Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  “It isn’t?”

  “It’s complicated with Jamison and me.”

  “Life is complicated.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  “You call this better?” he asks.

  “Better for some is worse for others.”

  “Jamison isn’t better without you,” Tucker insists.

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know what I’ve done. I can’t hurt him again.”

  “Like you’re not hurting him now?” Tucker takes my hands. “He wants to be with you, Amoris.”

  “He doesn’t know what he wants.”

  “Don’t do that,” Tucker says. “Stop making decisions for him. It might be a risk for me to be with Sam, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Sam isn’t allowed to rob me of that choice. Not when we’re deprived of so much else.”

  He makes it sound so easy. And maybe it is. Maybe I’ve complicated this. Maybe being with Jamison is the least complicated act there is. And maybe there’s a part of me that’s afraid of what that means. Afraid to give in to the simplicity and utter complexity of love.

  “If you’re waiting for the world to be perfect before you let yourself have him, you’ll die alone,” Tucker says.

  “I don’t deserve him, Tuck,” I say.

  “When did love become something a person deserves? Love is a human right, not a reward for good behavior.”

  “But I can’t be trusted. What if I hurt him again?”

  “Removing yourself from the situation doesn’t prove that you can be trusted, Amoris. In fact, it only reinforces that you can’t. You quit when it got tough. I understand needing to take a step back, but you’ve done that. Do you want to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself? Who does that serve?”

  “I just want to protect him,” I say.

  “And how’s that going?” Tucker asks.

  “Honestly . . .” I say. “Terribly.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Tucker pulls me into a hug. “You and Jamison are meant to be together. I can see it. Sam can see it. You know it. Jamison knows it. The only thing preventing it is you.”

  “But what if—”

  Tucker stops me. “Life is unpredictable. But some risks are worth the potential fall. All you need to ask yourself is, Is Jamison worth it?”

  And when I say yes, it’s the most honest word I’ve ever uttered.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Go kiss the boy you want to kiss instead of standing here in a dirty kitchen with some hillbilly in cowboy boots.”

  “You’re not a hillbilly.”

  “So what if I am,” Tucker says, “I still deserve love.”

  I hug him tightly. And when we pull back, I kiss him on the lips, sweet and gentle.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The dishes are done, and my decision is solidified. I need to see Jamison. I need to apologize. I need to tell him what an idiot I’ve been.

  I’m almost home to Shangri-La when my phone chimes. I expect to see a text but instead find an email from Mr. O’Brien. The subject line is startling. I read the entire email. Then I run the rest of the way home. Now I need to see Jamison even more.

  When I get there, his apartment is dark. I knock on the door relentlessly, hoping someone is home, but no one answers. I text Jamison.

  Where r u? Need to talk.

  Three dots pop up right away. But too soon they disappear. No text comes through, but I know he saw mine. Where could he be? What is he doing?

  I stop myself from texting Ellis, knowing the torture of finding out they’re together would be too much. I can’t do it. I don’t want to involve her. I just need to wait for Jamison to get home.

  But as I’m on my way to my room, I halt at the sound of female voices in the kitchen. Rayne and Kaydene are talking about the email. It must have gone out to parents, too. The whole town might know about the mural by tomorrow.

  “You don’t look relieved,” Rayne says.

  “I am,” Kaydene responds.

  “But . . .”

  “In my experience, removing something from sight doesn’t fix the problem.”

  “Would you rather they keep it up?” Rayne asks.

  “No,” Kaydene says with certainty.

  “You should be proud of him, Kay,” Rayne says gently. “Jamison has grown into such an impressive young man.”

  There’s a pause before Rayne speaks again.

  “What is it?” she asks. I imagine her reaching across the table, putting her hand on Kaydene’s.

  “I was just thinking how much our lives have mirrored each other’s. We had babies on the same day, at the same time no less. We’re both married with two kids each. Both parents work. Middle class. And yet, your daughter was raised knowing she could be whoever she wants to be. And my son was raised knowing he’d have to prove he wasn’t what other people think he is.”

  There’s silence after that. I lean back against the wall and check my phone again. Jamison still hasn’t responded. Where is he?

  The back door opens, as if answering my question. Jamison is my first thought. But it’s River.

  I’ve hardly seen him since the police incident. He’s been hiding in his room when he’s home, or avoiding home altogether, going to school early to lift weights or run in the gym. I don’t want to talk to him right now.

  River yells after me as I walk away. “Wait, Amoris!”

  “I’m done saving you, River. I don’t want to listen to your whining. Go complain to someone else. You’re probably drunk anyway.”

  “I’m not drunk. I haven’t touched the stuff since that night. Please.”

  I don’t want to interrupt Kaydene and Rayne, so I pull River outside, into the backyard.

  “What is it?” I ask curtly.

  “Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For dragging you into that situation with the cops.”

  “Situation? It was a little more than a situation, River. You could have been arrested. Kicked off the basketball team. Suspended from school. Or worse. I get that you’re pissed at Dad, but ruining your life won’t fix the problem. How could you put Rayne through that? She doesn’t deserve it.”

  “I know,” he says.

  “Do you? Really? Or are you just mad you got caught?”

