“You don’t want me to make a good one, you want me to agree with your choice.”
“I’m not saying any of this right.”
I close my eyes, trying to sort out an explanation. Why am I freaked out about her leaving? Because I’m such a good guy? Because I like her so much? Or because I know it could have been me? I could be sitting right where she is. Anybody could. I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk around and ignore that in another life, this situation could have been me.
And I wouldn’t handle it nearly so well.
“I don’t want you to go because of this,” I say. “It’s the last thing I want.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll stay?”
She nods.
I tell her where the towels are in the pool house. Her clothes are still damp in the dryer, so I find her my hockey jersey from freshman year and a pair of my old sweats. Our fingers brush when she takes them, and even that tiny touch tethers me back to the here and now.
After my shower, I walk to the window that frames our pretty, gated lawn. My whole life is the view out this window: comfort, security, and the quiet certainty that I will always have enough. And that it will never be enough.
I’m going to have to tell my parents I want something else.
I get dressed and head across to the pool house. Inside, I can still hear the shower running. I sink down onto the couch and drop my head into my hands. I don’t open my eyes until I hear the bathroom door crack. The smell of soap and shampoo fills the air, and I turn when she emerges.
She’s surprised, shower fresh, and only wearing my hockey jersey, which hangs almost to her knees. The sweatpants must not have fit because she’s got them draped over her arm.
A feeling between heat and desperation runs through me at the sight of her. I have no business feeling this way with everything she’s going through. But I don’t have a clue how to stop myself.
Mallory
Monday, November 20, 1:41 p.m.
He looks like he’s on the verge of flipping a table or breaking down in tears. I can’t tell which, but this broken look in his eyes has been growing since the gym. My heart clenches at the red around his pretty eyes.
I move around the couch to stand in front of him. “Something’s wrong.”
“No. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“No, it’s clearly not.”
He laughs. “You’re too good at this. But no. There’s nothing going on that gives me a valid reason to be upset.”
“I’m sure there’s a reason.”
“Not a good one.”
It’s like he’s cracking apart in front of me, his face crying out all the pain he won’t speak. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and my hands lift a little. I want to touch him. But I don’t know what he needs yet. I don’t understand what has him behaving like this.
“Will you talk to me?” I ask.
“Talk to you?” He shakes his head. “You don’t need to hear this. You’re dealing with real things, Mallory. Things that could hurt you. I’m being a whiny asshole. Please let’s drop it.”
“But if we talk about you, I can not think about my real things for a minute,” I reason. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what? That you’re right about me not being happy here? That I don’t want a future that ends with a life like this?”
I shrug. “Then don’t take that future.”
“You’re right. It’s the opposite of a problem.” He stands, looking embarrassed. “I’m bored with my own voice. Let’s talk about something else. Movies. Food. Throw pillows.”
He’s trying to deflect by being funny. But I don’t want him to be funny. I want him to own whatever this is. So I stay quiet and watchful, knowing he’ll fill the silence.
“We could talk about the creepiest things in china cabinets over at Ava’s house,” he says, taking the bait. “There’s a human skull. True story.”
“Stop it, Spencer.”
“I can’t!” His eyes are too bright, and his voice is frayed at the edges. “This is who I’m supposed to be, Mallory. I’m supposed to make people laugh and go to a private college and get a cushy job so I can buy a giant shiny house like this one.”
“But you know this isn’t what you want.”
“It doesn’t matter! My parents are decent people giving me a good future. How do I tell them that none of it feels right to me? That I feel like I live in a gold cage and all I can think about is getting out?”
I throw up my hands. “Then get out! Go travel or teach climbing.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to teach climbing, I need to get away from this world.” He gestures around vaguely. “I have to get out of here so I can see what else there is.”
“If your parents are decent people, they’ll hear that and support you.”
“Yeah, they’ll hear me. And they are good people, so they’ll relent because they love me. But it will hurt them. I’ll have to live with letting them down every day.”
“Wouldn’t it hurt them to not give you a shot at a future you really want? Can’t they tell this isn’t it?”
“No one has ever been able to tell. Hell, I didn’t figure it out completely myself,” he says. “Not until you.”
His words are soft, but they push past this frantic moment, into all my quiet spaces. I don’t know what to say, so I press my hand to his chest gently to feel that fast, hard pace of his heart beneath my fingers.
“Maybe they can see more than you think,” I say.
“Most people see what they expect.”
“Maybe people will surprise you.”
“You surprised me,” he says.
He lifts his hand to cover mine, surrounding my fingers with the heat of his chest and his palm. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my stomach flips. When he traces the side of my thumb to the underside of my wrist, my breath catches.
He laughs softly, his gaze cloudy. “And you thought I wanted to be your hero.”
“Don’t you?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I want to rescue you. Sometimes I want to be more like you. Mostly, I just want to be with you.”
