Lying Out Loud

by Kody Keplinger

  When Amy detached herself from her brother, she turned and repeated the performance with the shorter, auburn-haired girl at his side.

  “Hey, Amy,” Bianca said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  At first glance, Bianca didn’t fit in with the Rush family. She was a good half foot shorter than even Mrs. Rush, who was the smallest member of the family. She wore tattered jeans, T-shirts, and faded red Converse, where they wore polished, expensive clothes most people in this town couldn’t afford.

  At first glance, Bianca seemed … more like me.

  But if you looked closer, at the way they welcomed her, at the way Wesley looked at her, it made perfect sense. Bianca was smart and funny and, from what Amy had told me, she’d played a role in bringing the family back together a few years ago, when it had all but fallen apart. And now, she was part of it.

  I didn’t know her that well, but it was clear she belonged with this family.

  Meanwhile, I suddenly felt like an intruder. Just some kid mooching off their generosity. Which was why I stayed put on the stairs. As glad as I was to see Wesley, I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt the family reunion happening before me.

  But Wesley, who towered over everyone else in the family, only took a second to notice.

  “Sonny!” he called, waving me over for a hug. “So Amy finally convinced our parents to let her keep you, huh? It’s about time.”

  I laughed and accepted the quick hug. “It’s nice to see you, Wesley.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “I’ve texted you a few times, but you never replied. I thought maybe you were too cool for me now.”

  “Oh, I am,” I assured him. “But, also, my phone is broken. I’ve been using Amy’s.”

  Which reminded me that I had a few text messages from Ryder to delete.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Sonny,” Bianca said.

  “You, too. How’s New York?”

  “Cold.”

  “Luckily, she’s got me to warm her up,” Wesley said, putting an arm around her. Bianca rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I hate to cut this short,” Mr. Rush said, glancing at his watch. “But I’m sure Bianca’s father will be eager to see her. We can’t hog all her time.”

  “I’ll take her home,” Wesley said, grabbing a set from the hook by the door. The keys to his beloved Porsche.

  He hadn’t taken it with him to New York. I guess there wasn’t much of a need for it there. But he was clearly excited to get behind the wheel now that he was home.

  “Come back over soon,” Amy said. “We have to catch up.”

  “Obviously,” Bianca said.

  And as quickly as they’d arrived, Wesley and Bianca swept back out the door, while Amy, her parents, and I migrated to the kitchen for breakfast.

  “I’m so glad they’re home,” Amy was saying as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. “It’s nice to have the whole family together again.”

  “It is,” Mrs. Rush agreed.

  A knot twisted in my stomach, and I found myself blinking back sudden tears. I cleared my throat.

  “Um, Mr. Rush? Has there been any mail for me?”

  Mr. Rush had just filled a mug with coffee. He looked at me over the rim, his eyes knowing. He’d been the one to put my letter in the mail, so he knew exactly why I was asking.

  “No, Sonny,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you expecting something?” Amy asked.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, the ache in my chest growing as I watched the Rushes bustle around the kitchen, laughing as they bumped into each other and tripped over one another’s feet. “But I probably shouldn’t be.”

  Amy raised an eyebrow, and I knew she’d be asking me about it later. I still wasn’t sure if or what I was going to tell her.

  “Sonny,” Mrs. Rush said, “why don’t you invite your mother for dinner on Christmas Eve? I know she had to work on Thanksgiving, but hopefully she has Christmas Eve off.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ll see. I’m sure she’d appreciate the invitation.”

  Lie, lie, lie.

  * * *

  “Ryder.”

  It was embarrassing how surprised I sounded, but he was the last person I expected to find on the Rushes’ front porch. Well, okay. Maybe not the last. That title most likely belonged to the Queen of England or the reanimated corpse of Edgar Allan Poe.

  Or my mom.

