Lying Out Loud

Chapter 13

The next time I ran into Ryder outside of class wasn’t the result of any scheming — for once. This time, on a chilly Saturday in the beginning of December, we both ended up at the Hamilton Public Library by sheer coincidence.

I was walking around the first floor, scanning the shelves, when a familiar voice called my name. I looked up and saw him sitting at one of the wooden tables in the corner, a legal pad and a huge, leather-bound book in front of him. He was wearing giant retro-style headphones. When he raised a hand to wave me over, my heart began pounding just a little too hard.

“Hey,” I said, approaching the desk. “What are you doing here?”

“Research,” he said, tugging his headphones down so they hung around his neck. “For the history essay, actually.” He tapped the leather-bound book next to him. “Taking some notes on the French Revolution.”

“Yay guillotines.”

“A sentence that has oft been uttered.”

I smiled and picked up the book. It was massive and heavy. “Are you actually reading this whole thing?” I asked. “You know, they have this new invention. It’s called the Internet. It contains all of this and more — without the paper cuts.”

“Paper cuts are like battle scars for the academic,” he said, smiling back. “I guess I’m old school. I like to get my information from a real book, and I take my notes by hand.”

“I, on the other hand, am best friends with Wikipedia.”

“You know that site is woefully inaccurate a lot of the time, right? Because anyone can change the information.”

“Yep. I’m the girl changing the information to make it woefully inaccurate.”

“So half the high schoolers around the country have you to thank for their failing grades on research papers.”

“Yes, sir. I’m practically a celebrity. Or, I would be if it wasn’t anonymous.”

He laughed, and even though there were still butterflies in my stomach, I felt relaxed. This felt natural. It felt like it had when we were instant messaging all those weeks ago. Like it did in our text messages, which, admittedly, I’d been sending again.

I hadn’t slept in Amy’s room since the Black Friday debacle, and the silence of the guest room had contributed to my insomnia. And to my recurring nightmare, which I’d had at least three times in the past two weeks. When I woke up, panicked and alone, it was easy to text him. To reach out and know someone else would answer.

I kept telling myself I would stop soon. Or that it wasn’t actually detrimental for the plan — that maybe, somehow, it made Amy seem even flakier to be texting him when she was so weird in person.

I’d told myself so many lies, I didn’t even know what to believe anymore. I just knew that I liked him. A lot.

And finally, after more than a month of inching closer and closer, we were having that same connection face-to-face.

“So what are you doing here?” he asked. “If you’re such a denizen of the twenty-first century.”

“Dropping off some books for Amy,” I said. “My one day off from the bookstore job and I still find myself surrounded by books.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ryder asked.

“No. Just ironic. I actually applied for a job here, too. Unfortunately, I was informed that the last time the librarian hired teenagers to help her, they were caught making out between the shelves … multiple times.”

“Interesting,” Ryder said, tapping his chin with the end of his pen. “Who knew the Hamilton Library was such a scandalous place.”

“Right? I should hang out here more often.”

He nodded, and then we just stared at each other for this long, intense moment. At least, I thought it was intense. A little voice in my head was silently calling out to him: See me. Figure out that it’s been me all along. Of course, that would be a disaster. It had been long enough that any hope of Ryder not being pissed that I’d been sort of, accidentally, and then deliberately catfishing him was out of the question.

I didn’t want him to know that it was me sending all those messages.

I did want him to know that I was the girl he should be with.

If I hadn’t been sabotaging myself with those text messages, maybe he would have by now.

“Hey,” he said, after a second. “Would you want to get out of here? Go for a walk or something?”

I thought my brain might explode. He wanted to go somewhere with me. He wanted to take a walk with me. There was no Amy, no reason we should talk about school. It was just Ryder asking me to hang out with him.

Finally.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Let’s go.”

However, my exuberance faded pretty much as soon as we stepped out into the cold afternoon and Ryder said:

“I was hoping to talk to you about Amy.”

Fuck.

Of course.