Every part of me is tingling. Expectant. I know what comes next. I know when his thumb feathers a circle over the pulse point on my wrist. I know when he steps closer, trapping both of our hands against his chest.
“What is it about climbing?” I ask because the world is slipping sideways, and I’m desperate for something to tie me to steady ground. He makes it hard to think. Hard to breathe.
“You can’t sleepwalk through climbing. You can’t deny the power of gravity when you’re clinging to the side of a rock eighty feet up. You can’t go through the motions when you’re on the verge of getting frostbite. You have to be present, you know? Totally one hundred percent aware.”
“So when you climb, the future doesn’t feel stressful?” I say, guessing.
“When I climb, it doesn’t even exist. All that matters is the next hold. The next second. The next breath. Everything else falls away.”
My chuckle is a soft rush of fire up my throat, and his answering smile is uncertain.
“What’s so funny?”
“The way you describe climbing,” I say. “It’s how I’d describe being with you.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and now I’m sure he’ll kiss me. It’s inevitable. But he pulls back instead.
“Do you not want to kiss me?” I ask him.
“You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you. I just don’t want to mess this up.”
“Can you get over that already?”
He clears his throat, and I can tell he’s going to smirk and say some smart-ass thing. I don’t want this to start with the guy who wears his jokes like armor. I want the real Spencer. So I lean in fast, pressing my lips against his neck
, beneath his jaw.
His breath catches, and I feel his hands twitch at the sides of my too big shirt, his fingers grazing my hips. I close my eyes before I can chicken out, before I can remember all the reasons I should stay away and focus on what matters. In this moment, I don’t want to think at all. So I don’t think when I press my lips to his jaw. His cheek. The side of his mouth.
For one frozen moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. And I try not to think about that either. The way he hesitates. Did he change his mind?
His kiss answers my unspoken question.
It isn’t sweet or tentative; it’s hungry like he’s been holding himself back for a long time. His mouth opens mine with a sigh, and I don’t have the slightest thought of pushing him away. Despite all that’s happening in my life, this moment matters to me. He matters.
He parts long enough to breathe my name against my mouth, to press his forehead against mine. I feel a rush of something bigger than affection. Something I’m too afraid to name.
We kiss again, this time like we’re half starved for it, his hands in my hair and mine tracing the lines of his arms, learning the angles of his neck. Everywhere he touches me ignites, and I crave the burn.
My mind slides into a buzzy web of heat and hunger. There’s no past, no future, nothing at all beyond the press of his body against mine. I cross my arms behind his neck and feel his grasp on my hips tighten. He’s half lifting me off the ground when the door opens.
The door?
Shocking light and cold pour in, and we spring apart, blinking in the sudden appearance of a woman in the doorway. My lips are swollen and tingling, but a rush of adrenaline chases the fire in my veins with ice. I know this woman. I saw her at the window.
Spencer steps in front of me, but I can see her silhouette. Her carefully upswept hair and crisp collar. Even if I hadn’t seen her in Spencer’s kitchen yesterday, I would know by her expression who she is.
“Mom,” Spencer says, confirming it.
“What the hell is going on here?” Her voice is low, but it isn’t calm like Charlie’s. It sounds like her temper is about to blow.
“It’s a long story,” Spencer says, still panting. “And probably very different than the story you’re thinking.”
“I’m sure it is. Because the story I bought is that you were sick.”
“I’m sorry about that. I am.”
“Sorry for skipping school? Or for staying home to hook up in the pool house?” Then her gaze and her hand sweep my way. “Who is this, Spencer?”
“I’m Mallory, and we weren’t hooking up.”
I’m surprised that there’s more hurt than anger in her eyes when she speaks. “You’ll pardon me if I have a hard time believing that.”
“Mom!” Spencer steps fully in front of me now. “If you want to be pissed, be pissed with me. But leave her out of it. I’m telling you this isn’t what you think.”
“She’s standing in my pool house half-dressed with wet hair!”
The dryer buzzes, startling me out of my momentary shock. I jolt back, face so hot I’m sure my hair, wet or not, will catch fire. Tears smear my vision into a watery blur, but I do my best to hold her gaze.
“I’m very sorry,” I croak. “I’ll leave.”
“Mallory, don’t!” Then to his mom: “Just stop and listen because this isn’t what you think. She’s not a stranger. I met her at the library. She’s having serious issues at home, and I’m trying to—”
My stomach bottoms out, hands rolling to fists. “Spencer, stop!”
“You met her at the library?” His mother’s voice is close to a shriek now, her lips gone white. “You’ve been working at the library for a month! How long have you known this girl? You’ve said nothing about her.”
“Maybe I would have talked to you if I didn’t know you’d act like this!”
I take advantage of the fury, turning and collecting my backpack off the ground, then I go to the dryer and drag out my clothes.
“She’s doing laundry? How long has this been going on? Do I need to call her parents?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spencer move around the couch. “No! You can’t! That’s not safe for her.”
