Everything but the Truth

by Mandy Hubbard

  He must’ve told the guard I was coming, because I don’t even come to a full stop at the gatehouse before the guy waves, and the gate opens.

  I park next to a big fountain, which is currently spraying a dozen feet or so into the air, and climb out of Alex’s car. I go to lock it, then realize I’m being silly. It’s parked behind a fortress of a wall, with an actual guard.

  I walk past two men in green EMERALD CITY LANDSCAPING T-shirts. They’re trimming a pair of potted bushes that sit on either side of the front entry into little spirals.

  I approach the front door and am just raising my fist to knock when it swings open.

  Malik stands in the frame, looking the most casual I’ve ever seen him, in a crisp blue T-shirt and khaki shorts, his feet bare.

  Something about those bare feet makes my heart rate spike.

  “Hey,” he says, stepping forward to hug me.

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly oddly shy.

  “Come on in,” he says. I kick off my shoes, just to put us on level terms. The marble in the entry is cool against the soles of my feet. But being barefoot in this place somehow puts me more at ease.

  It makes it feel more like a home and less like a gallery or something.

  I glance over at the grand staircase with its carved teak spindles. “So, do I get to see your bedroom this time?” I ask. “You’ve seen mine, after all.”

  It’s a lie, of course, but as I say it, I realize I wish I could show him my real room. I can’t help but wonder if he’s drawn any conclusions about me based on Alex’s room. Pictured me on a soccer team or showing a dog in 4-H, or whatever.

  Or maybe he just thinks I have an obsession with large birds that may or may not look like pterodactyls.

  “Um, sure, I guess,” he says, but there’s hesitation to his voice.

  Intriguing. Maybe there’s a reason we stayed on the ground floor that day we were looking for antiques.

  “I should know what my boyfriend’s bedroom looks like, after all,” I say, poking him in the side. “I’m picturing . . . a big Seahawks banner.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not into sports.”

  “But you flew with the te—”

  I stop myself, just as he freezes and stares, one hand on the railing. There’s an emotion in his eyes I’ve never seen before. That I never want to see again. “What did you do,” he grinds out, “Google me?”

  “What?” I say too quickly. “No.”

  But he’s still not moving. “How did you know I went to the Super Bowl? I didn’t tell you that.”

  Fear. That’s what his expression is. A mixture of fear and disappointment.

  It’s exactly how he’ll look at me if he learns about my lies.

  “Hunter called me,” I say, cringing. “I didn’t want to mention it because he’s not really worth it. But he’s basically convinced you two are a bromance waiting to happen.” The scary look fades, and Malik rolls his eyes. “He kind of let it slip about the team plane. I told him to unpack his bags, that I’m not hooking him up with a new bff.”

  “Ah.” More of the tension dissipates in his shoulders, and he turns back to the staircase, his hand sliding along the railing.

  “Wait,” I say, climbing a few steps, so that I’m standing one higher than he is and can look him directly in the eyes. “It’s there, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The doubts,” I say. “About me. About whether I’m genuine. They’re there, in the back of your mind. You think you’re going to find out I’m after you for who you are. For . . . this,” I say, circling my finger around in the air, motioning to the house.

  “Maybe.” He chews on his lip, glancing down at our feet.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  He glances up again.

  “I don’t care about this.” I gesture to the ceiling, where a chandelier draped in crystals hangs. “I care about you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says softly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to silence the doubts.” He reaches out, rubbing his thumb in little circles on my cheek. I hold my breath, soaking in the warmth of his skin against mine, and then we turn and head up the stairs together, side by side.

  “Okay, so no sports memorabilia,” I say, changing the subject, eager to leave the heaviness behind. “So . . . band posters?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “Not into music?”

  He shrugs. “Not enough to hang posters.”

  Before I can come up with any other ideas, he’s pushing open a big six-paneled oak door and we’re stepping into an enormous bedroom bathed in natural light. In the center of the room is the biggest four-poster bed I’ve ever seen, with a navy comforter and a pile of pillows.

  But that’s not what takes my breath away.

  It’s the books.

  Books are everywhere.

  Downstairs, in his grandfather’s study . . . library . . . the shelves were filled with books, but in an orderly, beautiful way. The books were almost uniform, their leather spines lined up perfectly.

  This is like an explosion. There’s a small, haphazard stack on the nightstand next to his bed. But it’s the shelves along every wall practically bursting with books stacked in different directions that capture my attention.

  “This is beautiful,” I say, walking to the closest shelf, letting my fingers trail over the cracked spines. Also unlike the library downstairs, these books aren’t leather bound. They’re not even hardback. They’re mass market paperbacks, worn out like they could be folded and tucked into Malik’s pocket.

  “Did you bring all these up from California?”

  “Most of them. I’m sure the moving company loved it.”

  I move along the shelves, studying the titles.

  “That wall is science fiction,” he says, “and the other two are fantasy.”

