The Lies About Truth (5 page)

The Social Experiments, as I decided to call them, continued that afternoon. I’d expected a quiet evening with Max—maybe a walk on the beach, some Star Time on the dock, a game of Tell Me Something—instead, I got a joint McCall-Kingston meal. At least Mom and Dad eased me into their high expectations.

Lights shone through every window of the McCall house. Such a strange sight to see after a year of darkness. Sonia had invited us to dinner, her need for community stronger than her weariness from traveling and the need to accomplish a long to-do list. We carried over a key lime pie and a loaf of fresh bread. I carried over some panic, and I wasn’t even sure why. I loved these people, and they loved me.

Mom knocked.

“You have a key,” I said.

“They live here again,” Mom said.

They did. We’d met them at the airport, I’d said hello, and somehow it felt like I was hearing it for the first time.

Sonia ushered us inside, and we re-exchanged hugs. I’d chosen a thin yellow sweater and a pair of ripped-up jeans. My hair was down and half hidden under a straw cowboy hat, but Sonia didn’t stand still long enough to look at me. She pushed around boxes with her feet, opened a bottle of wine, apologized for messes that weren’t there, and transferred the roses from a table in the foyer to the dining room.

My parents put their hands to work, and I watched. Sonia noticed me loitering and said, “Max is still in his room. Would you go get him?”

“Happy to,” I said, and headed down the hallway.

While the McCalls were away, we took care of their house. Dad sprayed for bugs, checked for water damage, and manicured the lawn. Mom cleaned, and changed the vanilla plug-ins every month. Practical stuff. I hadn’t helped much. Being in and out of here had made me want to sit at Trent’s desk, borrow one of Max’s T-shirts, or eat Froot Loops at the kitchen bar. Once I’d curled up in Trent’s bed and napped—though I’d never done that when he was alive—and Mom caught me. That little mistake ended my visits. So, when I knocked on Max’s door, and he answered with a hoarse “Come in,” it felt as if I was seeing a brand-new world.

My eyes roamed over the particulars of his room.

“No more Power Rangers,” he said.

“Max, dang. I mean, wow.”

“Pretty cool, huh? Dad built it at Christmas.”

Plywood board covered in rock-climbing holds consumed an entire wall and part of the ceiling. Mr. McCall’s bouldering wonderland hung like a miniature version of the one at my old gym. He’d finally found a use for ten-foot ceilings that didn’t involve cobwebs. A small crash mat leaned in the corner, and a pegboard held various clips and things. The rest of the room looked normal: a bed, a dresser, and a closet. Max had Everest and Abercrombie.

“We went to Jacksonville for Christmas,” I said. “I didn’t even know your dad came home, much less built all this. You never mentioned climbing in your emails or messages.”

“I only did it a few times.” He stuffed his hands into a chalk bag hanging from a hook. “There were a bunch of crags near the convent and some of the locals took me bouldering. This is . . .”

“Over the top,” I finished.

“It’s over-something. Dad’s . . . had a hard time sitting still. Check it out.” Max put his feet on the lowest toeholds, grabbed on, and moved hand-over-hand toward the ceiling. Hanging from one arm, he pulled up and said, “You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty cool.”

It was cool.

“You’re a monkey,” I told him.

He swung down next to me, bumping my shoulder. “I’ll
teach you,” he offered. “This summer or after school.”

I tensed, and he felt it.

Keeping his eyes on mine, he minced no words. “School will be fine. I’ll be there.”

“You did hear the little kid at the airport, right?”

“Kids are kids.”

“Kids are honest.” I gave him a good hard poke in the ribs, mustered a happy face, and teased, “Much more honest than you, Max McCall.”

“A truth is a truth is a truth, Sadie May.”

He ripped those words directly from Trent’s repertoire.

“Your mom said supper’s ready.” I tugged on his T-shirt, flirting a little, and left the room before he argued. He followed me all the way into the dining room, where our parents were laughing about something.

God, that was nice. Max and I paused in the door frame to watch.

“They’re . . .” The description escaped me.

“Better,” Max finished.

It was the right word. Laughter didn’t necessarily mean happy. There were gaps in tonight’s meal that laughter could never fill.

