If I'm Being Honest

by Emily Wibberley

  “I don’t care about the opportunities,” I spit down the line, every nerve in my body raw. “I just wanted a dad.”

  I end the call before he can hang up on me. It’s not enough he’s two thousand miles away. I throw my phone into the corner of my room, enjoying the heavy smack it makes against the carpet.

  Something drips onto my chest, and I look down to find tears bleeding into the silver of my dress. My face is wet, my makeup ruined. Sticky clots of mascara pull at my eyelashes, stinging and itching my eyes. My breath comes in painful gulps, like I’m suffocating. I’d forgotten the feeling, it’s been so long.

  I don’t reach for my running shoes. I don’t stop myself.

  For the first time in years, I cry.

  Thirty-Nine

  I TOLD BRENDAN I NEEDED ANOTHER FORTY minutes to get ready. By the time he texts me that he’s outside, I’ve cried until my chest heaved with hiccups, iced my puffy eyes, and redone my makeup. I slip my heels on and walk outside, trying to recapture the excitement I felt for the evening an hour ago.

  But I can’t. I feel tired, like I’ve been sprinting uphill for years and my legs are too heavy to take one more step.

  Paige’s car is parked in the driveway, but Brendan’s behind the wheel. He gets out when he sees me. “Wow,” he says, his voice soft and reverent. “You look beautiful.”

  I drop my eyes from his, taking in his clothes instead. Pressed pants, blue button-down, and a perfectly knotted navy tie. His hair’s slicked back with something. He looks handsome, clean-cut and adult. I muster a smile. “You look really great, too,” I say, covering the ragged edge in my throat.

  He walks to my side and opens the passenger door for me. I slide in and immediately observe that the usual clutter of textbooks, CDs, and junk-food wrappers have been cleared from the seats. The entire car is spotless and even smells like soap. It must have taken him hours to clean. The gesture is thoughtful and entirely charming and makes my heart plummet in my chest.

  Brendan pulls out of the driveway and heads for the 10 Freeway. “So maybe I should have mentioned this before,” he says, flashing me a nervous smile, “but I’m an exceptionally good dancer. Don’t be intimidated when we get on the dance floor.”

  I stare out the window, his bright-eyed enthusiasm too hard to face. “I won’t,” I mumble.

  I can feel his worried gaze on me. “That was a joke,” he says carefully. “I’m a terrible dancer. You know that. Remember Rocky?”

  I give him a quick grin, but my mind is a mess of my dad’s words. Disappointed. Failed. Immature. Even if I get into UPenn—which I probably won’t, but even if I did—my dad would still think those things about me. I’ll never have his respect, no matter what I do. My whole life I’ve tried to impress him, to earn his recognition. Now that I know I never will, I don’t even know what to do with my future. I feel worthless. Empty.

  “Hey,” Brendan says tentatively, “are you okay?”

  I look up at him, his concerned expression and gentle eyes. Guilt turns my stomach. Brendan only came to winter formal because I invited him, and I’m treating him like crap. He’s the best part of my life, the best person I know. I should be honest with him. But being honest would mean asking him to turn the car around, and I can’t do that. I can’t ruin the night he’s been envisioning. Not after everything he’s done for me.

  And I don’t want to be the spoiled and immature daughter who falls apart at criticism.

  “I’m fine. A little tired,” I answer, laying a hand on his arm.

  “We don’t have to go,” he says quickly. I know he means it, too. He’d throw away all of his preparation and excitement if I asked.

  “No, I want to.” Going to this dance is the only thing that could distract me from the email in my inbox. If I’m not dancing with my boyfriend, I’ll be alone and trapped with my dad’s words. I need this.

  “Okay,” Brendan says after a moment. “But if something’s bothering you, you know you can tell me.”

  I nod. I don’t trust myself to hold it together if I start talking. Instead, I ask him how he got Paige to lend him her car. I listen as he recounts to me how he’ll be doing all the research for her upcoming paper on British-US relations in the twentieth century.