  “You really are a nerd,” I tease, but when I glance back at him, his cheeks really are flushed. “Wait, are you embarrassed by this?”

  He steps up beside me, running his hand across the spines of the nearest book. “Maybe a little.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course. You need to quit being embarrassed by things you love.”

  He shrugs. “My grandpa wouldn’t get it.”

  I cross my arms. ”I think the hang-up is yours,” I say. “I think you’re afraid to be yourself around him.”

  He frowns. “Maybe that’s true.”

  “You need to start showing him who you are. Your passions. I think he’ll surprise you.” I glance out the window, at the way the sun is glimmering off the lake. “Let’s get out of this house.”

  “That’s abrupt.”

  “We’re getting too serious,” I say, playfully punching his shoulder. “We need air.”

  “Okay. I know just the place.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It’s not until Malik and I slip our shoes off, and my toes sink into the sand at Alki Beach, that I wonder why I’ve never come down here.

  It’s one of the few sandy beaches in Seattle, surrounded by million-dollar homes with spectacular views. The gentle waves of Puget Sound lap against the edges of the shore, and seagulls squawk as they fly overhead.

  It’s breezier than I expected. As I shiver, Malik slides off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.

  “It’s pretty here,” I say, taking in the shoreline. “Busier than I expected.”

  That much is true. There are people everywhere—on beach towels, picnic tables, and even playing volleyball. I didn’t expect crowds like this. I can’t help but dart a glance around, wondering if the people fiddling with their phones are secretly videotaping us or snapping our pictures.

  If they are, Malik is oblivious.

  “Do you come here often?” I cringe as the words leave my mouth. “Sorry. That sounds lame.”

  He laughs. “Not really. I thought you’d like it, though.”

  “Yeah? Do I scream sandy beaches to yo
u?”

  He spins around, making a fake photo frame with his fingers. “Yeah, I’m seeing it now. You, Venice Beach, roller blades . . .”

  “I’ve never been to California.”

  He drops his hands. “Really? Why not? It’s hardly more than a two-hour flight to LA.”

  “Um . . .” My voice trails off. I’m tired of lying. “I’ve never actually been on a flight at all.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nod, anxiety tightening in my chest as the first real truth slips loose. “Yeah.”

  “Afraid?”

  I shake my head. “Um, no, it’s not that.” The words bubble up in my throat. “We, um, haven’t always been as well off as we are now.”

  He reaches out for my hands, and I interlace my fingers with his, allowing him to pull us toward where the waves meet the sand. The water is cool against first my toes, then my ankles, before he stops. The glare of the sun on the water makes him squint, casting shadows over his eyes.

  For a long moment, I worry I’ve screwed up. That this thread of honesty will open the floodgates between us, that he’ll ask probing questions and realize there are way, way more things I’ve kept hidden.

  But he glances over at me, and the setting sun glints off his teeth as he flashes me a smile.

  “I’ll bring you down to LA sometime. The beaches are so different. Huntington is my favorite.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “It’s . . . more pure. The quietest. Just the sand and the waves, really, but it’s got some of the best restaurants in the area. Venice has the busy boardwalk and gym and shops, and Santa Monica’s got the big pier. Huntington is just . . . the beach, and I like the unobstructed beauty of it.”

  “What about Disneyland?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s it like?”

  “You want to know what Disneyland is like?”

  Oh god, maybe I’m pushing this too far. But it’s like once a tiny truth tumbled out, I can’t stop.

  “Yeah. Is it really the happiest place on Earth?”

  “I’m probably not the right person to ask.”

  “Why?”

  He grins. “Because when I was twelve, I got mad at my mom for not taking me, so I went on my own.”

  “How’d you get there?”

  “We had a driver.”

  “And?”

  “And I liked it. But only for a little bit. When I started looking around, I realized how many families were there and how happy they looked together. I watched the moms take pictures of their kids and the dads go on the roller coasters and I just felt so overwhelmingly lonely.”

  “Oh. My dad’s not around either,” I offer. “He took off years ago.”

  He stares into my eyes. “Mine was never around to take off. My mom met him in Paris, at some business summit. They spent a week together. When he found out I was on the way . . . well, I suppose he wished my mom good luck and that was it. When I was a kid, sometimes I’d have this fantasy of just . . . showing up at his office.”

  “But you’ve never done it?”

  He shrugs. “Why would I? It’s not like I’m hard to find. If he wanted anything to do with me, I’d know it.”

  “So that’s why your last name is the same as your grandfather’s,” I muse. “Because your mom never married?”

  He nods. “And that’s why I feel like I’m failing him. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I’ve ever had. I want him to be proud of me.”

  “He will be,” I say. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I just wish I’d never done all that stupid stuff in California. It seemed to change the way he viewed me.”

  “That’s all behind you, though,” I say. “He’ll see that.”

  “What about you? Any wild phases?”

