Seven Ways We Lie (23 page)

him:
I'm trying to figure out how to ask you . . 
.

david—

this is me giving in.

this is me telling valentine,
wait, hold up, gotta . . . bathroom
,

be right back

this is me sneaking through thresholds to a guest bedroom, dark, hidden.

opening the cabinet, rummaging for another secret drink

(one that will freeze and sweat and gasp against my hand)

three twists to the cap

two acid swallows straight from the bottle and then

speed-dial one

the only one.

two rings and a click and there he is. (so easy. too easy.)

I . . . Juniper? Are you okay? Why are you calling? What's going on?

the murmur of his voice is a warm sun, after a chain of chilly,
darkened days.

i remember, before our love got lost in labors,

i could see the future mapped out in road signs,

glaring from the sides of dark highways.

i remember, if i gave him a way to wax poetic,

he spoke the full moon to me.

i lie on the bed, take another sip of bitter cold

and imagine the empty space filled with the posture of his body.

head's gone back to spinning

lazily, like a mobile,

my brain bobbing two feet above this body.

sleepy.
david . . . david

There you are. Talk to me. Everything okay?

you at home?
i ask.

Yeah
. (pause.)
Why'd you call?

shouldn't say it.
i miss you. i miss you
.

(pause.)
You're drinking
.

sorry, 'm not sorry
.

Oh, June
.

what?

(pause.)
Don't drive anywhere
.

david, i never got to say
. i roll over.
i know you did what you did for a reason, of course, i know—

Yeah—

i barrel over him. (are my words coming out as words? i feel them keeling. reeling. falling.)
i can't see them turn you into—i can't see people judge you for my decisions—

he sighs.
They wouldn't, is the thing. They'd judge me for mine
.

and i know, i know, i've read every argument, i've read every article, but at the end of the day, i feel like—david, i'm perfectly capable of thinking for myself—

I know you are, but it's—

at last it spills out:
and i chose you, too. you never pushed me, and i still chose you every day, every time i took a breath. maybe you're a bad choice, but you're still mine. mine
.

June, that's not how it—

i need you
. (i need you safe, of all the things to risk it couldn't be you

don't you see?)

the dark is a balm on my forehead

his silence a fire.

and his voice comes back a scratch, a stress:
Please don't say that to me. It hurts to hear
.

david, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, take me back, please, don't leave me like this. i love you. say you still want me, say you
—

Juniper, you don't sound like yourself. You're scaring me. Do you have water? Are other people there?

david . . 
.

teeth in my lip, a bloody taste again. urgency gets its wiry fingers around my throat,

(i need to know i have you, you're the only thing and the only one)

i'm sitting up and the world is toppling head over heels

come see me. i want to see you. right now
.

I can't
.

please
.

i wait for it—

(my goddamned
head
—)

and then—

not his reply.

knock. knock. knock.

he says,
Is someone there?

no
—

(have to lock the door. lock everything out

so i can have this one

safe place)

i stand too fast, head spinning

throat stretching

clogging

retching

Juniper! Juniper?

(the knocking still . . . )

trying to move, trying for the door—

the bottle's crashing to the carpet

(where have my feet gone?)

i'm up i'm grappling for the doorknob in the dark i'm a

chaos

i'm

(
click
there's the lock)

slamming into the floor

did i get my answer?

wake up, juniper—

(somewhere i hear his voice

he's yelling for me

what a lullaby

lull

a

bye

bye

)

BY 11:45, THE HOUSE LIGHTS ARE OFF, SOMEONE HAS
rolled the volume up on Juniper's massive speaker system, and an honest-to-God mosh pit has clustered in the center of the so-called entertainment room, which has hardwood floors so slick, I've witnessed five falls in the last ten minutes. The sight makes me think it's time to call it a night.

Deep in the knot of people, five or six voices yell a protest at once—I make out the words
Party foul!
—and the tangle unfurls, revealing a massive beer spill glazed and foaming across the floor.
Yep, I'm done
, I think. But as I turn for the door, my shoulder knocks into Olivia, and my exit strategy vanishes. On impact, a gym bag slips from her shoulder and hits the floor, and a bottle of contact fluid rolls out.

“Shit, my bad,” I say, crouching to grab her stuff, and she grins, saying, “We've got to stop meeting like this.” My cheeks turn hot. I hand her the bag and mumble, “You, um. Uh. You staying the night?” and she says, “Yep. Forgot my stuff, so my sister brought it.” I look around, expecting Kat Scott to spring out of nowhere, but Olivia adds, “She's not staying. She's in the bathroom, and
then she's gonna go.” Her eyes fix behind me on the dance floor. “Also, dude, that looks like maybe the worst thing ever,” and I say, “It really, really is.”

She grimaces. “God, I've got to find Juniper. Her parents are seeing some show in Kansas City for their anniversary, but they're supposed to get home at one-ish. I told her she was going to have a nightmare time getting people to leave at midnight.”

“I saw Juniper talking to Valentine Simmons over in the, uh, kitchen area.”

