“Don’t lie now that I’ve cornered you.”
He looked up at me again. “I don’t think you’re ugly,” he repeated. He said it slowly this time, and he didn’t look away.
“Well,” I said. “That’s not even…that’s not even the point.” I looked at the pool. The couple was still there, making wet smacking noises. “Ugh. Who invited them?”
Mike shook his head.
“This is the first time I’ve ever gotten drunk,” I said. “It’s turning out pretty awesome.”
The song ended, and a new one blasted from the speakers so loudly that for a second I forgot where I was. I stumbled against the wall, feeling sick.
Mike leaned close to my ear. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine!” I said. “I’m fine.” I groaned as my stomach lurched. “Why is music always so loud?”
“Come on,” he said. He tried to take my arm and I pulled back. He waited a second and touched my shoulder, and I shrugged him off again but looked up at him and said, “You can take me inside, but don’t touch me again, okay?”
“All right,” he said.
I followed him into the house, down the hall through clots of people, and into one of the downstairs guest bedrooms. He shut the door and the noise became distant and muted, softened by the thick carpet, the acres of soft curtains and sheets and fabric.
“There’s a bathroom in here,” he said. “If you, um, need it.”
“I know,” I said. I slumped onto the bed. “You can go now.”
He hovered against the wall, but he didn’t leave.
“Did you need something else?”
“No,” he said. “You just look really— You look like you might puke. I think I’m going to get Lila.”
“She’s busy having sex with your buddy.”
“Austin?” he said. He sounded shocked.
I laughed. “You wish. She’s fucking Jason. Basically everyone is getting fucked today except me.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Is that funny?”
“No,” he said. He let his head drop. “Please give me the benefit of the doubt for a second.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Because I’m asking you to.”
I drooped backward on the bed. “My shoes hurt.”
He looked down at them. “They do?”
“Yes, they do.”
He hesitated. “Did you—or—”
“Fine, I’ll do it,” I said. I sat up again and pulled them off and then a tide of nausea rose in my throat. “Oh God.”
He ventured toward me. “Are you— Do you want, like, a garbage can or—”
I waved him away with one hand and massaged my forehead with the other. “I’m fine.”
He came a little closer, and when I didn’t wave him off again, he came closer still, until he was crouching next to me. I was too busy trying to calm my stomach to care.
“I’m really—I’m really sorry,” he said. “I don’t know how to make you believe me, but I am.”
“Please don’t do this,” I said quietly.
“Why not?”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I don’t want pity.” But that wasn’t exactly true. It was more that I didn’t want him to know I wanted pity.
“It’s not pity,” he said.
I opened my eyes and looked at him through the net of my hair.
“Austin—we met in middle school; I was new and he was the only friend I had. I liked being friends with someone who got attention. You must know what that’s like. And, you know, his life hasn’t been that easy. He’s had some—”
“No,” I said. “Don’t try to make it a…like some kind of justification. I don’t want to hear about how mean his dad is. It doesn’t excuse anything.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m not going to feel sorry for him. And I’m not going to forgive him either.”
“It was just a thought.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Man, you’re putting me through my paces here.”
My stomach had reeled back into place. I looked down at him. He was still crouching next to me.
I sighed. “Sit,” I said. “That can’t be comfortable.”
He collapsed cross-legged on the carpet without looking at me.
I laughed. “I meant on the bed, you moron.”
When he saw I was smiling, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Are you— I’m not—”
“Get up,” I said.
He stood clumsily; his sneakers caught on the frayed bottoms of his jeans. The bed sloped when he sat down. He was close enough that I could feel how warm he was.
“So were you trying to say I should feel sorry for Austin?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I was just trying to— I don’t know. I thought if I could explain it, it would…”
“Why should I have to try to understand him?” I said. “Why doesn’t he…”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” he said. I was surprised to hear him use my name. “It sucks.”
“And you’re friends with him because no one else likes you?”
I’d hurt him with that one, I could see. “Thanks,” he said, “for pointing that out.”
“Sorry,” I said.
He shook his head. “How do you explain why you’re friends with someone? He’s funny sometimes and things are more exciting with him and I guess I…liked that. Or at least I used to like it. I’m just—I’m sorry, and I don’t think you’re ugly.”
I looked at him until he looked back at me. He was closer now—I could smell the tang of beer on his breath.
“Turning eighteen is shit,” I said. “I don’t recommend it.”
He laughed a little. “I’ll be sure not to do it.”
“What were those people by the pool doing, anyway? They sounded like a science experiment.”
He smiled. “I guess that’s what people do at parties,” he said.
“Mm,” I said. “You know, you should be less of a coward. You’re not that bad underneath.”
He smiled shyly. Was he blushing? His eyes were blue, I noticed. Bright blue.
“I don’t know about that,” he said, and I kissed him.
