Tell Me Something Real

  And, then, she turns her face into my shoulder, pressing into me and trusting me. My arms flex involuntarily, and I hug her tighter, my strides long and purposeful as I weave away from the party. My only thought is her—and I don’t try to quiet it. Instead, I let it blare inside of me like a war cry—Lincoln. Lincoln. Lincoln.

  My Lincoln.

  “Don’t take me home. Not yet.”

  It’s the only thing she’s said since we got to her car. Now, we’re halfway between the party and home, and I turn off onto one of the long stretches of road that lead to the open fields, already burned and ready for new growth next season. I don’t risk taking her car off the gravel road and into the field; instead, I pull off to the side and put it into park, turning off the ignition and pocketing her keys before turning to her.

  I expect her to be asleep, since we’ve been driving for a good fifteen minutes, and she was so quiet, but she turns from staring out the window until we’re looking at each other. I can see the alcohol swimming in her eyes, and her fight to bring me into focus, and it reminds me that there are some things she needs before anything else.

  “Kit?”

  She stares a second longer, and then reaches to the floor and comes up with a black square case. Unzipping it, she leaves it on her lap, making no move to do anything else. I don’t know if it’s because she can’t, or she won’t.

  Everything I’ve read on Google says that burnout is real—and a lot of Type 1 diabetics go through phases where they don’t care, don’t acknowledge their disease, don’t engage with it. While I reach for her tools, I wonder if Lincoln is at that stage.

  “Tell me what to do,” I say. Along with articles, I’ve watched videos, and Maggie the night Lincoln stayed at the farm and she needed someone to wake her to help her take her levels. I understand the procedures, one of which is poking her finger and getting some blood.

  “Why?”

  I pause a second, staring at the implements instead of her. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that tonight. The answer is the same,” I say. A harsh inhale has me glancing up. Her lips are pressed tight, and I wonder if it’s anger or something else that has her silent. “You deserve better—than all of this. But right now, a ride and some help is all I have.”

  She stares, silent, and I wonder if she’s going to speak or if I’m going to have to pull up one of those videos and do my best to get her sugar levels all by myself. Right as I reach for my phone, she moves, her hand reaching for a black tube that looks like a cross between a marker and lipstick.

  I watch when she holds it up to her finger and presses down, and then more when she drops the tube and squeezes her finger until a small spot of blood appears at the top.

  Without asking, I flip on the flashlight from my phone, and shine it on her. She winces, and then motions to her kit. “Tube with the pop-top.”

  I find what she’s motioning to, opening it and pulling out a strip that looks like it could be tissue paper. Lincoln takes it, dabbing her finger on it and then pointing to the kit again.

  “Now the thing that looks like dental floss.” I hand it to her, and she inserts the piece of paper into it after pressing a button. Numbers flash across the screen and I know they’re too high, which means she needs insulin. I sing it like a mantra.

  High, insulin. Low, food.

  “What does it say?” she asks. I cut my eyes to hers. Her head is resting back on the seat, her eyes are closed. “I can’t see. Could be from the lack of insulin, could be the weed. Don’t know.”

  Irritation and anger—and yes, fear—pump through me, but I swallow all of them back, because I have zero right to tell her she needs to be more careful with herself.

  But, at some point… I need her to know she has to be more careful, if not for her, for me. She needs to take care of herself for me because I can’t live knowing she isn’t safe.

  My mind wanders like it did earlier tonight, and I wonder if that’s how Alyssa felt—how my parents felt every time I left the house, reckless and sullen, without a care for how they felt. Because I didn’t know if they did—feel. And I did. Too goddamn much.

  Like right now, while I stare at the high levels and Lincoln’s closed eyes and wonder if this brutal smashing of my heart inside of my ribcage that’s equal parts need and pain is what it feels like to love someone.

