If I Lie (12 page)

“Did he say why?”

Because he’s gay.

I’d thought I was over crying, but the concern in Blake’s voice had my eyes filling. I examined the floor, trying to get my emotions under control.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

His arms surrounded me, and I let myself lean into him, breathing him in. Blake had put his arm around me before,
laughing while we walked with Carey, but it had never felt like that.
I’d
never felt like that.

“Did he cheat on you, Q? Because I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.”

His low voice vibrated next to my ear. Heat, I realized. The feeling I’d been missing with Carey was there with Blake. Nerves skittered under my skin wherever he touched me. He rocked me like a person rocks a crying child, but it felt like we danced.

I tilted my head back to look at him, and our eyes met for a long, silent moment.

Then I stood on my tiptoes and reached up, up, up to kiss him.

Blake didn’t bend to meet me halfway but leaned back, as if his mind couldn’t accept what I was doing. He didn’t turn his head, though, when I set my lips on his. The kiss didn’t feel comfortable at all. It felt terrifyingly good.

I sighed, and he gasped. Then he stumbled back, holding me at the waist as if to push me away.

“Wait! What the hell, Q?” He pulled back a couple of feet, bumping into the wall. “Fuck. You’re Q! You’re Q, of Carey and Q. We can’t do this!”

I shook my head. “I’m not Carey and Q. Not anymore. I’m just me.”

“Right,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “And tomorrow the two of you will make up, and I’ll be the asshole who made a move on his best friend’s girlfriend.”

I shook my head again. “We’re not getting back together,
Blake. He has feelings for someone else.”
And so do I
, I thought, though I’d been slow to understand that.

“So I’m Rebound Guy?” he asked, anger vibrating through him.

What could I say? I didn’t know how to answer, so I said nothing. I swayed toward him, pressing into his resisting hands.

“Who am I kidding?” he asked under his breath. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

He began to pull me in instead of push me away. His breath was on my face when he paused, a questioning look in his hazel eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. . . .”

He kissed me for real.

I fell into him. I didn’t love him like I loved Carey, but that was kind of the point, right?

His hand slipped beneath my shirt. My heart jumped into my throat.

My fingers trailed down his chest. His breath sucked in sharply, as if I’d tickled him.

We kissed with our eyes open, really seeing each other.

Giving. Taking. Setting each other on fire. Naked.

The way it was supposed to be.

The way it had never been with Carey.

*   *   *

The next night, Carey asked me to lie for him, to pretend we were still together.

And seeing the bruises on his face, how could I not agree?

I couldn’t explain to Blake why I’d suddenly changed my mind, and he couldn’t forgive me.

I’d used him to prove I wasn’t cold and that a boy could want me as more than a friend. My feelings for him were real, but that didn’t alter my intent for going to his house. I’m not proud of myself. Maybe that’s another reason why I’ve never told anyone that Blake is the boy in the picture. Well, that, and he thinks I lied to him about Carey and me breaking up.

But I don’t regret a minute of that night.

He was my first.

My only.

*   *   *

The events at the dance and Carey’s letter leave me reeling. I’ve hardly slept, thinking about Blake and Carey. Knowing Carey planned to tell the truth makes it a little easier to bear this lie. If he came out to everyone, people would know I didn’t cheat on him. I would be free to tell Blake that I felt something for him that night and that Carey didn’t care when that picture surfaced.

Carey obviously didn’t know how bad things were if he thought I was on speaking terms with his parents. That makes me feel better. I guess his parents haven’t said much about me during their calls or in their e-mails. I feel like I should tell them about the letter, since it was his last contact before he went missing. But how?

Too tired for a confrontation, I wait until my father has left
the house to run Saturday-morning errands before I leave my room.

George expects me today, so I head to the hospital.

The light hurts my eyes. Everything hurts. I feel like one big, exposed, gaping wound.

I’m heading through the lobby to George’s room when Darlene calls my name from the front desk.

“Sophie! George said to tell you he’s out having a test done. He’ll be back soon if you want to wait.”

“Thanks, Darlene.”

I stride toward the stairs to wait for George in his room. It seems like lately he’s out for more and more tests.

“Sophie?”

The trembling voice is familiar, and I turn to see who called my name.

Uncle Eddy stares at me. “Sophie Quinn, is that you?”

Chapter Fourteen

Uncle Eddy is five years younger than my father, but he’s not aging well. The years have softened him. His muscles have dissipated, leaving behind skin and bones. He is too skinny, and what’s left of his blond hair has begun to gray. It takes all of two seconds to understand that he is very sick. Maybe dying. I’ve seen too many men at the hospital look the same way.

“Sophie Quinn?” he asks again, coming closer.

I nod, unable to speak.

“I knew it! I heard that woman call you, and you’re the spitting image of your mother with all that hair.” Uncle Eddy reaches me and pulls me into a hug. My arms remain locked to my sides, and his hug transforms into an awkward pat on the back as he realizes it is unwelcome.

The whites of his eyes are yellow, I notice, when I pull away.
Kidneys are shot, then. Corporal Lewis in room 308 has been on dialysis for a year, so I know the signs.

“You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

Six years’ll do that.

“I saw you,” I blurt out. “And my mom.”

See what happens when you open your mouth? You say things you meant to hold tight.

“Here at the hospital?”

I nod again.