What was wrong with this boy? As far as he was concerned, Amy had been leading him on for over a month with IMs and texts, only to be a completely different person (literally) in real life.

I knew it was partly my fault for keeping up the correspondence, but come on. Was that really enough to keep him clinging to the idea of her? They hadn’t even kissed. Hell, they hadn’t even touched.

“Amy. Right.” I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my old, battered coat. “What about her?”

“It’s just … I’m confused. Really confused.” He kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk, and I watched as it rolled away from us, wishing I could follow it, away from this conversation. “Do you know why she avoids or ignores me when we’re in the same room?”

I shrugged. “That sounds like a question for Amy.”

“I’ve asked,” he said. “A thousand times. I never get a straight answer.”

It was true. Ever since our first bout of texting back at the start of November, Ryder had sent multiple messages, asking why I (read: Amy) didn’t talk to him in person. Why they hadn’t been on a date yet. Why things were so different in texts and IMs than they were in real life.

Most of the time, I ignored these messages. They’d come midconversation, and they’d serve as the end of the correspondence. Sometimes I’d respond with something vague — a simple I don’t know or a blatantly untrue I don’t avoid you!

I was hoping all the inconsistencies would scare him away from Amy.

But he just kept trying, in real life and via text message.

“You’re her best friend,” he said. “I figured if anyone would know what’s going on with her, you would. And since you and I are friends now….”

Friends.

He thought we were friends. A smile fluttered onto my lips, and I had to hurry to hide it. At least it hadn’t all been in vain.

“Do you have any idea why she’d avoid me?” he asked. “Does she … does she even like me? No. No, I know she does. Of course she does. It’s just that when we’re together, she’s so … different.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She seems pretty normal to me.”

“She doesn’t act like the Amy I know.”

“Then maybe you don’t know her that well.”

“I do, though,” he insisted. “Or I think I do. When we’re texting or talking online, she’s so … She’s great. She’s funny and smart and it’s so easy to talk to her. The virtual Amy is incredible.”

I got all shivery when he said that, and not just because it was cold.

“I just wish the Amy I saw in real life was more like that.”

My hands balled into fists in my pockets. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to come clean so bad. That person he thought was “incredible,” the person he’d fallen for, was standing right here.

Instead I said, “I’m sorry, Ryder. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Why are you friends with her?” he asked.

I was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you friends with her? What do you like about Amy?”

“Well …” I probably should have said something vague. Or something shallow. Something to reinforce this image of the flaky, bizarre Amy he couldn’t figure out. But this, Amy, was one thing I couldn’t lie about. “She’s generous, for one thing. She’d do anything for the people she cares about. Hell, she’s letting me live with her right now. She’s always been there when I needed her.”

He nodded. “What else?”

“She balances me out. I’m the loud, dramatic one and she’s the quiet, practical one. She’s my other half, in a lot of ways. People talk about soul mates in a romantic way, but I think if soul mates do exist, Amy would be mine. I think I’d be lost without her.”

I had to shake off a pang of guilt. Since Thanksgiving break, I’d been telling myself things were fine between us. Me sleeping in the guest room was just a natural progression. We couldn’t sleep in the same room forever, after all. Amy didn’t act mad at me. She was still sweet and giggly and we still hung out. But something was different.

“I like the way you describe her,” Ryder said. “Why doesn’t she show that side when she’s around me?”

I didn’t answer. There were only so many times you could say “I don’t know.”

“Do you think it has something to do with her mom?”

“What?”

“She’s told me a little about her mom.”

It took me a minute to understand what he was talking about. Mrs. Rush was amazing — what would Amy’s weirdness have to do with her? But then I remembered. I’d talked to him about my mom. Great. Another subject I’d rather not discuss.

“Oh. Yeah. Her mom.”

“She said once that she thinks her mom might regret even having her,” Ryder said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Amy’s mom is … Well, she’s interesting. Complicated. That relationship has definitely screwed her up in a lot of ways.”

“I know how she feels,” he said.