  It’s forty-five minutes to Marina Del Rey. By the time we reach the harbor, I’ve hardly said two words. But I haven’t had a nervous breakdown, either.

  Winter formal’s on Lisa Gramercy’s family yacht this year. We pull into the Marina Yacht Club’s driveway, the hedges trimmed with lights, and follow the line of our classmates’ cars to the parking lot. The moment we park, Brendan bounces out of the car and rushes to open my door, taking my hand and steadying my step. I don’t have to work quite as hard to force my smile then.

  We walk through the gate to the dock, my arm in Brendan’s.

  The yacht is beautiful. The strings of decorative lighting on the deck illuminate the night, sending shimmering reflections onto the black ocean. People I know or vaguely recognize file up the walkway. Jeff Mitchel, his hand tastelessly low on the back of Bethany Bishop’s gown. Leila Chapman and Patrick Todd. A group of sophomore girls, their voices loud and jittery with excitement and alcohol, each wearing a dress worth what my mom earns in half a year.

  I find I’m clenching my jaw. Because it’s too much. The opulence of it, the sheer wealth—I’ve gotten used to it in general, because it’s unavoidable, but right now it feels like exactly what my dad said. Opportunities I squandered. Chances I wasted, or wasn’t good enough for, to be successful like him and the families of my classmates.

  Brendan and I board the yacht. He says nothing, but I know it’s a thoughtful, generous nothing. We wander the deck, and I struggle not to dwell on how amazing everyone looks and how wonderful a time they’re having. Not long after we board, I feel the yacht drift out from the harbor.

  Finally, Brendan asks, “You . . . want to grab some food?”

  His voice is tentative. He’s trying, and I’m reminded he’s being nothing but perfect while I roam the deck like a zombie. I can do this. I feel the chances of forgetting this pain for the night growing narrower every minute, but I can probably force myself to behave like a regular human being, if only for Brendan.

  “Um,” I say. I’m really not hungry. “Yeah. I’m starving.”

  Heart in my throat, I prepare myself to stomach salad or an appetizer. We join the buffet line, and I search for faces I know, hoping not to have to talk to people. I can hardly handle conversation with Brendan. I recognize a few underclassmen from Brad’s mock trial competitions. Morgan and Elle are at the buffet, half-full plates in hand. I turn, avoiding eye contact with them.

  “What are you feeling like?” I ask Brendan, checking out the dinner options in the silver platters. Crab cakes, prawns, gnocchi in truffle butter. The rich smells are distinctly unappetizing, and I look away.

  “Hey, Cameron.” I hear a voice over my shoulder.

  I turn to find Elle, who’s outside the line, carrying her plate and watching me intently. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me in weeks, and honestly I’m too stunned to reply.

  “I heard the Bright Partners decisions went out today,” Elle says. “Will you be joining Brad this summer?”

  I find my voice. “Brad?” I repeat dumbly.

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Elle asks innocently, obviously aware I didn’t. She’s cold and goading, and I know she’s still far from accepting my apology. “Brad applied for the internship a couple weeks ago, after your dad talked to him at the PTA meeting. He found out today he got the job.”

  I fight for a breath I hope will calm me. I can’t think about this. I can’t think about what it means that Brad got the internship and I didn’t. I just need this conversation to be over. I know Elle wants to pretend to pity me, and I refuse to give her the chance.

  I lie. “Yeah,” I say with fo
rced enthusiasm. “I got it, too.”

  “You did?” She sounds genuinely surprised.

  Normally, I’d reply with snark or cynicism. I’d defend myself. But tonight, I don’t feel worth defending. I say nothing.

  “Of course she did,” I hear Brendan say behind me, eager to have my back even though he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. I never told him about the internship. Surprised, I turn to face him. He’s fixed his eyes on Elle determinedly. “Cameron’s brilliant,” he says with tossed-off confidence. “Anyone would want her.”

  Hearing Brendan vouch for me, calling me brilliant—impossibly, it hurts worse. Here’s this boy I’ve known for just months saying things my father wouldn’t in seventeen years. Things he’ll never say. Of course, Brendan might think otherwise if he knew the truth.