It lasted only a second—long enough for me to get the impression of warm skin and alcohol—and then he pulled back. For an instant my thoughts coalesced in a paranoid whirl: this had all been an elaborate game; he’d been setting me up; Austin was going to burst in. But he looked shocked, genuinely shocked, and he seemed to search my face to see if I was laughing.
“I think there’s been a—a misunderstanding…,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This was a mistake. This is just—” I scrambled back on the bed, trying to get purchase on the slippery bedspread.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I just wasn’t expecting, uh…”
“I need to go,” I said. “I’m really sorry. This day has been…” I shoved my shoes on and didn’t do up the laces.
“I didn’t mean to— You don’t have to—” he said.
“Thanks for coming to my party,” I said, and left.
—
“Hey!” I heard Lila shout as I ran across her front lawn. I could still hear music coming from inside the house, warped and wobbly and mournful-sounding. “Charlie! Where are you going?”
I hesitated before I turned. I was too far away from the car; she’d catch up before I could leave. “I need to— I have to go—”
She jogged across the buzz-cut grass in her bare feet. It was wet from the automatic sprinklers and it glistened in the floodlights. “You’re seriously leaving already?”
“Yes,” I said. “No lectures, please.”
She looked taken aback. “I wasn’t— I was just worried.”
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “Then why are you leaving?”
“For one, you invited Austin and Mike, who I expressly told you not to invite. Fo
r another, you were obviously a little”—I scanned her body up and down so she could see me doing it: her mussed hair, her crumpled shirt, her swollen lips—“preoccupied.”
She half grinned like she was smiling at the memory. “Oh, well, look, that was—”
“You fucked him, didn’t you?”
She looked like she’d tasted something sour at the word fuck. “I didn’t—yes, but—”
“On my birthday.”
She frowned. “What does that matter?”
“During my party!”
“Okay,” she said, “I’m sorry about that, but—”
“How dare you have sex on my birthday?” I said. It came out louder than I’d meant it to and echoed down the quiet street.
Lila laughed and then, seeing how angry I was, tried to compose herself. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s— You’re not allowed—” I suddenly felt like I was choking back a torrent of sobs.
“Are you jealous or something?”
“No!”
She moved in closer. “You’re jealous,” she said. She was laughing again. “I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, I’m incredibly jealous of you getting to bone Jason. What a treat that must be for, like, forty seconds,” I said. “You know, Lila, when people get angry at you, it’s not always because they’re jealous. Sometimes it’s because you’re being a dick.”
She retreated a little. “Harsh. I know you only have eyes for dorky English teachers, but—”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Really? What was he wearing today?”
“It was a—” I stopped. “That’s not the point. You hurt me deliberately.”
Her forehead creased. “You’re just upset because he couldn’t give a shit about you, aren’t you? You think he’s your only shot.”
I recoiled. “You seemed pretty into him until he rejected you. Besides, I’d rather he didn’t care about me than have to be fucked by Jason.”
“At least someone’s fucking me,” she said.
“Well,” I said, “congratulations on being a slut.”
The word hit her like a slap. She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “Better than being a dog.”
“Fuck you,” I whispered, shaking my head as if that could get the words out. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”
I pulled up outside his condo with the confidence of a frequent visitor, although I’d only passed by it once before, and at the time I’d told myself I was just taking a more scenic route home. The street itself was narrow and winding and wooded, and the condo building looked shoved in and out of place, hulking and blocky against the feathered green trees. The walls were cinder block like our English classroom’s—not a color so much as a lack of one—and they were spotlit at regular distances so the pools of light looked like eyes with tired gray smudges underneath.
I knew what number he lived at—24—but not where it was. Most of the front doors were well maintained, the concrete expanses larded with welcome mats and hanging plants, but a few of them looked anonymous. His was one of the vacant-looking ones—on the upper floor, in a unit that looked unoccupied except that the light by the door was on. I ran up the stairs two at a time and knocked, panting, before I could change my mind.
There was a hellish pause, and I imagined either that no one would come to the door—he was out, or worse, he had looked through the peephole and turned back, trying not to make a telltale noise—or that some stranger would—a babysitter with children barnacled to her legs, or an annoyed businessman with a folded paper in his hand and reading glasses askew on his neck, or a young woman tying a robe and giving me a puzzled expression before turning back to see if her lover knew who was at the door, and smirking when she realized it was his student.
But the door opened, and it was him. He was wearing red plaid pajama bottoms and an old gray T-shirt, like those ones that are imprinted with a team name and logo in faded lettering, except this one had DICKENS EST 1812 in place of the team and a list of book titles underneath. It was pulled taut across his chest like he was too big for it rather than it being too small for him.