  “How much?” Her eyes flutter open, and I motion to her insulin pen—another confirmed Google siting. “It’s based on ratios, right? How many beers did you have?” She holds up her hand. Five. “Was it light beer?” She grins at me now, shrugging her shoulders.

  Unperturbed, I open my phone and type something into Google. A few minutes later, I have my answer—or at least a number that’s sufficient. Reaching for the pen, I hold it out to her. “Is this new today?” She nods. “Do you want me to do it?”

  She hesitates, and I hold my breath. When she nods, my lungs fill but I don’t question whether it’s fear or relief that she trusts me.

  Grabbing the pen, I look for an alcohol swab, finding a small white package in the cup holder and ripping it open to swab the pen and put on a new needle head. The entire time I use supplies, I take inventory, noting that her strips are low, and I can’t see any more disposable needle heads, or alcohol swabs.

  When the pen is ready, I turn to her, halting for a second when I realize it’s her stomach I need.

  Without a word, she lifts her sweatshirt and the shirt underneath, and reveals her smooth, flat stomach. I clear my throat, pressing my middle and index finger pointing away from her belly button like the videos said, making sure I’m far enough away. We both jolt a little at the skin on skin contact, but I don’t look up. Instead, I look at the pen, and then her skin.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  The words are low, and a little slurred, and I chance a look at her. Her eyes are open, looking out the window, her face turned toward the moon that’s shining overhead, as if she’s soaking it in like another woman would the sun. Except, she’s not looking for warmth and beauty. Just light.

  Guidance maybe.

  A port in this fucking storm that’s swirling her life into the shore and then yanking it back out every day. Smoothing my fingers over her skin, I stick the pen in, quick and clean, pressing the top and listening to the units click until the dose is done.

  “Leave it for a few seconds,” she says, pressing her hand on my wrist briefly. When she lets go, I count a few more seconds and then remove the pen, putting the top back on and unclicking the needle to throw it away. Thank you, Mayo Clinic online. I then reach over and slide down her sweatshirt, careful not to touch her skin.

  Even still, both of our breaths catch.

  “I—” She stops and swallows before speaking again. “I need air.”

  I nod and we both get out. We meet around the back, and without asking, I grip her narrow hips to lift her up and set her on the trunk, making sure her feet are propped on the bumper and she’s steady before leaning next to her.

  “Thank you.”

  I nod, and then I look up at the moon, knowing she’s doing the same again. “Why do you do it?”

  “Drink? Get high?”

  I shake my head, understanding too well the appeal of both those things. “Hook up with guys you don’t like. You aren’t interested in them.”

  “Says who?”

  “Your body language.” I turn so I’m staring at her. “You never make a move until you’ve had a few beers—and never at school. Only at a party. And, only when other people are around.” It gives me away, the fact that I know her moves; it tells her I’ve been watching her, but I don’t care. In fact, I want her to know, and I want it to matter to her.

  My heart is slamming again, and I know she’s nervous too, because she’s barely breathing. Still, I stare at her, willing to keep talking, ignoring the feeling that tells me I’m taking advantage of her drunken state by asking her for answers that aren’t mine to ha
ve. Mine or not, I need them. I need them like I need her.

  “It feels good.”

  I’m both relieved she answered, and instantly angry with her words, though I don’t know what I expected. My hands clench at my sides. “So, it’s about sex?”

  She laughs, and I put my hand on her thigh to keep her steady, because however much the insulin seems to have helped, I know she’s still out of it from all the other stuff. “No, it has nothing to do with sex.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  She shakes her hair back, and I resist the urge to reach for the tips and run my fingers through the ends. “Those guys? The ones you see me with at a party, or the bonfire? They’re the same guys that Jackie and her friends are watching, the same guys that will hook up with one of them next time. I guess it feels good to be first sometimes—or to know that even if it’s just at the most basic level, I can have the same things they can.”