  “No, really. I am sorry. For everything. For that night, and for what I said about Sam.”

  “Why the sudden change?” I ask, hugging my arms around my torso to stay warm. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “That’s bullshit, River. Everything you do is for yourself.”

  “No, it’s true. I just want to apologize.”

  “Why should I trust you? You’ve been a dick all year.”

  “I know,” he says. “I just got wrapped up in it all. The parties. The drinking. The popularity.”

  “Oh, boo hoo. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “No. I’m just trying to explain.”

  “Well, sorry if I don’t want to hear your shitty excuses. I don’t feel bad for you, River. You have everything. You’re practically high school royalty.”

  I start to walk away again, but River blurts out, “I was jealous!” I stop at the declaration. “You want the truth. There it is. I’m jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what you have with Sam and Ellis and Jamison. And Mom and Dad. You fit in, Amoris. I . . . don’t.”

  “What are you talking about? You seem to fit in pretty damn well at school.”

  “You and I both know that’s fake bullshit. I mean real fitting in. Not the fake, surface shit that exists between guys. You have no idea what it feels like to be an outsider in your own family. You, Mom, Dad . . . you’re so much alike. You listen to the same music. You see the world in the same way. Sometimes it feels like you speak a different language I don’t even know.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It isn’t? Mom didn�
��t give me crates of albums when I was born. She didn’t make me sit there and listen to song after song.”

  “Don’t blame Mom for this.”

  “I’m not,” River amends. “But even Dad gave you your first guitar.”

  “So?”

  “They saw something in you, Amoris. They just put up with me. Dad’s never given me anything like that.”

  “What about the basketball hoop?” I counter.

  “I asked Mom for that,” River says. “And Dad has never played with me. The best he gave me was a lock for my door when I hit puberty.”

  My first instinct is to say that’s untrue, but when I think about it, River might be right. “Maybe that’s because you don’t ask Dad to play.” But as the argument comes out, I know it’s weightless. Chris wouldn’t play even if asked.

  “He just sees me as a stupid jock,” River says. “I figured if that’s the way my own father sees me, I’ll just be the stereotype. It was better than feeling . . . alone.”

  “You’re not alone, River.”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Dad is ashamed of me, Amoris. That’s why he doesn’t come to any of my games.”

  “He’s not ashamed of you,” I say.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because . . . Dad loves you.”

  “He has an odd way of showing it.”

  I sit down in the garden, twinkle lights overhead, digesting what River has said. “This is all very Neil Young ‘Old Man,’” I say.

  “What?”

  “The song ‘Old Man’ by Neil Young.”

  “See. There’s that secret language.” River sits next to me. “I don’t know that song.”

  “It’s really good. You should listen to it sometime.”

  “Even you, Amoris . . . you have your records and your guitar. But you never ask me to listen with you.”

  “You don’t like my music.”

  “It’s not about the music. It’s about being asked. You play basketball with Jamison, but you never play with me.”

  I want to refute him, but it’s true. I’ve never thought about River being an outsider because he’s such an insider at school. But we’re all a little bit lost.

  I get the basketball and head toward the hoop at the front of the house. “Come on,” I say to River. “H-O-R-S-E.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Amoris. I know this is just a pity move.”

  I toss the ball at River. He catches it with skill.

  “Are you scared I’ll beat you?”

  “That’s impossible,” River says.

  “Prove it.”

  With every shot we take, River loosens up. A smile returns to his face, and the angst he’s been carrying around slowly disappears as we play basketball. We stay outside so long, I lose track of time. The game finally ends when I miss from the free-throw line.

  “That’s an E for me,” I say.

  River seems disappointed. “I saw the email from Mr. O’Brien. About the mural. That’s crazy.”

  “There’s a lot of crazy shit in this town.”

  A beat passes between us. “You’re gonna leave, aren’t you, Amoris?”

  I can’t bring myself to answer. He saves me from having to by tossing me the ball.

  “Rematch?” River asks.

  “You’re on.”

  We play two more rounds before heading inside for the night. I don’t let River see the disappointment on my face. It isn’t his fault. It’s been years since River and I have had this much fun together.

  But Jamison still isn’t home, and it’s eating me alive.

  34

  TIME’S UP

  I regret offering to work the double on Valentine’s Day. Any moment I might have had to talk to Jamison is gobbled up with work. The café is busier than usual.

  Louisa, Marnie, and I work tirelessly all morning, only to be slammed again later as customers need an afternoon pick-me-up. A lull finally comes as the sun sets, but due to the heavy flow of customers earlier, there are still hours of cleanup and prep for tomorrow.

  By the time Marnie flips the sign to “Closed,” it’s nearing eight. Ellis’s Anti-Valentine’s Day party is underway. I check my phone. Jamison still hasn’t texted. My mind instantly plays tricks on me. Terrible tricks. Torturous tricks. It takes all my might to push the doubts away and focus.

  In the bathroom, I change out of my work clothes and into a fresh outfit I brought specifically for the party—tight black jeans, a cropped white T-shirt, and sneakers. I wash my face and pull my hair into a high ponytail. Louisa offers to give me a ride to the party, and I take her up on it, wanting to get there as quickly as possible.

