.
She doesn’t move when I approach her. She doesn’t even acknowledge my existence, until I call her name twice.
That blank gaze turns from plant containers to me, and I inhale. Blake was right. She’s in bad shape. It takes everything I have not to hug her right then. Instead, I say her name a third time.
Finally she focuses on me. I can tell the instant it happens because she goes from blank to black in two seconds flat.
“Quinn,” she says, and she sounds exhausted, like she can’t even summon the energy to hate me today.
“Mrs. Breen, are you okay?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Mrs. Breen, is Mr. Breen here? Or Blake?” I hope someone’s there to help her.
“Why, Quinn?” Her brown eyes, so much like Carey’s, pierce me. “Are you looking to break his heart too?”
For a moment, I wonder if she knows about Blake and me. If she somehow figured out we were together. That thought flicks into the wind, though, when she adds, “He’s at the shop pulling an extra shift.”
This is the most she’s said to me in months. I take a step closer. “Have you heard anything?”
Smart, Quinn. Really smart to bring that up.
She heaves this sigh that comes from her gut. “No. No, we haven’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
If things were different, I would go to her and hold her. I could help her. I could be there for her.
She rolls her shoulders and laughs. “Well that just makes everything okay, doesn’t it?”
The anger returns in her raised, acidic voice. She looks around the empty aisle. “Did you hear that, everyone? Quinn is sorry she cheated on my boy. Thank you so much. I didn’t know how I was going to get through another day without your apology!”
She takes a step toward me, her entire body rippling with aggression. “Do you want to know what I think of your apologies? They’re useless!”
I stand there, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. Warm hands come to rest on my shoulders, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“That’s enough, Denise,” my father says.
Carey’s mom starts, and she takes a couple steps back at my father’s sudden appearance.
“You have no idea what I’m going through, Cole,” she answers. “Don’t tell me what’s enough.”
Calm and sure, he does not waver. “Yelling at Quinn isn’t going to make him come home.”
She begins to cry, and I wish I’d never approached her. She looks like she believes he’s dead. That he’s never coming home.
My father tugs on me gently to steer me away. I begin to follow him, but I remember the letter. I pull away from my father to go to her.
“The week before he went missing, he wrote to me.”
This gets her attention, and I continue. “He talked about sitting on my front porch and teasing me about always having to be right.”
I think she’s not going to answer, but she whispers, “What else did he say?”
“That he misses your cooking something fierce. MREs just aren’t the same as your cooking.”
She gives a tiny, husky laugh. “That sounds like Carey.”
That came later that night, when he showed up in my room with bruises all over his body and a bloody face. It turned out “Don’t ask, don’t tell” also meant “Don’t get caught.”
Carey broke that rule and paid for it.
* * *
Sometimes I wonder how Carey’s parents would have reacted if he’d told them the truth right away. Sure, his dad acted macho. A former Marine himself, plus the owner of the only auto shop in town kind of locked that in. He put a lot of pressure on Carey, pushing him to be more, do more. His mother worked long hours, teaching history at the high school and coaching the cheer squad. Like me and my father, his family sat down to dinner every night too. Aside from the fact that both his parents attended, the shining difference was the glaring love in his house.
If they cared about you, the Breens spilled that love all over you, making you feel it right down to your toes. Carey got his ability to love wholeheartedly from his parents. But I’m not sure he trusted them to treat him with the same affection if they found out that he was gay. Part of me thinks he betrayed them, too, with his lack of trust.
* * *
It’s Saturday and I’m still upset from the run-in the day before with my mother. So it completely figures that I run into Carey’s mom when my father drags me to the home-and-garden center two towns over. He’s determined to solve the puzzle of why his garden refuses to grow. Guilt gnaws at me. I decide to buy new bottles of weed killer and plant food to replace the ones I switched. That is, as soon as I can I abandon him in front of a table of kitchen herbs.
Mrs. Breen stands in front of a shelf of clay pots, which is right across from the Miracle-Gro. She sways slightly, her eyes staring blankly at the six-inch pots. I consider walking away, but something holds me there. This woman hugged me when I showed her my report cards. She listened to me complain about Nikki and comforted me when I fought with Angel. And when Carey and I began dating, she threatened him, telling him he’d better treat me right or he’d have her to deal with.
The very sensible thing to do would be to leave. My presence causes her pain. Everyone, especially her, has made that clear.
Yet . . . I can’t do it. I can’t leave her alone like this.
She doesn’t move when I approach her. She doesn’t even acknowledge my existence, until I call her name twice.
That blank gaze turns from plant containers to me, and I inhale. Blake was right. She’s in bad shape. It takes everything I have not to hug her right then. Instead, I say her name a third time.
Finally she focuses on me. I can tell the instant it happens because she goes from blank to black in two seconds flat.
“Quinn,” she says, and she sounds exhausted, like she can’t even summon the energy to hate me today.
“Mrs. Breen, are you okay?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Mrs. Breen, is Mr. Breen here? Or Blake?” I hope someone’s there to help her.
“Why, Quinn?” Her brown eyes, so much like Carey’s, pierce me. “Are you looking to break his heart too?”
For a moment, I wonder if she knows about Blake and me. If she somehow figured out we were together. That thought flicks into the wind, though, when she adds, “He’s at the shop pulling an extra shift.”
This is the most she’s said to me in months. I take a step closer. “Have you heard anything?”
Smart, Quinn. Really smart to bring that up.
She heaves this sigh that comes from her gut. “No. No, we haven’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
If things were different, I would go to her and hold her. I could help her. I could be there for her.
She rolls her shoulders and laughs. “Well that just makes everything okay, doesn’t it?”
The anger returns in her raised, acidic voice. She looks around the empty aisle. “Did you hear that, everyone? Quinn is sorry she cheated on my boy. Thank you so much. I didn’t know how I was going to get through another day without your apology!”
She takes a step toward me, her entire body rippling with aggression. “Do you want to know what I think of your apologies? They’re useless!”
I stand there, biting my tongue so hard I taste blood. Warm hands come to rest on my shoulders, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“That’s enough, Denise,” my father says.
Carey’s mom starts, and she takes a couple steps back at my father’s sudden appearance.
“You have no idea what I’m going through, Cole,” she answers. “Don’t tell me what’s enough.”
Calm and sure, he does not waver. “Yelling at Quinn isn’t going to make him come home.”
She begins to cry, and I wish I’d never approached her. She looks like she believes he’s dead. That he’s never coming home.
My father tugs on me gently to steer me away. I begin to follow him, but I remember the letter. I pull away from my father to go to her.
“The week before he went missing, he wrote to me.”
This gets her attention, and I continue. “He talked about sitting on my front porch and teasing me about always having to be right.”
I think she’s not going to answer, but she whispers, “What else did he say?”
“That he misses your cooking something fierce. MREs just aren’t the same as your cooking.”
She gives a tiny, husky laugh. “That sounds like Carey.”