  “Congrats,” Elle finally says, leaving Brendan and me in line. Morgan follows her.

  I look up into Brendan’s unwavering eyes. “Thank you,” I say stiffly.

  “Of course,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “What’s up with this internship, though?”

  I put down the plate I didn’t realize I’d picked up and grab him by the elbow. “I’ll tell you later. I’m not hungry,” I say quickly, not bothering to explain myself to his confused expression. “Let’s dance instead.”

  Brendan follows without a word or a pause. I lead him onto the dance floor, not allowing myself to look back. They’re playing an upbeat electronic song I don’t recognize, and our classmates are a frenetic huddle of hands in the air and hips swaying. I pull Brendan toward me, beginning to move with the music.

  He joins me, bobbing up and down a little off the rhythm. He studies me, and I can’t ignore the concern in his eyes.

  Then, without any provocation whatsoever, he busts out an extravagant twirl and waves his arms in the air. “Am I doing this right?” he asks. He grins hopefully and swings his hips in a wide, outrageous circle.

  And I can’t help it. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up for the first time this evening.

  “Shake your hands more,” I venture, daring myself to join in his carefree exuberance. “Like this.” I throw my hands from side to side over my head, not minding that we’re drawing glances now.

  It’s working, I can tell. I feel everything weighing me down begin to lift from me, letting me breathe.

  “Of course,” Brendan says. “How could I have forgotten?” He tosses his hands up, imitating me. A laugh escapes me involuntarily, and I hardly recognize the sound. Relief flashes across his features.

  I grab his hands, the excitement gaining momentum in me. It’s what I imagine the feeling would be like to lift off the ground in an airplane headed somewhere wonderful, weightless and anticipatory and exhilarating. We spin in a wide circle on the dance floor until I stumble over his feet and crash into him, loosening another laugh from my lips.

  He catches me, righting me and holding me a little closer. “You’re a safety hazard.”

  “Oh yeah?” I grin.

  He grips me tighter. “I think I’d better hold on to you. You know, to protect innocent bystanders.”

  I rest my head on his chest. “I think you’d better.”

  In his arms, I’m finally here. With him. I feel like this dance, this room, this piece of the universe was reserved just for me. For me to feel wanted, and free, and okay. For a moment, the only things that matter are the way Brendan holds me and the way he gently kisses my forehead.

  * * *

  When we’re out of breath and our feet hurt, Brendan brings me out to the deck. I’m struck momentarily by the view. We’re farther out than I expected, the lights of the shore a glittering string of pearls in the distance. I can hardly discern where the sky ends and the inky roll of the water begins. The dazzling strings of lanterns on the deck warmly light the railing over the water.

  I walk with Brendan to the edge and relax against the railing, my heart still pounding from the exertion. He collapses onto the railing next to me, half a laugh escaping him. I watch him, the night wind ruffling his curls, and find myself recognizing everything he is. How he came here tonight with me, how he made me laugh on the dance floor, how he defended me to Elle.

  “You know,” I say, looking out on the water, “you’re not the guy I thought I knew before we were friends. You’re . . . funnier, stronger, braver.” I face him. “I’m grateful,” I say, “and I’m sorry.”

  Brendan’s brows join in puzzlement. “Sorry for what?”

  “For my nickname. I know we’ve gone over this,” I say when he opens his mouth, “but here with you now, I need to say it one more time. I’m sorry what I called you forced a wonderful, charismatic, honorable guy into the shadows.”

  I’m not expecting the way Brendan’s face falls when I finish my speech. His eyes drift downward. “I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he says. I feel a tremor in my stomach until he continues. “I . . . didn’t hide away because of your nickname. It wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to me. But I let it become an excuse. I used it to justify not finding my own friends, keeping myself closed away with homework and grades. I let it define me and told myself it was your fault. But I’m done doing that, Cameron, and it’s because of you. I think it might be literally impossible to be your friend and not be inspired to be yourself. Be real. Be brave.”