I shook my head. “I don’t think you do.” Seeing an opening to change the subject, though, I added, “But, hey, congrats on your dad winning the election.”

“Thanks,” he said, voice flat. “It’s official: My parents are getting a divorce.”

That seemed like a good thing to me. At least things were being decided. But I couldn’t say that because I wasn’t supposed to know the backstory. So instead I replied, “I thought they were already divorced?”

Ryder shook his head. “My dad’s been holding out. Asshole. He’s still waiting a few months so it doesn’t look like he was just waiting until he got elected. Even though that’s precisely what he was doing.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“God. He’s such a cliché. Cheating on my mom with some young model,” Ryder said bitterly.

“Then as shitty as it is, maybe the divorce is for the best.”

“He’s still a dick. And I’m done talking to him.”

Guess Ryder and his dad hadn’t resolved their issues yet.

We were passing the elementary school, and without even saying a word, we both started walking toward the empty playground.

“What does your mom have to say about that? About you not talking to him?”

“I don’t really talk to her about Dad,” he admitted. “She gets upset about it. Mad, even. I can’t blame her. She’s a great person, and he screwed her over.”

I wanted to point out that, not long ago, Ryder was (rightfully) upset that she’d dragged him all the way to Illinois without even asking how he felt first.

But Sonny wouldn’t know that; Amy would. So I had to bite my tongue.

“What about you?” he asked as we made our way toward the swings. “What’s your family drama?”

I shrugged and sat down on one of the swings. The leather was cold, even through my jeans. “It’s pretty boring.”

“That seems unlikely,” he said, sitting on the swing beside mine. “You just said you’re living with Amy. Doesn’t sound too boring to me. Where are your parents?”

I’d already had to move the conversation away from my mother, and I wasn’t eager to return to it. So instead, I blurted out something I hadn’t talked about in years:

“My dad’s in prison.”

“Oh.” Ryder looked startled, and I couldn’t help but notice the way he moved away from me a little. Like he suddenly remembered that I wasn’t the rich, beautiful girl he wanted.

I was poor white trash.

At least by his standards.

But, to my surprise, Ryder shifted again on his swing, his hands wrapped around the chains, and swiveled to face me. And he didn’t look disgusted at all. “How long?”

“In and out since I was seven. But I haven’t seen him in … I don’t even remember the last time I saw him. My mom stopped taking me to visit after she divorced him, when I was still in elementary school.”

“Does he ever try to write to you?” Ryder asked. “Or call?”

“No,” I said. “Although I’ve moved since the last time I saw him. My granddad died and we moved into his old house. Plus, I don’t have the same cell phone number. So I guess I don’t really know. I just assumed he hadn’t because my mom always told me what a deadbeat he was. Not that she’s the most reliable …”

I shook my head, and before he could ask about my mother, I started talking again.

“I’ve thought about him some. I’ve considered writing him a few times, but I always talk myself out of it.”

“Why?”

Ryder’s green eyes were watching me, glued to me. Intent. It sent a shiver up my spine. And yet … it was easy. Telling him all this. Being honest about something I usually wasn’t.

“I’m scared.” It was something I’d never said out loud. “I’m scared he’ll let me down … or that he won’t want me. And I figure maybe it’s easier if I just don’t give him the chance.”

“Sonny.” He reached out and put a hand on my arm. It was like a bolt of electricity shot through me, starting where his palm touched my arm. Maybe he felt it, too, because he pulled back and wrapped his hand around the chain again. “Sorry,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for touching me or for everything I’d said about my father.

“It’s okay,” I said, deciding I’d rather he apologized for the latter. “He probably is the deadbeat I’ve always imagined. Chances are I’m better off.”

“Maybe.”

We sat on the swings for a while, not talking. And that was okay, too. As much as I liked talking, or typing, to Ryder, it was kind of nice to just sit with him and watch as the sun began to set in the distance.

“We should get going,” he said after a while. “It’s about to get dark.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Because elementary school playgrounds are known to be a hotbed of crime and debauchery after sundown.”