  But Ryder was unexpected, nonetheless. He was wearing an army-green utility jacket, his nonprescription black glasses, and a beanie. He looked hot in that awful hipster way I’d somehow grown to appreciate.

  “Hey, Sonny,” he said, smiling at me.

  There may have been a little bit of fluttering in my stomach. Maybe. Just a little. Unfortunately, it was quickly drowned out by the awful realization that I looked like shit.

  I’d only gotten out of the shower ten minutes before the doorbell rang. I was dressed, thank God — though maybe if I hadn’t been, he’d have other, more interesting things to look at than my hair, which was wet and tangled and pulled back from my face with a tie-dyed headband I used whenever I put on a face mask. Which I’d been only seconds away from applying when the doorbell rang.

  So as timing goes, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

  But why, why hadn’t he chosen to come by on a day when I looked amazing? Or when I was wearing some sort of sexy yet classy lingerie? I didn’t even own lingerie, but that seemed like an excellent scenario, and one that would likely go a long way toward furthering progress on my master plan.

  Ryder didn’t seem to notice my unflattering hairdo, however.

  “Hey. Is Amy home?” he asked.

  I managed to keep my composure despite my disappointment. “Nope. She went out to run some errands this morning, and she insisted it would be boring and I didn’t have to come.” I smirked. “You know what that means, right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’s out buying my Christmas present.”

  “Oh?” he asked. “What do you think she’ll get you?”

  “Well, I asked for a pony,” I informed him. “And I’m not sure I could settle for anything less.”

  “Any good friend would get you a pony,” he agreed.

  Then we were grinning at each other, and those fluttery feelings made their triumphant return.

  “Do you want to come in?” I asked. “It’s just me here. Everyone else is out doing last-minute shopping.”

  Mortification crept over my face as I realized with a start exactly what I was offering. Me and Ryder. In a giant, empty house. With infinite rooms just begging to be made out in.

  Or, you know, we might just watch TV.

  Although, knowing Ryder, he probably hated television.

  But for a full second, I thought he was going to say yes. His mouth opened to speak, but then he snapped it shut. He looked at me, then looked away, shaking his head as if shaking water from his face.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’d better get going.” I tried not to let the disappointment show, but I wasn’t strong enough to hide it when he said, “But will you give this to Amy?”

  It was only then that I noticed the thin, rectangular box, covered in green wrapping paper, tucked under his arm. It was the sort of box clothes were always given in on Christmas, and it was for Amy.

  “Of course,” I said, taking the box from him. “No problem.” And then, spotting an opening to push my plans along a little, I added, “But I’m sorry. I don’t think she got you anything.”

  Ryder shrugged. “That’s okay,” he said, only a tiny bit crestfallen. “You never know. Maybe she’ll pick me up something while she’s out buying your pony.”

  “Maybe.”

  We stared at each other for another long moment. In the silence, I had the sudden urge to tell him about my letter to Dad, but I shoved the impulse away. I hadn’t heard from Dad yet, and I might not. If he never called or wrote back, I wasn’t sure I could s
tand having to answer questions about it later.

  Ryder did that same head shake he’d done a minute before and finally turned, moving toward the front steps. “Merry Christmas, Sonny,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  But at that moment, the gift box feeling heavy and cruel in my arms, it didn’t seem all that merry.

  * * *

  As much as I didn’t want to know, I was dying to know what was in the box Ryder had given to Amy.

  “Why didn’t you just open it?” she asked when she got home that evening.

  “Because it’s for you.” The words came out harsh and bitter. And yes, I knew that wasn’t fair. Amy hadn’t asked for this. But damn it, if she wasn’t so irresistible, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

  Was it really too much to ask for a shrew as a best friend? I didn’t think so.

  “Not really,” she said, but she picked up the box anyway and sat down on the bed with it in her lap. She peeled off the green paper, careful not to tear it. Where I would have just shredded it, Amy was always neat about the way she unwrapped gifts, as if she might want to reuse the paper later. (She never did, though.)