  I smirk. “Not really. I did run away once.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was already into history, you know? And then we were reading From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler at school, and I guess I got a little bit, uh, inspired.”

  “Never read it,” he says, reaching down to scoop up a rock.

  “Seriously? You’re missing out.”

  He skips the stone across the water, and we both watch until it plinks under the surface. “What does it have to do with running away?”

  “It’s about a girl and her brother who decide to run away and live in a museum.”

  “Oh,” he says, laughing. “Now I get it.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was the best idea I’d ever heard, so I packed a bag and hopped a city bus.”

  “How’d that work out?”

  “It didn’t.” I grin. “It was six thirty on a Sunday evening, and the museum was closed. And I missed the last bus home. I had to call my mom. She was more relieved than angry, but I still got grounded for two weeks.”

  “So I guess neither of us should run away anytime soon, eh?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, but I still want to see Disneyland.”

  “We’ll go,” he says with absolute sincerity. “Maybe during one of your semester breaks from college.”

  It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be quiet and sincere, and we’re not supposed to be thinking of the future beyond the end of summer.

  He turns and pulls me against him, talking into my hair. “You really are good for me,” he whispers, his voice barely louder than the sea.

  I lean into him, enjoying the warmth of his skin on mine. Moments later, we turn and stroll just far enough up the wet sand that we aren’t in the water anymore.

  We walk hand in hand, picking our way around everyone else. I know I shouldn’t be here with him, where so many people can see us and take our pictures and sell them to some shoddy gossip rag, but I can’t bring myself to go back to the car. To cut our time short.

  “What happened with your best friend?” I finally ask. “I mean . . . how did it all go down?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you realized he wasn’t friends with you for the right reasons.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “And it was after Nepal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like it was a tornado,” I say, looping my arm around his. “Changing everything so abruptly, I mean.”

  “That’s what it felt like. He was with me the night I wrecked my car. Remember how I said it didn’t faze me? It didn’t faze him, either. And even though eventually I got it, he hasn’t. He’s still doing the same old thing.”

  I don’t say anything. I just listen as the words spill out.

  “The thing is, I wrecked the car and had to go to the hospital for a few hours for X-rays. He called me just as I was checking out to ask when I’d show up.”

  “He went to the party?”

  “Yeah. He had a scrape on his forehead but no serious injuries, and when they carted me off, he just . . . called another friend and continued to the party.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And the thing is, who I was then . . . it didn’t even bother me that much, that he went to the party while I went to the hospital. It wasn’t until I got back and my quote-unquote friends threw me a ‘Welcome Home’ party that I completely dropped them.”

  “Why?”

  “I tried to tell them about Nepal. I tried to talk about how we could make something big happen, how we were the perfect people to find ways to help them, and none of them wanted to listen. They wanted me to take another shot, another drink, to turn the music up.”

  “Hmm,” I say, to indicate I’m listening.

  “I realized our friendship had nothing to do with me, as a person. I was just someone to party with, someone to drive him around from one event to the next.”

  “Maybe it’s a blessing, that you realized it all at once. In my case, my best friend is just . . . slowly drifting away,” I say. “Sometimes, I think I’ve been replaced.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. We’ve always been friends with Rena, but I never felt
. . . threatened by her.”

  “And now you do?”

  “Yeah. It’s like almost every time I want to hang out with her, Rena’s there. And they have all these inside jokes and they’re going to see movies together I was supposed to see with her, and it just sucks.”

  “Hey, if anyone understands it, it’s me.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” I ask, turning to him. “How much we have in common.”

  He pulls my hands to him, cupping them together and holding them against his chest.

  “You and I . . . we’re the same,” he says.

  And as stupid as it is, he’s right. We are the same.

  I just have to figure out a way to tell him my real name so he still believes it.

  Malik is the only guy in the world for me.

  I can’t lose him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Two days later, I’ve got my phone pressed to my ear, and I’m chewing on my bottom lip to keep from panicking.

  I shouldn’t be surprised.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

  “Send him away,” I say, glancing out the curtains of my room even though they don’t face the parking lot. All I can see is a big laurel bush.

  My mom sighs. “I didn’t know you put his name on the persona non grata list. I let him in because I knew he was the boy you went to prom with. I have to get to a meeting. Just come out and tell him why yourself, okay? I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “I thought we had security for—”

  But the line goes dead.

  Ugh, how can my mom not realize that Hunter is the current bane of my existence?

  I toss my phone onto my bed, leaving our apartment behind and taking the short walk to the front desk. It would be cool if I just “got lost” somewhere along the way, right? And not weird at all?

  Ugh.

  When I round the corner and Hunter spots me, he positively leaps to his feet. “Holly!”

  I scowl. “Hunter, we’ve been through this. Call me Mathews, just like always. It really annoys me when you call me Holly.”

  “Sorry. Mathews.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugs. “Was in the neighborhood, so thought I’d drop by and see what you were up to.”