“I meant because it’s going to get even colder, smart-ass.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. Our fingers stayed locked together for just an instant longer than they should have, and when he let go, my hand felt too cold.

I shoved both hands in my pockets and followed Ryder toward the sidewalk.

We walked back to the library in silence, our shoulders brushing lightly against each other.

“This is me,” I said when we reached Gert. I slapped the old clunker on her hood. “Sweet ride, huh?”

“Is it going to start?” Ryder asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that the million-dollar question.” I pulled my keys from my purse and unlocked the driver’s side door. “It was nice hanging out with you today, Ryder.”

“You, too.”

I expected him to walk away, but when he didn’t, I looked at him again.

“You should write to your dad,” he said.

I frowned at him. “Why? I told you, he’s probably the deadbeat loser my mom always told me he was.”

“But he might not be,” Ryder said. “It’s been years, you said it yourself. And if you’ve been thinking about him anyway … Maybe it’s worth a shot.”

“But … but what if he doesn’t care about me?” My voice trembled a little on the last words. “What if he lets me down?”

“You won’t know unless you try,” he said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving here, it’s that sometimes people surprise you, if you let them.”

He was looking right at me when he said this, and the butterflies swarmed in my stomach once again.

He took a step back and started moving toward his car. “See you at school, Sonny.”

I nodded, but I didn’t get in the car. I just stood there, in the December cold, and watched him walk away.

That night, alone in the guest room, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay there, replaying everything that had happened with Ryder. The way he’d smiled at me. The way he’d looked at me, like for once he was actually seeing me, not just his dream girl’s annoying best friend.

But, mostly, I kept thinking about what he’d said about my dad.

Sometimes people surprise you, if you let them.

I hadn’t seen my dad in years. I hadn’t even mentioned him to anyone in years. Not until today. But I’d thought about him. A lot.

He used to push me on the tire swing in our backyard when I was little. He used to bring home big gallons of cookies-and-cream ice cream because it was my favorite. He used to say, “Quiet. You’ll wake up Sonny,” when Mom raised her voice during a fight, even though, most of the time, I was still awake.

Then he got arrested for the first time.

And then the second.

The first time it was for boosting cars, but I only knew that because I’d heard some people in town talking about it when I was little.

“Isn’t that the Ardmore girl? You hear about her dad? Goddamn thief.”

That’s when I started lying, telling people he was an international businessman, not an inmate.

I didn’t know what he’d been charged with the second time. Or any of the times after that. All I knew was that Dad hadn’t spent more than a couple of weeks out of jail since I was seven.

Mom took me to see him every week until she didn’t anymore. He was an asshole. He was a deadbeat. That’s what she said. That’s what I believed.

Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t. Ryder had me questioning all of it now.

My dear friend insomnia wasn’t going anywhere, so I peeled myself off the bed and headed downstairs. Mr. Rush kept an office on the first floor, but Amy and I were welcome to use it if we needed the desktop. And since I wasn’t sure how welcome I was to Amy’s laptop these days, it seemed like a more suitable option.

It was 1:12 a.m. when I opened up the Word document. And it was 1:36 a.m. before I managed to type the first word.

It was a short note. But it felt like pulling teeth. Each word was scary and raw. Each word made me vulnerable. What if it was easier to just leave him out of my life than to reach out and have him hurt me?

I choked back all the fears as my cursor hovered over the PRINT button. I swallowed once, twice, closed my eyes, and clicked.

Before I could change my mind, I found an envelope in Mr. Rush’s desk. I shoved the letter inside, scribbled the to and from addresses, and smacked on a stamp. I’d ask Mr. and Mrs. Rush permission to give their home number tomorrow morning. If they said no, I wouldn’t send it.

But if they said it was okay, I didn’t want any excuse not to drop the letter in the mail.

I put the envelope on the breakfast table, where I wouldn’t be able to hide from it come morning, then I ran back upstairs, buried my face in my pillows, and spent the rest of the night panicking.