  Once she’d finished with that task, she began working at the tape that held the white box closed. It took her a second, but then the lid was flipping open and she was pulling out a shirt.

  A red buffalo plaid flannel shirt.

  My heart swelled, then promptly sank.

  Because, as I kept reminding myself, it wasn’t for me.

  “Oh,” Amy said, examining the shirt, which was clearly not at all her style. “It’s … cute.”

  “It’s flannel,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s for your future nineties grunge band.”

  Amy blinked at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. It’s stupid.” I stood up and moved toward the door. “Enjoy the shirt.”

  “Sonny, you can have it,” she said. “Obviously. It’s not really for me.”

  “It’s not for me either,” I said. “You’re the one he thinks would look cute in flannel.”

  “I’m going to disagree with him on that.” She put the shirt back in the box before looking at me again.

  My hand was on the door, but I was watching her. Or maybe I was glaring at her. Unintentionally.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  I was, though. And I hated myself for it. This situation with Ryder wasn’t Amy’s fault. It was mine. I was being an asshole.

  It wasn’t just about Ryder, though. It was this stupid holiday. It was a constant reminder that Amy had everything I didn’t. A family, a future, a home … and now Ryder. She had people who loved her. People who wanted to buy her gifts and spend time with her. And I had no one.

  No one … except her.

  I felt myself deflate, my shoulders slumping forward as the anger seeped out of me, replaced by the weight of guilt.

  “No,” I said again. “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry.”

  “You can have the shirt,” she said again, holding the box out to me. “It’s really for you.”

  “That’s okay. It probably wouldn’t fit me anyway.” But I still took it from her. After a second, I forced a smile, and even though it wasn’t real, I knew it was believable because, well, it was me. “Your brother brought home some of those cookies with the icing we love. I’m stealing one. Should I grab two?”

  Amy’s fake smile was more transparent. “Sure. Wanna play a game of pool in the rec room?”

  “You’re on,” I said.

  Bah, humbug!

  Between the gift drama with Ryder, the lingering awkwardness between me and Amy, endless shifts at the bookstore, and my general lack of a family to spend the holidays with, I had become a scrooge. Every commercial featuring a happy little kid opening gifts with their loving parents made me want to karate chop the Rushes’ flat-screen TV. Every Christmas song on the radio gave me road rage. And I was no longer allowed to answer the front door for fear of what I might do to some unsuspecting caroler who might come knocking.

  I’d even gotten reprimanded by Sheila for scowling too much at work. Dealing with the general public day in and day out while forcing a cheery attitude was torture. And even though I needed the money, I’d called in sick a couple of times just to keep myself sane.

  Suffice it to say, I was not particularly eager to go downstairs on Christmas morning.

  Don’t get me wrong, I knew the Rushes would be nice. They’d probably even gotten me a small gift — some assorted lotions or a new sweater, all of which I would have been incredibly grateful for — but I wasn’t the person they wanted to see today. They’d invited me into their home and never let me feel unwelcome for a moment, but in the end, I was their guest. And Christmas was a day you wanted to spend with family.

  Amy and I would exchange gifts later that day. I would let the Rushes have the morning to themselves.

  At least, that was my plan.

  Until Wesley threw open my bedroom door at eight in the godforsaken morning.

  “Merry Christmas!” he bellowed. “Time to get up.”

  I groaned and smushed my face into the pillow. “No.”

  “Come on, now. Where’s your holiday spirit?” I heard his heavy footsteps move quickly across the floor, then my curtains were thrown open and blinding sunlight filled the room. “Rise and shine, Sonny. Come downstairs and see what Santa brought you.”

  I sighed and rolled onto my back, squinting against the light. “If you honestly think I still believe in Santa, we need to have a conversation, Wesley.”

  “Let’s have it downstairs,” he said. “Come on. Everyone’s been waiting on you to open presents for almost an hour.”

  I frowned. “Waiting on me? Why?”