  Her voice is still the same—slightly less slurred which makes me think she was less high on drugs and alcohol, and more in need of insulin, but her body is tense, her shoulders creeping higher and telling me that she hates that need, the one that swims through her, urging her to be like everyone else.

  “Why haven’t you gone after me, then?”

  Now she smiles. “Don’t think I haven’t accidentally talked about that first night when I ended up in your bed with you half naked. It was one of my highlights telling that in the locker room and watching Jackie nearly pass out.”

  I laugh, even though I was serious. “Sadistic.”

  “Worth it.”

  It’s silent for a couple of minutes, me trying to figure out what it is about this girl that pulls me to her, her lost in her own head. Finally, it’s Lincoln who clears her throat and breaks the silence. “You know the stories are all false, right?”

  Still a little lost in my own head, it takes me a minute to catch up with her. “What stories?”

  “Me, the school slut.” I turn to look at her now, and she tries a smile, but it falls short of amused. “I kiss, and I don’t care who sees me, and when boys tell everyone at school how far they went, I let them because it’s easier than trying to correct them—especially since I can see how much it annoys other girls. Of course,” she admits. “That also means that when people are angry with me, or just angry with life and need someone to take it out on, my checkered hook-up history makes an easy target for them to attack. Since I choose not to correct anyone, and they wouldn’t believe me if I did, I can’t really defend myself. Hence, the rumors.”

  I get hung up on that statement, thinking back to what Colt’s told me about her mom and the way she lives, about the stories Jacqueline told me, and the things I’ve seen with my own eyes. “You always have a right to defend yourself, Lincoln.” The words pour out of me, gravel coating my throat, tension tight in my shoulders as I wonder if there’s ever been another time when she didn’t think she deserved defending.

  “Even if I felt like it, no one would listen. It doesn’t matter,” she explains before I can interrupt her. “And it’s not like I’m innocent. I drink, I party, I sit on boys’ laps and let them kiss me… I’ve just never, you know, rounded bases.”

  I can’t help it: I laugh at her words because this girl who approaches everything like a badass is embarrassed to be talking about sex. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  She elbows me in the side, and I only laugh harder. “One of the symptoms, or side effects, whatever you want to call it, of Type 1 is that any raise of adrenaline or exertion of energy or just a fucking change in your body’s output of something can cause a heavy crash. Like, narcolepsy style,” she explains. “Crashes during running… they’re common and not as bad because I’m aware they can happen. But… if what I’ve heard about sex is true, I might not be thinking about the crash, and be prepared for it, which means it will be so much worse. After meeting the people who go to our school, you can see why I’m not eager to hook up with guys who would be just as eager to leave me passed out after snapping a few pictures and doing god-knows-what else with me before they took off.”

  Her tone is light, and I want to laugh with her, to give her this moment of self-deprecating humor and let her have it. But the humor gets caught in my throat, and I can only stare at her, wondering at the fact that she’s never had that moment—the one where you’re wrapped in someone, and they’re wrapped in you, and all you can feel is what they make you feel.

  And, suddenly, I know without a doubt what I feel for Lincoln Brewer—and I know I want to be that person that makes her feel it, too.

  Ford is quiet, staring at the dark field now instead of me, which is kind of a relief.

  I’m coming down from my high enough to understand that it wasn’t just the alcohol or the small puff off someone’s pipe that had me lightheaded. I was ignoring my levels and my body’s reaction to what I was consuming—something that I know I’ll feel stupid about tomorrow, but can’t quite work up the energy to regret right now.

  Maybe because, if it weren’t for those high levels making me drunker than I was, I wouldn’t have said what I did, wouldn’t have admitted to Ford that there hasn’t been anyone like that, and I wouldn’t have gotten to feel what it’s like to know someone else carries my truth now; no matter what everyone else thinks or says, one person—the person—has the truth.

  And I think he believes me.

  It’s far more liberating than I could have imagined.