“You mind if we sit? It’s hard for me to be on my feet too long.”

He’s breathing heavily as I follow him to a corner of the lobby. We sit a couple of seats away from where my mother walked past me a few weeks ago without recognizing me.

Uncle Eddy pauses, trying to catch his breath. After a minute he says, “Forgive me, Sophie.”

I know he means for taking a moment to rest, but I say, “For what? Stealing my mom?”

Geez, I sound so hateful, I hardly recognize my voice. Worse, his skin fades to a sickly gray shade, and his eyes close. I’m worried I’ve shocked him into having a stroke.

I wait for his eyes to open—wintergreen like my father’s—and I can see he’s okay before I rise. It was childish to think I could tell off him and my mom. Like it would make things better and make the past just go
poof
! As if. Then maybe we could all go back to our house for a family reunion and sweet tea on the porch. Just brilliant.

She left. What difference does it make that she’s back?

“I’m going to go—”

“Your mother wants to see you, Sophie.”

“Don’t call me that.” My words surprise us both.

“Sophie?” he asks. “What do you want me to call you?”

SophieTopperQuinnQ.
For every name I have, there is someone who objects to it. I don’t even know what to call myself.

“Nothing. I don’t want you to call me anything.”

“O-kay . . .” He draws the word into two syllables, and I can tell he’s thinking I’m some screwed-up teenager hiding a drug addiction and hefting an attitude through a “difficult phase.”

Whatever.
I sigh. “Someone’s waiting on me. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! What should I tell your mom?”

His raised voice draws attention. Darlene watches from the front desk. A nurse from Don’s floor glances at us as she passes. People don’t need another reason to gossip about me.

“That’s up to you. Honestly, if she wants to see me, I’m sure she can figure out how to work a phone. If I remember right, she was a tramp, not stupid.”

For a moment, Uncle Eddy looks like he wants to slap me. I’m almost daring him to, so I can hit back, him being sick or not. I blame him. And her. Everything shitty about my life began the day they left.

Uncle Eddy’s lips narrow with righteous indignation.

Anger hums in his voice when he speaks, but the words come slowly, as if he’s a drill sergeant lashing a plebe. “You have
a right to be mad, so I’ll let that go. Once. Your mom will be waiting for you at the Blue Dawn Café in Spring Lake tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred. Got that?”

I won’t feel guilty. Not because of this man. No way will I let him boss me around. My father is bad enough. I toss my bag over my shoulder, throwing as much disdain as I can into the look that I give him.

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I won’t be there.”

“Oh-nine-hundred!” he calls after me, but I’m gone, striding past Darlene and slamming through the door to the stairwell.

The better to hide until the trembling stops and I know I won’t lose it.

*   *   *

I’m too angry to stay at the hospital.

George doesn’t deserve to have me take my temper out on him, so I leave him a note in his room, telling him I don’t feel well. Then I drive out to Grave Woods, where some snow lingers, though most of it has seeped into the ground and disappeared. Any day now, my father will have his garden.

I have the camera, but I don’t take any pictures. Instead, when I arrive at the graves I lie on the ground, flat on my back between Josephine and Thomas, and stare up at an icicle hanging from a branch overhead. The ice sweats languid drops that trickle to the tip of the ice-stick where they dangle, suspended for
one . . . two . . . three
seconds before gravity takes over. I study each new drop, predicting how long it can delay the inevitable free fall.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

One . . . two—

I am bits of who everyone thinks I am.
One . . .
Blake’s Q.
Two . . .
Carey’s Quinn.
Three . . .
Sophie Jr., taking after her whore mom.
Four . . .
middle name Topper for Uncle Eddy the Honorable. Which piece is really me?

I’m plummeting and terrified of hitting rock bottom.

I want to be someone new.

Sophie Topper Quinn, no more.

*   *   *

I wake up because I’m shivering so hard, my bones might shatter.

Day has faded into evening, which means I’ve been in the woods for hours. A glance at my watch and I know Dad is going to freak because I’ve missed dinner. Panic drives me to my feet, but it takes forever to get back to the Jeep when I get lost in the dark.

I’m two hours late when I pull in to the driveway. It won’t matter that I’m always on time. People never see how good you are. Fuck up once, though, and it’s like you are wearing a neon sign.

My father’s heard my car. He marches out onto the porch, and he’s Lieutenant Colonel Cole Quinn marching on the enemy.

“Damn it, Quinn! Where the hell have you been?”

The heat from the car hasn’t thawed me. I’m hugging myself to get warm and my teeth chatter when I try to answer. “I—”

He waves his hand, brushing away my excuses. “I don’t
want to hear it! You get your ass into the house. You’re the most damned irresponsible . . . I’ve had it with you, kid.”

He leaves me standing in the driveway with my mouth open. The door bangs shut behind him, and I can hear him crashing through the house, slamming doors as he goes. Yelling about what a fuck-up I am. How sad for him to get saddled with a daughter like me.

The unfairness of it slaps me in the face.

I don’t think.

Every person has a limit.

There is a small shed set off to the side of the garden. It’s where my father keeps his gardening supplies. Funny how the green weed killer and plant-food bottles look so similar. It’s easy enough to swap the contents.

My father’s so religious about feeding his plants, loving them and hovering over them every day. If I add up every minute he’s spent in this garden over the past six years, I know it will outweigh the time he’s spent with me.