“I’m fairly sure her parents would want to know what’s happening here.”
I’m shaking so hard it’s a miracle I can get the dryer door open, but I do it. Heat and the scent of fabric softener fill my senses. For one second, I think of my mother with the crossword puzzle, my legs swinging over the side of a Laundromat folding table. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. I inhale sharply until a strange hum of calm settles over me.
It’s like being underwater.
Their arguing continues behind me, but I’m floating above it. On autopilot. I pull the clothes into my bag as fast as I can, burning my arm on a zipper, dropping a sock and a pair of undies on the floor. I snag them fast and shove them down, jerking on the zipper until it closes halfway. Good enough.
My toothbrush and comb are in the bathroom so I march in and close the door. Collect my things and rip off Spencer’s jersey. I pull on a still-hot wrinkled T-shirt and a pair of jeans as fast as my hands will move. My shoes are on the opposite wall of the sink—thank you, God—so I push my feet into them and catch a glimpse of my reflection.
I’m a horror. Mouth red from kissing and face so pale I look near death. Too late to fix any of that, so I turn and pull open the door.
His mother is waiting on the other side.
“What is your last name, young lady?”
“Leave her alone.” Spencer is trying to edge between us, but she stands her ground.
My chest burns, and my stomach rolls. I’m like a cornered dog. They’re both there, blocking my way out. It’s like a hand gripping my throat. And squeezing.
His mom pales. “This secrecy is scaring me. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the police and not a set of parents I should be calling.”
Spencer lurches between us, fists clenched. “Go ahead, Mom. Call the police. But if you do, you’d better tell them to arrest me too. I brought her here! I could say I forced her to come.”
“What is this?” she asks him. “I have never seen you so angry.”
“Because you’re not listening to me! Stop blaming her and blame me. I brought her here!” Spencer screams, and I can hear the tears in his voice.
She must too, because her face changes. It’s like she catches herself, realizing what she’s said and done. Her shoulders drop and her expression softens. She reaches toward him, but he moves closer to me, shaking his head.
“Spencer.” I touch his arm, and a strange calm comes over me. His eyes are red again, and he’s breathing so hard. “Thank you for helping me.”
I look past him to his mother. “I’m Mallory Halston. And I’m very sorry for upsetting you and for not asking for your permission to be here, but Spencer is right. He was trying to help. He wanted to do the right thing.”
I move past her, bumping Spencer with my hip, so I can avoid touching her. He takes my hand. “Mallory, please don’t—”
“It’s okay. I should go.”
He lets out a sound that breaks me.
“Spencer, please. Tell me what’s happening.” His mom’s voice is gentle, her hands lifting and then dropping slowly. All the rage has burned out and she’s simply a worried mom.
He won’t answer, so she turns to me, her expression tentative. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”
“I am,” I admit. “But it’s not the kind of trouble you need to worry about, and I promise it has nothing to do with your son.”
She takes a step back and smooths her hands down the sides of her skirt. And then she goes to the door, turning to me as she passes.
“I’ll give you a moment.”
To my surprise, she steps outside, but she
leaves the door open. I search the area fast, finding a hair tie on the back of the couch and throwing away a water bottle I left on the table. Spencer grabs me as I pass back from the trash can, pulling me into an embrace so hard I can barely breathe.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes against my neck.
Tears come immediately, coursing swift and hot down my cheeks. I press my face against his neck and tell him it’s okay. That I’m okay. We both know I’m lying.
We both know a lot of things we didn’t know ten minutes ago. We don’t come from different worlds—we come from different galaxies. Nothing is ever going to change that, and maybe we could have been okay with that if we hadn’t kissed. But we did.
Spencer shoves a hand in his pocket and fishes around. “I have hockey,” he says softly. “A tournament out of town. But I’ll be back Wednesday night.”
It won’t matter, but I don’t tell him that. I force a smile through my tears and nod.
He shoves a wad of bills into my hand, and I immediately shake my head, trying to give the money back. He pushes me away.
“Don’t,” he says, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare. I can’t do anything else.”
I check, but his mother isn’t watching. She’s true to her word, giving us the promised minute. The chance for a goodbye. So I put the money in my pocket and pull him in for a soft kiss, one salty with tears—his or mine, I don’t know.
“I hope you find the place that feels right,” I whisper.
“I did,” he says. And he’s looking at me.
Outside, the air is cold and bracing. I square my shoulders, but his mother stops me by clearing her throat.
“Don’t worry. I won’t go through the house,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t—” She stops herself. “I’m not a hateful monster. I’m a frightened mother.”
“One who’s raised a great son.”
She hesitates, and Spencer appears in the doorway, more composed, but still clearly upset. Her face is soft and broken like his. She’s not good at hiding her emotions either.
“I don’t want you to be out there wandering the streets,” she says. “Let me call someone for you.”
What You Hide Page 18