Inside, the store hums softly—a refrigerator drone, hushed voices at the register, and the distant ping of the fryer from the kitchen. I head straight for the Icee machine, glad to find the area empty, and grab a cup. I press the cherry lever and wait, my anticipation waning when the machine coughs up a syrupy trickle, as if it’s mocking me. Of course my streak of tiny victories was bound to have a snag.
I slide over to blue raspberry. Even though it’s not the same, it’ll do. The soft blue slush fills my cup, nearing the top—
“Clarity?”
The sound of my name freezes me. My head snaps up and I spot Vincent standing at the end of the aisle, holding a bag of chips at his side like it’s a prop he doesn’t know what to do with, and looking at me like I’m an alien.
“Vincent,” I say, trying to overcome the panic in my chest. I hiss when something cold hits my knuckles and I realize I’ve way overfilled my cup. Blue slush oozes down the sides, pooling at the base. “Crap.”
By the time I grab a napkin to clean up, Vincent’s gone.
“Wait!” I shout. I pop a lid on my Icee, abandon my mess, and move from aisle to aisle, nearly convinced he’s already left. But then I spot him near the soda coolers, deliberating over Pepsi or Coke.
“Vincent—”
“I was just surprised to see you,” he says, cutting me off. His voice is sharp and he doesn’t look at me directly, just keeps his focus on the cooler.
I don’t blame him. Maurice trusted me, and I let him down. Kristen tried to be a good friend to me and a good girlfriend to Vincent, and I put her in an unfair spot. Vincent has every reason to be mad, but I need him to know the whole story.
“Kristen didn’t know,” I blurt out. “At first, when she set me up with Maurice, she didn’t know I was gay. She was trying to help me, and I hadn’t told her yet—”
“Clarity, stop.” He finally turns to me, and the look on his face is worse than anger. It’s a mix of betrayal anddisappointment. “Kris went along with it. She lied for you. You can’t stand here and try to make it seem like she’s innocent in all this.”
I open my mouth, then close it. This conversation is a minefield, and probably the only chance I have before Vincent possibly never speaks to me again. I need to choose my words carefully.
I can only imagine how pissed I’d be if the roles were switched. How much hatred I’d carry for the person who could do something like what I did, so drawn out and steeped in lies, to my best friend.
I start again, slower this time. “I’m not saying she didn’t lie. I’m saying she only lied because I begged her to. Because I”—my throat tightens around the truth, but I push through—“I was outed over the summer, and it went horribly. I didn’t want the same thing to happen here. That’s why I kept it a secret in the first place. I went along with her matchmaking plan at first because I was lying to her. But then everything got out of control, and I thought if I could end things with Maurice without hurting him, that maybe I could avoid everything falling apart again.”
Vincent doesn’t respond, but his grip on the bag of chips loosens. It’s a tiny thing, but I notice and hold on to it as a sign that I’m getting through to him.
“Kristen wanted the same thing. She hated lying to you. She hated lying to Maurice. The only reason she kept my secret is because she’s a good friend. She cares about you so much—”
“Right, until you need her to lie for you again,” he huffs, shaking his head as he finally lets the cooler door close.
“I promise I willneverask her to do that again. It was wrong and unfair to her and to you,” I say, my voice firm.
He shakes his head, but doesn’t move to leave.
“I’m sorry, for all of it. For Maurice, for Kristen, for dragging you into my mess. I don’t expect you to forgive me—hate me, blameme. But I need you to know the truth. She lied to you because she cares about you, because she believed she could help find a way to handle it without hurting anyone. She doesn’t deserve to lose you over my mistakes, and you don’t deserve to lose her either.”
For a moment, Vincent is completely still. Then he exhales, a slow, quiet sound that feels heavier than it should. He finally turns to me, his eyes searching mine, wondering if he can trust me.
Vincent just nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. But it’s enough.
I leave him there, standing in front of the soda coolers, and head for the checkout. My hand is half numb from holding my now nearly melted Icee. By the time I get to my car, it’s not even slush anymore so much as flat blue raspberry juice. But I don’t care.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next day I find a note stuffed in my locker, sealed with a tiny piece of pink-and-gold polka-dot washi tape. Kristen’s curvy handwriting is annoyingly perfect, like it should be on wedding invitations. The sight of it, of a piece of her, nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Photography room at lunch.
When third period ends and we’re released for lunch, my palms are sweaty, and I’ve convinced myself she’s either going to forgive me or meeting in the art room is her chosen setting for some kind of artistic revenge. Knowing Kristen, it could go either way.
In the middle of the day, between art classes, the art wing smells like fresh paint, resin, and clay. It’s refreshing and tickles my brain in a way thatcouldinspire my creative side, under different circumstances. I find Kristen sitting at her usual table, her Nikon disassembled next to her computer, her focus on her screen. She doesn’t look up when I walk in. Not even when I plop onto the stool across from her and set my lunch box down.
“Hey,” I say, my voice small.