If I Lie (22 page)

“Why, you couldn’t see who she is if you—”

George’s furious words are cut short by a hacking cough that sounds like it’s ripping his lungs apart. He collapses back in his chair, blood on his white lips, and my father rushes to yell for a nurse in the hall. It takes all of thirty seconds for the nurses to rush in, assess him, and push us out of the garden.

Everything spins when I’m standing in the hallway. Another few minutes and George rolls out of the atrium on a gurney, and I can’t tell if he’s asleep or unconscious. I touch George’s shoulder, and he shoots me a tired smile before they take him away.

My parents have been reunited for five minutes and already they’ve managed to destroy my world again.

Please, please be okay, George.

*   *   *

Why do I always come in last place for these two?

Things weren’t much different the last time I saw my parents together. I was ten, and my father was home on a six-week leave. Iraq had left its mark on him. Even as a kid, I could see that. Later I learned that my father had been in the thick of the first Iraq invasion. As Carey put it, my father must have seen some scary shit. My father didn’t talk about it, though. Not to me. Not to anyone, I suspected.

Instead, he brooded. A lot. And when he wasn’t brooding, he
watched us, my mother and me, as if we were foreign invaders in his home. I tiptoed around him, but my mother smashed into him head-on.

They fought all the time: He didn’t give us enough attention. She demanded too much. He didn’t understand how hard it was for her to raise a kid alone. She had no idea what he’d gone through over there, and she didn’t appreciate how he was doing it for me. On and on, they circled each other, trading accusations for insults.

I ran away to Carey’s whenever I could. When that wasn’t possible, I hid in my room and wondered if it would be easier for them if I wasn’t part of the equation.

One fight in particular left bruises. They’d been at it all day, neither of them backing down. I sat against my bedroom door, eavesdropping. They said the same things they always did, but this time my mother asked him a question that changed the tone of the conversation.

“Cole, before we got married, you promised that our family would come first. When are you going to make good on that?”

After a long silence, he said, “You’re asking the impossible. I have responsibilities. My men—”

“It’s not your men I’m worried about!” Her voice gentled and I had to put my ear against the wood to hear her. “It’s Sophie. You’re missing out on everything. Why can’t you see that?”

My father sounded brittle. “You think I don’t see how much I’ve missed? Her first steps, her first words, her first day at school.
When I’m over there, I think about it all the time. Geez, Sophie, it ripped me up when I missed her birth!”

“I know, Cole. But at some point, there won’t be any more firsts for you to miss out on.”

“You expect me to just walk out? Men are dying over there.”

“And I’m dying over here!”

The argument veered back into regular territory with him accusing her of being overly dramatic and her telling him to fuck off. I’d heard enough, and packed a bag to spend the night at Carey’s. I decided to risk my parents being upset and leave without their permission. Mrs. Breen could call them later. They probably wouldn’t notice anyway.

As I tiptoed down the hall to the front door, the shouting grew louder. Before I closed the door behind me, I overheard my father say one thing I would never forget. He told my mother that he hated who she’d become. And he added, “And you’re making Sophie just like you.”

Some words hit you like a tree branch slapping you in the face. And some words rip into your flesh, leaving scars so deep, they never completely fade.

*   *   *

“Sophie,” my mother says to my back as I watch George disappear down the hall. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’s going to be okay.”

“No,” I tell her. “He’s not. He’s dying.” My quiet words sound like bullets. I turn to my parents. They stand a few feet apart, but they might as well be standing on the opposite shores
of a river. “Why did you come here? This was the one good thing I had left. Why did you have to ruin it?”

My father speaks up. “Quinn—”

“Stop calling her that!” my mother says.

He turns, ready to lay into her, and I shout, “Shut up! Just once, could the two of you stop thinking about yourselves?”

I stride up to my mother. “Mom, you left. Dad stayed. You don’t know me, and you don’t have any rights where I’m concerned.”

She winces, but I am already turning on my father. He looks cold and distant, and my throat aches when my breath catches on a sob. “Dad, I’m not Mom. She left. Stop blaming me for what she did to you.”

His face drains of color. I fall back several steps, really crying now.

“I’m standing right in front of you, and you can’t even see me!”

The only people who see me aren’t here. Carey may be dead, and George comes closer to death every day.

I can’t breathe. My parents steal the air with their hatred. I run away, hitting the door to the stairs at a jog.

The last thing I hear is them calling my name.

Mom: “Sophie!”

Dad: “Quinn!”

Me:

Chapter Twenty-Six

Grave Woods has become my third home after the hospital and my house. That’s where I go when I leave the VA. Now that it’s mid-May, you can feel summer around the corner. It’s chilly tonight, but I can’t feel it anymore. Hours ago, I called the hospital to check on George. He was doing okay on oxygen, they told me, but they wouldn’t let me in to see him again today. He needed rest.

I’ve cried until I’ve turned myself inside out.

I roll onto my side on Josephine’s grave, the hard ground biting into my hip. George is my rock. What will I do without him? I knew he wasn’t doing well, but I turned away from it. What kind of friend am I?

I’ve spent enough time at the hospital to understand what’s coming next.

I don’t know if I can watch it happen. I’m not brave enough
to watch him fade. Maybe if I hadn’t covered for Carey, I would be stronger.

But then, was that choice any easier?

*   *   *

The day after I spoke with Carey in Grave Woods, I realized our conversation hadn’t really solved anything. Not how I felt about Carey’s confession or about my feelings for Blake. I wasn’t sure how I felt about sleeping with him, or if I should tell Carey about it. What would I say?