Mr. McCall noticed us and greeted me with a warm side-squeeze. He was skinnier and firm in all the places he’d been a little plush. The whole family looked healthier, as if they’d spent their days working out and eating salmon and salad.

“It’s good to see you, hon.”

“It’s good to be here, Mr. McCall.”

He tried the old
Call me George
routine, but I was over it. Sonia was one thing; Mr. McCall was another.

“I like the climbing wall you built,” I told him.

He gripped Max’s shoulder harder than he needed to—Max flinched—and Mr. McCall released him. “Projects are good for the soul,” he said, followed quickly by, “Dinner’s ready. Wash up.”

We’d shared dozens and dozens of meals around this table, but we’d never done it as a group of six. The McCalls had made the decision to move within a month of Trent’s death, and there weren’t any group dinners, except the one after the funeral. And I was too broken, too out of it, to remember much of that one. Max and I spent the whole time on the deck, away from all the people and their shoulder pats, funeral casseroles, and snotty tissues. I watched the neighbors hug my parents, not knowing what to say. I wondered if they thought it might be better to lose a child than to be left with one as monstrous as me.

I counted the chairs as we moved to our places. Someone, probably Sonia, had had the good sense to remove Trent’s chair, the one that used to sit between Max and me.

We made this first transition without tears, but that changed when Mr. McCall asked Max to pray. He chose the grace I’d heard Trent give a million times. His raspy voice sounded nothing like Trent, but it was a beautiful prayer.

“God, we thank you for this food, for rest and home”—Max paused, his fingers flexed against mine—“and all things
good. For wind and rain and the sun above. But most of all, for those we love.”

You’re supposed to close your eyes when you pray, but I didn’t. I held Max’s hand the way I used to hold Trent’s, and watched for falling tears. There were several. Some of them were mine.

I double-squeezed his hand, an unspoken
You did good
.

He double-squeezed back and whispered, “Been trying to get through that prayer all year.”

Stories were passed around the table like bread and pie. Thankfully, no one talked about rehab or scars or paralyzed vocal cords. Mr. McCall told us about the bridge construction crews he’d worked with every day. By the sound of it, that contract had been a godsend. Sonia, a nurse, had found a place in the community as a midwife.

“Bringing babies into the world is always breathtaking, even in dirt-floor shacks. Being needed that much is a glorious thing,” she declared.

She was a beautiful delight in that moment, resilient and strong. I envied her.

Max shared things he hadn’t mentioned in his emails or IMs. Soccer, a little boy named Dixon, and helping build houses for people in an HIV community near San Vicente. Guilt doubled back and crawled up my spine and into my throat. The McCalls had spent the year finding their reasons to move forward, and I’d barely found my way out of my room. Trent had been their son and brother. What was wrong
with me? I had no business being this stuck.

“Where are you going next, George?” Dad asked. “Any other contracts?”

“Next one is local, a small bridge near Miramar. I scoped the area yesterday morning on my way in from Panama City. I might take one in the northeast next year after Max goes to college.”

Dad tossed his napkin on his plate. “George, I can’t believe you were back on Wednesday and didn’t tell us. Can’t believe I didn’t see one of your lights on.”

Mr. McCall wore a proud smile as he said, “I slipped in quiet as a mouse. Knew Max wanted to surprise Sadie.”

George McCall winked at his son.

Max winked back and rocked his chair sideways toward me. “It was a good surprise. Right, Sadie?”

I nodded as Sonia said, “Four on the floor.”

Max rested the chair legs on the hardwood and teased Sonia. “Mom, we aren’t little kids anymore.”

The teasing fell short when he looked at the space between us—where Trent used to sit—rather than at me, and I knew he was thinking he shouldn’t have said
we
. Everyone at the table knew.

And thought about Trent.

Who always rocked his chair on two legs.

Sonia rescued us, turning the conversation away from Trent to town news and old friends.

I tuned them out after that and didn’t tune back in until
I heard my mother agreeing with Sonia that we—me, Max, Mom, and Sonia—would all go shopping the next day.

Not wanting to be impolite, I made direct eye contact that screamed
NO
at my mother and waited for her to retract the invitation. She didn’t. The Social Experiment struck again.