  When we pull up to Ellis’s house, the large yard littered with tents, Louisa says, “This looks like Bonnaroo.”

  “The underage, illegal version.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid. And call me if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks for the ride.”

  Louisa is right. Ellis’s house looks like a camping music festival, complete with alcohol and drugs, but less music. There’s something different about this party. Almost too careless. Like Ellis is no longer testing her boundaries but jumping directly over them.

  Inside, the party is crawling with people. Music plays loudly from speakers hidden all around the house. Michelle, Beckett, Paisley, and a handful of other people play flip cup on the dining room table. That’s nothing new, but beer puddles are leaving marks on the wood, and no one is cleaning it up.

  It’s stifling hot in here. Too many bodies are smashed into one place. A cloud of weed smoke lingers. At past parties, anyone smoking inside would have been kicked out. But tonight, Ellis is either too busy or too drunk to notice.

  I head to the kitchen and fill a glass with water and take a deep breath. My head is cloudy. My long day is coming back to bite me, blurring my eyes with fatigue.

  Someone grabs my arm, and I turn, hoping it’s Jamison.

  “This is insane,” Sam says. When someone bumps into him, he steadies himself on the counter.

  “Apparently, everyone hates Valentine’s Day,” Tucker adds, “and they’re taking it out on Ellis’s house.”

  Sam giggles. “Ellis has never had so many friends.”

  There are stains on the carpet, food scattered everywhere.

  “If this is friendship, count me out,” I say. “Matt is going to kill Ellis.”

  “I think that’s the point,” Tucker says.

  Her dad doesn’t deserve this. All for falling in love. I thought Ellis was doing OK. All her actions pointed to that, until tonight. Ellis always does this when she’s mad. She’s destructive. Breaks everything around her, hoping someone will notice, but she never cleans up her own messes. She leaves that to everyone else.

  As if by instinct, I start dealing with the mess in the kitchen. Not for Ellis, but for Matt. He shouldn’t have to deal with Ellis’s juvenile antics and a ruined house just because he wants to remarry. Tucker nailed it—love is a human right, not a reward for good behavior.

  Sam follows me, holding a garbage bag as I collect the empty cups that have accumulated on the counter. I wipe down the large center island and hide a few breakable items in the cabinets. Where is Ellis?

  I refill my water glass and lean back against the counter. It’s just so hot in here.

  “So . . .” Tucker says quietly. “I can barely stand the suspense. Did you talk to Jamison?”

  I take a sip of water, trying to clear my head. Yesterday feels so far away already.

  “I got distracted,” I say.

  “Well, now’s your chance.” Tucker nudges me and discreetly points at Jamison, who’s just walked into the kitchen, a red plastic cup in his hands. A flood of adrenaline washes over me.

  I stand up straight, heart in my throat.

  But when he looks at me, I can’t read his expression. Is he surprised, relieved, disappointed?

  Jamison approaches us, but before he can get a word out, I blurt, “You didn’t te
xt me back!”

  Those aren’t the words I was hoping to say. I wanted to say, Forgive me. Can we start again? I’ve been an idiot. Kiss me. But instead, an accusation.

  “Amoris, we need to—” But before Jamison can get the rest of the sentence out, Ellis appears, draping herself on his arm.

  “You’re here!” Ellis says, looking at me, her words slurring. “Just in time! Jay and I were just celebrating!”

  “Celebrating what?” I ask.

  “The mural, silly. We’re the perfect team.” Ellis clinks her plastic cup on Jamison’s. “Cheers to our victory!” She drinks a long gulp. “Come on, Jay. You have to drink after a toast. That’s the rule.”

  He sets his cup down, releasing himself from Ellis’s grasp. “I need some air,” he says, and disappears into the crowd again.

  Ellis wobbles on her feet. “What’s his problem? There’s always one pooper at the party. You’d think he’d be a little more grateful after what I did.”

  “What you did?” I ask.

  Ellis looks at me with drunken, vacant eyes. “Whatever.” She stumbles away, pushing herself through the crowd, but her footing is sloppy, and she trips, falling to the hardwood floor. She goes down with a thud, hitting her elbow and then her head. And yet with a house full of “friends,” no one comes to her aid. They just stare as she whines in pain.

  Sam, Tucker, and I push people out of the way, pick up Ellis, and set her down on a chair in the kitchen. I inspect her head for blood. It’s clean, though a bump has already formed.

  “We need ice,” I say to Sam.

  As he races around the kitchen searching for a dish towel, I check Ellis for any other damage. She sits limply in the chair, her dark-brown hair hanging long over her face and shoulders.

  “Why is it always me who gets hurt?” she says, seriously. Her drunken slur is gone. “Dead mom. Nonexistent dad. Why can’t it be you for once? With your perfect house and your perfect family.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It must be the booze talking. Ellis closes her eyes, her body going loose again.

  Sam and Tucker get her to bed. Tucker fills a glass of water and sets it on her nightstand, next to her lavender oil. I stand back, struggling to muster an ounce of caring.

  “What if she has a concussion?” Sam asks. “Or pukes in her sleep?”