  “Because they didn’t want to wake you up. Thought it would be rude. I, on the other hand, have no such reservations.”

  That wasn’t what I’d meant, though.

  Before I could clarify, Wesley grabbed my wrist, pulled me to my feet, and began dragging me toward the door. Thank God I was wearing Amy’s frog pajamas.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, having to jog to keep up with his long strides. “I’m coming. No need to use brute force.”

  “I get aggressive about presents.”

  “Clearly.”

  He released my wrist and I followed him downstairs. The rest of the family was sitting around the huge living room, all in their pajamas. Mr. Rush had a mug of coffee in his hand and Amy was munching on a frozen waffle. They looked up when Wesley and I entered.

  “We told you not to wake her up,” Mrs. Rush scolded.

  “If we waited for Sonny, we wouldn’t be opening presents until noon,” Wesley argued.

  “So?” Mrs. Rush asked.

  “Mother, that is unacceptable. Even you know that.”

  “Sonny, I’d like to apologize for my son. His manners are obviously lacking.”

  But I barely heard her. I was too busy staring at the mantel over the fireplace, where five stockings had been hung. They hadn’t been there when I’d gone up to bed the night before. But there they were. Five.

  One for each member of the Rush family.

  And, right in the middle of them, one that said Sonny in glittery, hand-painted letters.

  It was a small thing, on the surface, but it felt huge. I had to swallow a lump that had risen in my throat. I had never had a stocking with my name on it. Mom had never hung them. Hell, we hadn’t even had a Christmas tree in at least five years.

  “Sonny,” Mr. Rush said, calling my attention back to the family. “Come sit down. We have to pass these presents out before Wesley’s head explodes.”

  I nodded and migrated over to the couch to sit between him and Amy, who offered me a warm smile.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  “Merry Christmas,” I replied, beaming back at her.

  Wesley passed out the gifts, but none of us opened them
until every package under the tree had been given to its rightful owner. Then we were free to tear in, though no one did this with quite as much enthusiasm as the eldest Rush child.

  “You’re nearly twenty-one years old,” Mr. Rush reminded his son as Wesley impatiently shredded the paper on one of the gifts — the game console Amy and I had picked up.

  “The Christmas spirit doesn’t have an age,” Wesley assured him.

  As for me, I had a small pile of gifts, pretty much as I’d expected. A new red sweater from Mr. Rush (was that cashmere? I didn’t even know what cashmere felt like) and a box of lavender-scented lotion, body wash, and perfume from Mrs. Rush. Wesley had gotten me something, too, though the present itself confused me a little.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, looking down at the smartphone case that had clearly been custom designed with my name in pink, swirly letters. I didn’t have a smartphone, but I did have the ability to fake enthusiasm. “It’s really cute.”

  “That actually goes with another gift,” Mrs. Rush said. “Go check your stocking.”

  “Uh, okay.” I stood up and walked over to the mantel. Carefully, I reached my hand inside the Sonny stocking and pulled out the only item. And gasped.

  A smartphone.

  A brand-new, working smartphone.

  “That’s from all of us,” Mr. Rush said.

  “But it was Amy’s idea,” Mrs. Rush informed me. “We know your phone’s been broken for a while, and we figured it was time for an upgrade.”

  “We added you to our phone plan, too,” Mr. Rush said. “We transferred your old number and everything.”

  That lump was back again. Persistent bastard. I just shook my head, barely managing to choke out the words, “I-I can’t accept this.”

  “You can, and you will,” Wesley said.

  “It’s a little selfish on our parts,” Mrs. Rush added. “We want to be able to keep in touch with you while you’re living here, and you and Amy can’t always be attached at the hip. So this is for us, too.”

  “I’m sure it’ll also make it easier for your mother to get ahold of you if she needs to,” Mr. Rush said.

  “Do you like it?” Amy asked. She was grinning at me, her eyes wide and bright.