“Charlie,” he said. He didn’t sound annoyed this time. He didn’t look annoyed either. “I thought you—” Then he saw my face, and his forehead creased into a ladder of worry lines. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t know where to start. “It’s my birthday,” I said finally. My voice cracked and it came out pathetically, like a moan. Hearing how stupid it sounded aloud uncorked everything and I started sobbing, hard.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. He strode forward, over the threshold, and I rushed toward him too, and we collided with the smack of a ball into the seat of a glove. Sometimes when people hugged you it was tentative, like they were trying to give you an impression of contact without having to touch you—homeopathic affection—but he was big and male and he enveloped me completely. I sank into him as I cried. His clothes were soft, and his shirt smelled like detergent. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it. I felt loose at the seams, like I was going to shake myself apart. He murmured “It’s okay” over and over again, until the words lost any meaning and I just listened to the steady vibration of his voice. Eventually the sobs slowed and I sagged against him, not ready to let go. My face felt humid against his neck.
“I like your shirt,” I said when I could speak.
He pulled back gently and looked down at it like he was seeing it for the first time. “Oh,” he said. “It was a gift. I get a lot of literature-themed presents.”
I nodded and tried to laugh. “I’m sorry I got snot on it.”
He waved his hand. “It’ll complement the gravy stains,” he said. He gestured toward the door. “Come in.”
I stepped into his living room, which was mostly bare, except for a TV and a sofa and a coffee table. The sofa was covered in stacks of books, which he shoved out of the way. They spilled onto the floor, their pages lolling open like tongues.
The room was dark, but I could see he hadn’t bothered decorating much. All the pieces of furniture were functional and looked like old self-assembly stuff, maybe leftovers from college. The only things that seemed personal, like he’d put effort into them, were the bookcases, which slumped heavily against every wall. Their shelves were crooked with books like mouths crammed full of teeth.
He had obviously been grading papers when I arrived; there was music playing softly in the background, and a half-marked paper was spread-eagled on the table. He sat down where the books had been and I sat where he’d been.
“What happened?” he said.
“I just…I had a bad day.”
“Start with the worst thing,” he said.
“My mom—no—Lila—” I gulped loudly and then laughed. “Sorry. She thinks I’m…” I trailed off. My ugliness had always existed as a negative; it was the absence of compliments, the awkward silences, the appraising stares. To voice it meant admitting it was true. “She said I’m…” I gestured toward my face. “This whole situation is bad.” I tried to laugh and hiccuped a sob instead.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Come here.”
I curled up against him and he wrapped his arms around me. It felt so good to give in and touch him, to know that he wanted to touch me. I felt warm and heavy, like my eyelids didn’t want to stay open.
“I provoked her,” I said. It felt easier to admit it when I wasn’t looking at him, now that he had tacitly taken my side.
“Nothing you could have said would’ve justified that.”
“I called her a slut.”
He paused. “That’s pretty bad.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I’m sure Lila didn’t mean it either,” he said. His voice seemed deeper this close. It vibrated in my skull with the resonance of an organ.
“You know none of what she said is true, right?” he asked after a minute.
“It’s true,” I said.
“
It’s not,” he said. He turned me around and put his hands on my arms as if to clamp them down. “It’s not true. Didn’t you see what you did to Dev today?”
I looked at him. “You noticed that?”
“I have eyes,” he said.
“He doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t answer. Then I said, “But you—that night in the classroom—you told me I wasn’t pretty then.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I never said anything like that.”
I was so nervous my jaw was vibrating. “You never said I was pretty either.”
He went silent. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want to,” he said finally. “I couldn’t.”
“You could,” I said. “In the hotel, you told me you— It seemed like you told me that you…that you had feelings for me but you couldn’t…you know.”
“I was drunk,” he said. “I never should have said what I said then.”
My tongue stuck to my teeth. “But you meant it.”
He didn’t answer.
“Please,” I whispered.
He wouldn’t look at me. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He shook his head.
“You think I’m hideous,” I said. “Just like Lila.” I felt a sob well up in my chest.
“Oh, Charlie, no,” he said. He hugged me again, tightly, as if he were trying to hold me together. He smelled like sweat and soap. His heart was pounding.
“I’m disgusting,” I said into the hot damp hollow of his neck.
“You’re not.” He pressed his mouth against my temple, once and then again.
“You hate me.” I pushed myself against him, my cheek against his cheek, my throat against his throat.
“I don’t.” He took my hand and interlaced his fingers with mine. Our palms were sweaty. His heartbeat was even faster now.
I breathed in sharply. “Tell me.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. His lips brushed my ear.
“Tell me,” I said again.
“Oh God,” he said. He groaned and slid his mouth along my jaw. He pulled me in tighter.
“Tell me,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Then show me,” I said.
He kissed me. I felt like the sea was crashing inside my head and I couldn’t hear anything else. It was the opposite of how it had been with Mike. It was more intimate than I’d imagined; I felt exposed like a nerve, as if kissing him transmitted my thoughts and now he knew that he’d taken me over completely. His lips were chapped and warm and pliable. Now that I could touch him, I ran my hands everywhere I could: down his arms, so I could feel his muscles ripple underneath like the choppy surface of a lake, across the confident span of his shoulders, to the arch of his back to where his body tapered to the center. I felt greedy, like I wanted to catalog every part of him.
Even When You Lie to Me Page 21