Sweating in the summer heat, I lay on my bed, imagining how Carey would react and hoping a cooling breeze would blow through the open window. Every memory of Carey was colored by my new knowledge of him: The things he’d said. The promises he’d made. And the lies he’d told to keep his secret. I got angry every time I thought about it. Despite his sweet words, I wondered if our friendship was worth saving. How could I forgive him?

I spent hours stuck in that loop, like a hamster on a wheel—working but never getting any closer to an answer.

Then Carey climbed through my window and dropped to the floor. He didn’t drop so much as he collapsed in a heap on the floor. Shocked, I tossed away the pillow I’d been hugging and sat up.

“Carey?”

He didn’t answer, but he lay there gasping with an arm draped over his face. I scooted off the bed and crawled toward
him. When I reached for his elbow he rolled toward me, and I inhaled when I saw the blood. At first glance, he was covered in it. His face, his shirt, his hair.

I tried to stand, and he tugged on my hand.

“No! Don’t tell anyone!”

I understood he meant my father. “He’s not here. I need the first-aid kit. I’ll be right back.”

He let me go and I ran through my house, skidding through the hall in my slippers before I kicked them off. In seconds I was back, ripping the lid off the white plastic case.

“What happened, Carey?”

My voice sounded oddly calm, as I went about mopping up the blood with a wet towel I’d brought with me.

He winced. “My fault. I knew better.” He groaned when I pulled off his shirt.

With few words, he told me how he’d gone to meet a friend at Joe’s, a bar two towns over with a reputation for looking the other way when carding underage Marines. He’d gone to meet Ben.

Ben,
I thought. Finally,
he
had a name. The guy Carey had fallen for.

Carey had tried to end it, believing their relationship had no future. Not with them both about to be deployed. Not when they could both get discharged if they were caught. Ben had kissed him in the parking lot. A good-bye kiss before he drove away.

Except they hadn’t been alone. Several Marines saw the whole thing. They’d beat the shit out of Carey and left him bleeding in the parking lot. They’d said they didn’t want a fag in their battalion. He might put the moves on them over there, and they didn’t want a homo sneaking onto their cots at night.

I listened to all of this, and I wanted to hit Carey. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to scratch my nails down his face and call him a thousand names. Instead, I yanked my hands back the second I’d taped the last bandage, not wanting to touch him.

When he finished speaking, I packed up the first-aid kit, setting aside the used bandages for the trash. A raised welt darkened Carey’s left cheekbone, the skin alternating shades of pink and red that would later turn blue and purple. A cut hid just below his hairline. Judging from the glass I’d pulled out of it with tweezers, someone had smashed a bottle over his head.

The room grew eerily quiet as we stared at each other. If he was outted, his career was over.

“Quinn?” he asked, sounding uncertain and scared.

“I don’t want to hear any more about him.” I couldn’t even say his name—Ben’s name—out loud. “Why the hell would you come here? Why didn’t you go to Ben if he’s the one you love?”

I sounded like my father, cold rage vibrating in my voice.

“I didn’t think.” He tried to sit up, managing only to get as far as turning to lean against the wall. “You’re my best friend.”

I deflated beside him. He reached for my hand, and his palm rubbed rough and familiar against mine. He dipped his head to
press his lips to my fingers. A tender gesture, but one without passion. For a moment I wished everything could be like it had been. Uncomplicated. Simple. Expected. But we’d gone too far. Done things we couldn’t take back.

“I don’t know what to do, Quinn. Please help me. I’ve fucked everything up. Tell me what to do. I need you.”

He started sobbing, his shoulders shaking. My cold heart cracked. He’d held me every time I ran to him. No questions. No judgments. Just solace and friendship and warmth. I wrapped an arm around him and he twisted, falling into my lap.

My entire life, no one had ever said they needed me. My parents certainly didn’t need me. Blake? Maybe he wanted me, but he didn’t need me. As I held Carey, I had only one choice. At least, only one choice I could live with.

“We’ll figure something out. I promise.”

I didn’t know how I’d regret those words.

*   *   *

The next day, we drove one town over to attend our football team’s summer scrimmage. We arrived as a couple, with Carey’s arm looped over my shoulders. We joked about his bruises, saying he’d fallen while we were hiking, too caught up in me to notice where he was going. Nobody questioned the excuse or doubted we were together. Not even Blake, who looked like I’d plunged a knife into his stomach. The first chance he had, he pulled me away from Carey and cornered me under the bleachers.

“What’s going on, Q?”

“Nothing,” I answered defensively. I didn’t know how else to deal with him, except to shut him out. To make him think I was a bitch. I’d already promised Carey I wouldn’t out him to anyone, that I’d protect his secret at all costs. Of course, I couldn’t have guessed what that cost would be.

“You’re together,” he said in a flat voice.

“Yes,” I said, and he gave me such a look of hatred, I took two steps back. That seemed to push him into action, and he came at me. I expected anger, but his arms were gentle as he pulled me toward him.

“You care about me,” he said. “You couldn’t kiss me the way you did and not care about me.”

I’d prepared myself for this. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. You saw what you wanted to.”

“You’re lying,” he said. A new determination in his voice. “I’ll prove it.”

He kissed me then. More than anger, I felt desperation from him. And the longer he held me—his lips tugging at mine, trying to convince me that he was the one—the harder it became to argue.

Blake cared about me. Deeply. And I felt the same about him. I threw myself into his embrace, and suddenly it became more. Clothes shifting, the warm evening air hitting my skin, and then his skin against my skin.

A roar went up from the crowd as somebody scored a touchdown.