Lying Out Loud

Chapter 23

By Monday morning, I was dealing with some serious post-make-out regret. Not regret about the kissing specifically — that had been awesome — but about how it had come to pass. Namely, me wussing out on telling Ryder the truth.

And now that I knew exactly what I was going to be missing, telling him would be even harder.

But I had to. Because that hot make-out session didn’t change anything.

So when I walked into history class that morning, I was determined to do the right thing. No matter how anxious the whole thing made me.

“Hey,” I said, sliding into the seat behind his. “So … we should talk about what happened Friday.”

Ryder had already swiveled in his seat so we were facing each other. “I was actually thinking the same thing.”

For a moment, my heart sank. He regretted the kiss, too, I thought. But for completely different reasons. He probably couldn’t believe he’d done it. He probably didn’t like me that much. I was poor and less attractive. But we’d been dancing and laughing and then we were alone in a stranger’s bedroom …

I was sure he was going to say it never should have happened.

But then —

“Why don’t you come over this afternoon so we can discuss it.” And in case I hadn’t noticed the slightly arched eyebrow or the suggestive tone in his voice, he added, “My mom won’t be home until late.”

“Oh.”

Or maybe he didn’t regret it at all.

This shouldn’t have made me happy, particularly because it made what I was about to do so much harder, but it did. That little grin on his face gave me butterflies and thrills and all those other silly middle-school-crush feelings.

And it would be easier to tell him at his house, with no one else around to overhear. I just had to stay away from his bed. And his couch. And his lips.

No, I thought. Don’t do this again. Tell him right now.

“Look, Ryder, I actually —”

“All right, class,” Mr. Buckley boomed as he entered the room. “Let’s talk about Germany.”

And there went my chance.

I felt bad for feeling so relieved.

Ryder had passed me a note with directions to his place, which was only a few minutes south of Amy’s house. When I pulled into the driveway around three that afternoon, I was surprised to find a fairly small brick house. I guess I’d expected something more extravagant just because I knew he came from money. But then, it was only him and his mom sharing the place, so it didn’t need to be huge.

He was waiting for me on the narrow front porch and smiled when I started walking toward him. The sunlight hit his eyes in just the perfect way, making the green seem even brighter. The way he looked at me took my breath away.

I tried to swallow back the panic rising inside me. He was so beautiful and so amazing and I didn’t want to lose him.

When I reached him, he gave me a quick kiss.

“Come inside,” he said, taking me by the arm and escorting me through the front door. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Humble?” I repeated, staring at the living room, the furniture that most definitely showed where the money had gone. Everything was brand-new and shiny. The TV was huge. The sofas were lush and fancy. And the place was immaculate.

Ryder took my coat, his fingers skimming across my shoulders as he slid it off my arms. “It’s humble compared to where we came from,” he said.

“Ha. If this is humble, then you should see where I live.”

“Don’t you live with Amy?”

“Right. Well … where I used to live.”

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.” He hung my coat on a hook by the door. “Why do you live with the Rushes? I know about your dad, but … what about your mom?”

I meant to lie. The same lie I’d told Amy and her parents. She kicked me out, end of story. But instead, I found myself saying the truth. At least, part of it.

“My mom … is kind of a mess.” I followed him into the living room, but when he sat down on the couch, I stayed standing. “There’ve been some problems at home, so Amy was nice enough to let me stay with her.”

He scoffed. “That surprises me.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She just doesn’t seem like the caring type,” he said, his voice bitter. “She’s so … inconsiderate. And rude. Plus, isn’t she too busy dealing with her own mom issues?”

It took me a second to remember that last time I’d talked to Ryder about my mother, he’d still thought he was talking to Amy. “Hey,” I said, feeling defensive even though that was exactly the image I’d wanted him to have of Amy. “She gets it, okay? Besides, she’s my best friend.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t know why. You’ve said she’s great, but I don’t see it.”

“You saw it before,” I pointed out. “In fact, it wasn’t that long ago that you said the same thing about me. That you couldn’t see why Amy would be friends with someone like me.”