  Not even Colt knows the full extent of my lies, mostly because if I told him that the majority of the stories were just rumors, he would take it upon himself to defend my honor even more, beating each and every person who ever said anything bad about me. I don’t want him to do that.

  Ford…it was risky because he seems to have a temper, too, but more, he seems curious as to why I would let people talk about me. Curious why I act the way I do, because maybe, he understands my reasons as much, if not more, than Colt.

  “Tell me something real.”

  Both of us are staring out at the darkness, and for the first time in a while, I feel at peace. I wonder if it’s the same for him. I wonder a lot about Ford, too much for me to pretend that sitting here with him, trusting him, is anything less than amazing.

  But he’s hard to read—every time I try, every time I think I understand something about him, he does something that makes me question what I know. Like the night he sat with me and held me… and then the morning he went back to Jacqueline. If I’m being honest, that’s why I was so hell bent on having a good time tonight. I needed to prove to both of us that I could be just as fine as him.

  Only now, I’m here, waiting for him to give me something. Because I feel like I could give him everything, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

  I look over at him now, wondering if he’s going to sit in silence and ignore my question. While I don’t understand a lot about him, I do know this: Ford isn’t a liar. He won’t pretend to not understand my question, just like he won’t feign offense and pretend that he’s been an open book since we met. If he doesn’t want to answer something, he won’t. No excuses. No reasons. Just no answer. In my life, where I can’t even talk to my mother and believe what she’s saying, his silence is so much better than any lame excuse or lie.

  “You don’t have to,” I finally say. “I just… it feels like you know so much about me, and you’ve seen me at my worst in more ways than one. All I know about you is what I read in a paper or heard from town gossip. And I don’t believe either of those fully.”

  He swallows and I watch him, the motion fascinating because it tightens the skin on his jaw and throat, focusing my attention to those beautiful places. “I don’t know if there’s anything real to tell.” His voice is low, heavy, but the words are so familiar to me, I laugh. Now, his eyes find me. “What?”

  I shake my head. “I just…I know what you mean.”

  Ford nods, then he looks out before he speaks again. “I d
on’t know why they gave me my grandfather’s name. He doesn’t use it—my dad. He goes by B.T. for Beauford Thomas. I didn’t even know it was a family name until I came here. Kind of like I didn’t know anything else about my family.”

  “I understand that, too. No dad,” I remind him. “When I was younger, I used to look at men who would come to our apartment and try to see myself in them. Every now and then I would ask my mom about the guy who got her pregnant.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing—at least nothing helpful. Because she’s Lisa, and everything is always about her, she had plenty of sob stories about how he led her on and then walked away the day she gave birth, or—my personal favorite—how she and my father were going to get married, but then they had me, and I was such a fussy baby that he left her.”

  “Jesus.” Ford’s voice is horrified. I smile because this, talking about Lisa? It’s the easiest thing in the world to laugh at.

  “Don’t worry—I learned at a really early age that the one guarantee about Lisa is that she’s a liar, first and last. I don’t believe for a second that she let the one get away because of her commitment to a baby.”

  “Does it bother you—not knowing who your dad is?”

  “Does knowing who yours is make your life any easier?”

  He hesitates, and then looks away without answering. Which says a lot, because it’s his tell, this silence that he employs. I let it go, because I know what it’s like to need to keep secrets.

  “It used to bother me—the not knowing—mostly just because I wanted to know if Lisa knew, and if she’d ever even given the guy a chance to claim me. But then I heard Colt’s story, and I still see how much losing his dad changed him, and I figure that maybe not knowing saves me from hurting even more.”

  We sit, both wrapped up in our own thoughts and the silence. And it doesn’t bother me. I realize I could sit like the forever, in the dark, with Ford’s body as close as possible without actually touching me, offering a different kind of warmth, and I would be happy. This stranger with the familiar face has become the part of my life I most look forward to; however dangerous I know that is, I can’t stop it from being true. And I don’t know that I would even if I could.