“Mom, I thought you said we had something else to do tomorrow.”

She knew exactly what I was driving at, and ignored me completely. “Oh, everything else can wait. You and Max both need stuff. It’ll be fun to go together.” She overemphasized the word
fun
, so I overemphasized my scowl.

“May I be excused, please?” I asked.

Mom and Sonia looked at each other—secret mom Morse code—but she said, “Of course.”

I told everyone good night, thanked the McCalls several times for a lovely dinner, and pushed in my chair.

“You’re leaving before pie?” Sonia asked.

“I need to go for a run.”

Max gave me the
You okay?
question in a blink. He hadn’t said much in the past ten minutes, and I assumed his voice needed the rest.

“See you tomorrow.” I touched his shoulder as I walked by.

When I got to the beach fifteen minutes later, Gray was there.

I smiled when I saw him, and then I stopped myself.

“I don’t have a time machine,” I whispered before I walked over to the dune.

He hugged me, quick and uncomfortable—a cordial handshake between countries at war. “Hey, I hoped you’d be out here,” he said. “I didn’t know what time you usually came so I just stayed here after work.”

He’d been there since four thirty.

“I’m never here before dark,” I said, immediately regretting that I told him. What if he made a habit of showing up like this?

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “The other night, plus the anniversary . . . it’s just, I don’t know . . . on my mind. You’re always on—” The wind grabbed the rest of his sentence.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Sure . . . I’m always okay, I guess.”

Sad eyes and still stoic. Which annoyed me. Why couldn’t he just say how he felt rather than cloaking it in some terrible bravado?

“What about you?” he asked.

I gave him honesty. “I lost okay a long time ago.”

“I didn’t help with that.”

“Not so much,” I said.

We walked closer to the ocean and sat in that magical place that was dry on our butts and wet on our toes. Gray loved that place best, and it was my habit to do what he liked without thinking about it. Without asking, he untied my tennis shoes, slid them and my socks off, and set them behind us.

I didn’t comment, but I didn’t stop him. I tugged the edge of my shorts lower and waited on whatever it was he had to say.

He derailed a crab from crawling our way and then asked, “You talked to Gina?”

“Not since the other night.” I let my eyes slice him a few times before I asked, “Have you
talked
to Gina?”

“We’re still friends, Sadie. You should try it.”

“I did. Didn’t work out so well.” Which wasn’t completely true, but it felt good to say.

“Jeez, lay off us, will you? I’ve told you a million times it wasn’t like that.”

It was like something.

“Gray, why are you here?”

He slid his hand closer to mine in the sand until we were nearly touching. “Gina said you and Max were . . . I dunno . . . together. I wanted to check in, I guess.”

“Max and I are . . .” I didn’t know the term for what we were. “Close.”

Gray exhaled. “I wish I could go back and do so many things over.”

His voice dripped with earnestness. All of my firsts were with Gray Garrison, and I remembered them now as if they were a Pinterest board of images. The first time I thought he was cute. The first time I realized he liked me. The first time I realized I liked him back. The first time he’d held my hand. The first time we’d found the perfect make-out place. The first time.

From a distance, he resembled most guys. The kind you might walk by on the sidewalk, but if he was playing volleyball,
sandy and shirtless, you’d turn around and watch. Up close, Gray was somewhere between pretty and handsome. A solid cute. He didn’t have cool hair or expensive clothes, but he had a sexy voice, long eyelashes, and a curious smile. Thank God for those uneven ears. Those slight imperfections kept him humble. Kept him from thinking every girl wanted him, even though plenty did.

If I leaned in, would he kiss me? I didn’t want him to; I wanted
him
to want to.

He turned toward me. His lips were so close.

“You still think about us?” he asked, eyes on the sand.

“Not anymore.”

Such a lie. I’d written
Forgive Gina and Gray
in the sand for months.

“I effed up everything, and I can’t even really explain it.”

“Give it a try.”

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“What isn’t?”

“Can I just ask you a question?”

“Sounds like you just did.”

He threw a handful of sand at my leg. “You’ve been mad at me and Gina for . . .” His voice fell away. “But have you ever considered that I might have felt the same way? Before. That sometimes you and Trent looked—”