He shrugged. “I was wrong. I thought she and I had something, but it was IMs and text messages. In person, there was nothing. She wasn’t the person I thought. It just took me a while to accept it. But with you …” He looked up at me and smiled. “There’s always been something there, I think. Even when we were fighting in Mr. Buckley’s class, there was this … energy. Chemistry, I guess. I just didn’t realize it. And then on Friday …”

“Yeah.” I looked down at my feet. “Look, about Friday, things were a little crazy and —”

“I don’t think it was crazy,” he said. His hand folded over mine, and he pulled me toward the couch. “In fact, I think kissing you may have been the most sane thing I’ve done since I moved here.”

I rolled my eyes, because — let’s be real — that was a cheesy line. Even if it did kind of give me butterflies.

I was standing right in front of him, my legs touching his as he looked up at me. My heart was pounding and I’m sure my face was beet red.

“You barely know me,” I said.

But that wasn’t true. Ryder knew me better than most people did. He saw more of me than I’d let anyone see. He just didn’t know it.

“I know that you make me laugh,” he said. “I know that you think faster on your feet than anyone else I’ve ever met. I know that you use SAT words in everyday conversation.”

“So do you,” I said. “Only I do it to be cute and funny. You do it because you’re a prep-school snob.”

“I know that you named your car because you love it, even though it’s a piece of junk,” he continued. “I know that your real name is Sonya.”

“What? Who told you? I’ll kill them.”

He laughed. “I know that you’re smart. And witty. And incredible.”

Incredible.

It wasn’t the first time he’d used that word to describe me. Before Christmas, he’d called the person behind the IMs and texts “incredible.” He thought it was Amy, sure, but those were my words. I was the one he thought was incredible.

“Well, um … did you know I’m also a serial killer?”

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Anytime things get serious or sentimental, you deflect with humor,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess because I’m nervous.”

He smirked. “I make you nervous?”

And, despite my better judgment, I told the truth.

“Very.”

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and I suddenly remembered that text message conversation back in November, where we’d admitted to making each other nervous. For a second, I thought he might figure it out. Might realize that it had been me all along.

I held my breath, not sure if I wanted him to figure it out or not.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He gave my hand a little tug, and I fell into his lap. And then, even though I’d tried to avoid it — sort of — we were making out again.

I still hadn’t gotten the hang of this whole kissing thing. I wasn’t always sure what to do with my hands or which way to tilt my head. We bumped noses more than once, but Ryder just laughed, like my clumsy kissing skills were more adorable than annoying.

With his hands in my hair and his tongue sliding into my mouth, I made a decision.

I wasn’t going to tell him the truth.

He liked me. He was totally over Amy, and he wanted to be with me. He thought I was incredible.

Part of me still wanted to compare myself to Amy. How could Ryder go from wanting someone as beautiful as her to someone like me? She was gorgeous and rich, and I was … average. And definitely not rich.

But that wasn’t how he looked at me. Or how he treated me.

Maybe Wesley was right. Maybe comparing myself was a waste of time, and Ryder saw me as more than just the moderately attractive, somewhat obnoxious best friend.

My plan — though it had taken months — had worked.

This was what I’d wanted. What I’d been hoping for all along.

I wasn’t going to tell him.

He didn’t need to know.

After a while, the necessity of breathing drove us apart. But only long enough for Ryder to ask:

“I was wondering: Do you want to go out this weekend? On a real date?”

“Maybe,” I said, my nose touching his. “What were you thinking?”

“Dinner and a movie?”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “Oh, actually, there’s this new romantic comedy that just opened. I think Rachel McAdams is in it.”

Ryder wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“You don’t like Rachel McAdams?” I asked, appalled. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s not her,” he said. “I just … don’t really like mainstream Hollywood films. I was thinking that we could go see that new Korean film that just opened at Cindependent.”

“Oh my God,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Everything you just said is so wrong.”

But that didn’t stop me from kissing him again.