“Ah, yes, the kitchen wing and suite,” Olivia says, sounding relieved. “When'd you see her?” The music pumps louder, and she takes a step toward me, knocking my train of thought off the rails. In the darkness, one side of her face is painted in shadows, the other side lit up by the flashing white-blue of the TV. Her bright eyes mirror the flickering screen.

I force myself not to stare. “Maybe half an hour ago?”

“Shit,” she says. “Okay, well, I should start getting people out.”

Then Dan Silverstein walks through the threshold, red cup in hand, and when he looks over and sees us, a grin props up his round cheeks. My heart sinks as he heads our way, calling over the music, “Matt, you know Olivia?” and I'm like, “Yeah, we, uh, we have a class together.”

Olivia lifts a hand, and Dan says, “You look great tonight,” looking her up and down, and I get this embarrassed, self-conscious feeling like,
Why didn't I tell her she looks great?
because she does, wearing a flow-y black tank top and skinny jeans that don't quite reach down her long legs, and call me old-fashioned, but looking
at her bare ankles—that weirdly personal inch of skin—makes heat creep up the back of my neck.

“Thanks,” Olivia says. “Dan, you haven't seen Juniper, have you?”

“Nah.” He takes a step toward Olivia, and I notice her leaning back an inch. An instinct to punch him in the eye flares up, but I keep myself from reacting. Not my business getting protective.

“You want to go get a drink?” he asks her, closing in toward her ear, and she says, “No, thanks,” and he says, “Why not? Come on, Matt, let's get the girl a drink,” and she says, “I'm serious. I need to find Juniper and start shutting this thing down. Also, I don't drink, so there's that whole thing.”

Dan laughs. “I like that. I like you. You're not like other girls.”

Olivia raises one eyebrow. “Something wrong with other girls?” she asks. And Dan says, “No, you're just, you're funny,” and Olivia says, “You're in luck. Plenty of girls are funny.”

Dan shoots me an exasperated look and says, “I'm trying to compliment you,” and Olivia says, “I mean, that—” and Dan doesn't wait for her to finish. “I'm glad I ran into you,” he says. “I thought you might've left.”

Dan gives me another look, and this one reads,
Be a good wingman and leave, already
. But like hell am I leaving, when apparently Dan never learned how to read basic social cues. “Yeah, no,” Olivia says, “I'm cohost, can't leave,” and he says, “Hey, want to go somewhere quieter to talk?” and she says, “No, I'm—”

“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on her hip, and she takes a full step back, and he's like, “Don't be like that.”

I break my silence. “Man, didn't you hear her? She said no. Jesus Christ.”

Dan stares at me with disbelief. Anger mixes into his expression like blood uncurling in water, and I wait for him to square up to me, tell me to shut up, and start a drunk fight or something.

Then we hear sirens. The tiniest whine at first, but the three of us freeze as one, trading looks. “Is that—” Dan says, and I'm like, “Yeah,” and then Olivia charges forward, yelling, “Turn off the music! Everyone out. Everyone, get out—”

Nobody's listening until she bellows, “POLICE!” and then someone kills the music, the siren slices through the air, and panic crashes down like an avalanche.

They run. I've never seen a charge like this, a clot of people dashing for the nearest exit, cramming themselves through however possible. I press back against the wall, hoping to ride out the storm, but a voice says, “Hey!” and I look to my left. A wild-eyed Valentine Simmons forces his way upstream, battered back by person after person, his desperate words not stopping anyone. “Help—anyone—Juniper's in a room over there. She locked herself in, and I can't get her out.”

I yell Olivia's name, and Valentine beckons frantically. The three of us duck between fleeing people down the mile-long hall to the locked door. Lucas McCallum is kneeling in front of it, rattling the knob.

As we skid to a halt, Olivia yanks a bobby pin from her hair and snaps it in half. “Let me,” she says to Lucas, and as he moves back, she hunches over the doorknob, bending one side of the pin. “Someone check for the police,” she says, and I sprint down the hallway, the tasseled rug slipping askew under my feet. I dodge
the bathroom door opening as Kat Scott peeks out. By the time I rush into the foyer and stop at the wide-open door, kids are flooding down Juniper's lawn like ants.

It's not police cars at the curb—it's an ambulance.

And a sleek black car is pulling up the driveway, two horrified adults sitting stiffly behind the windshield. Juniper's parents are home early.

EARLIER TONIGHT, EVERY PERSON WHO SET FOOT IN
this house said, “Holy shit,” but I haven't let myself stare. Most of my friends here assume I'm rich, because I went to Pinnacle and dress like a Pinnacle kid. If somebody asks, I'm not going to lie, but I'm not going to give away the game by gawking, either.

Now the house merits a “holy shit” for other reasons. The crowd demolished it the way someone might demolish a decadent dessert. Every rug is out of place, their corners folded up. A pair of stout leather ottomans in the front lounge are on their sides. A crystal decanter lies in shards on the yellow wood floor of the dining room, bathed in a pool of whisky that probably cost more than my truck. The hallways ring in the aftermath of Lil Jon's sneering rap, silent now.