  His confession throws me off balance. I say nothing, not really knowing how to contend with what he’s just told me. But Brendan’s not expecting me to reply. He draws in a breath to continue and stares deeply into my eyes.

  Just like that, it’s back. The tightness in my chest, threatening to choke off my words.

  “Brendan, I don’t—”

  “I need to say this,” he interrupts me earnestly. I itch to step back, but the railing holds me.

  He takes my hand, and I want to tear free. I want to push past him and run inside. I want to disappear. Because I know what he’s leading up to. From the flush in his cheeks, the tremor in his fingers, and the burning, overwhelming emotion in his eyes.

  And I’m not ready to hear it. For a little while on the dance floor, I could lose myself in this terrible-turned-wonderful night. But the more Brendan says, the harder I fight the feeling I don’t deserve this night—don’t deserve him. I’m spoiled. Pathetic. I’m none of the things Brendan believes, and it’s only a matter of time before he figures it out.

  “I love you,” he says. The words tumble from his lips and slip beneath the roar of the ocean. “I love you, Cameron,” he repeats, louder this time.

  For one moment the declaration hangs between us. His chest expands like he can breathe freely now that he’s voiced his feelings. He smiles, and his entire face glows under the moonlight. I want to live in the moment forever, to stare at him and admire how beautiful he is inside and out while his words echo in my ears.

  But his expression shifts. His brow furrows, his eyes dim. He’s waiting for my reply. I open my mouth to say the words back, to smile and kiss him. It wouldn’t be a lie. I do love him, and it’s that realization that steals my breath and stays my tongue. I’m not good enough for him. It’d be better for both of us if I stop ignoring what I’ve known deep down since the day we first spoke.

  “I—can’t.” I rip my hand from his and dash past him. Tears blur my vision, but I can’t break down here. What I need is to run, but these shoes, this ridiculous dress, and miles of ocean are in the way.

  I head for a bathroom. A slow song is playing on the dance floor, and dozens of couples hold each other, swaying like the sea beneath us. I hurry through the room, praying no one will notice me.

  But in the narrow hallway, I stop short. In front of the restroom, there’s a girl in tears, holding her phone to her wetted cheek.

  It’s Bethany Bishop. She doesn’t notice me for a moment or two, and I overhear her conversation. “He went off with
Kim Shepherd in the middle of winter formal. It’s like I don’t even exist.” It’s easy enough to guess what’s going on here. Jeff Mitchel’s never been an upstanding guy.

  Bethany’s eyes find mine. I watch her recognize me, then take in the tear trickling down my cheek, the dampness of my forehead. She hangs up hastily.

  My stomach churns. At first, I think it’s seasickness, but then I recognize it. The bitter, oily current coursing through my veins. “Bethany,” I say with a familiar sneer. “You have only yourself to blame. I told you not to go for Jeff in September. Remember?” The cruelty comes back easily, blunting the pain in my chest and distracting me from my heartache. “You knew he could never care about you. You knew you were wasting your time trying to get him to like you. Now you’re left with nothing, and it’s your own fault.”

  It feels good. Even if I’m not only talking about Bethany. For a moment, I can breathe again.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re pathetic,” I say, dredging the words from the well of anger I’ve found deep in me.

  Bethany’s face crumples. I watch her eyes go glassy with a hurt she doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make me feel better—only different. But I can handle different. Guilt and remorse are more palatable than the empty sadness waiting for me. They’re old friends, the only ones who’ll never leave me.

  I want Bethany to lash out, to tell me I’m an awful person. A bitch. It’s what I deserve. Hot and angry words. Hateful glances. Instead, her lip wobbles, and the fire fueling me falters. I turn before it can die out completely.

  But the hallway’s not empty anymore. Brendan stands in my way, pinning me between him and Bethany, who’s now escaping into the unlocked men’s room.

  His expression is horrified, revolted, disappointed. His eyes find mine, and a crashing wave pummels my chest. He heard everything.