| photo by Gabe Pierce from Unsplash |
I'm not the biggest fan of coffee, but I love the way it smells. And I'm tempted to order something hot because my clothes are damp from the sprint across the parking lot and the air conditioning in this place is blasting.
It doesn't help that every time I think about kissing Noah—which is every five seconds—I break out in full-body goose bumps. He gives me a crooked smile now—amused, apparently, by my indecision. He orders sweet tea from the guy in the green apron, then turns to me and says, "They have a frozen drink here that's basically a milkshake. Vanilla?"
"Um, sure. Thanks." He pays with a twenty. Which reminds me. "I have money," I say, digging into my purse.
"Hold on to it," he says, ramping up the wattage of that smile. "I'll let you buy me dinner."
The green-apron guy gives him change, and a warm smile when he drops two dollars into the tip jar. Then Noah's arm bumps into mine and there's that zing again. His eyes say he feels it too. He rotates his hand, folds his fingers between mine and my face ignites because I'm zinging all over now—in a coffee shop full of people.
We head to the front of the narrow building. The only empty table is tiny and round, barely big enough for two. It's going to be a tight squeeze when Samatha Zhao gets here.
Ugh. My stomach goes a bit sour, because there's a very good chance that this fact-finding mission is going to change the way Noah feels about me.
A huge part of me wants to keep walking—to leave with Noah and never talk to or even think about Samantha again. But I refuse to give in to that temptation. I can't. I have to find out what's bothering Lindsay.
Noah squeezes my hand and lifts his chin, just as the metal bell clangs against the entrance door. I recognize Samantha immediately—from all the pictures in the yearbook, and on my phone—but right now, she looks a lot like she did in the photo that was left face down on my bookshelf: her long black hair is unbound, straight and glossy, and her cheeks are pink from the sun. The only thing missing is the sweet smile. Which is kind of a relief. Her almost-frown is an honest response to an uncomfortable situation. And honesty is the thing I need most from her.
She stops ten feet away from us and her dark eyes flare. They dart from me to Noah and back again—and then down. To our joined hands? She takes an exaggerated breath before she continues, closing the gap to normal greeting range. But there's nothing normal about the way she looks at my chest. It's seems intentional, like communication. Like she wants me to do the same. So I do and...oh...god...
Oh, god!
I cross my arms, panicked, because my pale yellow shirt is transparent. And so is my lace bra.
"Ally and I need a girl moment," she says. Her voice is authoritative and calm. So when she drapes her arm around my shoulders, I let her lead me to the back corner of the coffee shop.
To a bathroom that's just one open room with a toilet and a sink.
"We should switch bras," she says, hooking her pink polka dot umbrella on the locked door. "Mine is padded, but I don't need it because my headlights don't get as shiny as yours." She makes a hand gesture, drawing air-circles in front of her boobs and my face goes from flush to flaming. But Samantha doesn't seem to notice. She whips off her gauzy top and says, "Give me your shirt," before she bites the hem of her own shirt, letting it hang from her teeth while she reaches around to unhook her bra.
I close my eyes, turning to face the wall before she flashes me.
"Oh wow. Sorry. I got so caught up in the rescue, I forgot that you..." She doesn't finish the sentence. But her padded bra appears, draped over my shoulder.
I can't believe I'm trapped in a public bathroom with a half-naked stranger.
"My back is turned now," she says. "I'm sorry about the flash—but that would've been totally normal for us before. We used to trade clothes and change in front of each other all the time."
"It's okay. I'm fine."
Samantha's lack of response feels like a judgment. Because it's not okay and I'm not fine, and this girl—who was my best friend for almost three years—probably knows that.
"Toss me your shirt when you're ready," she says. "I'll put it on the hand dryer."
I clamp her bra between my knees, peel off my shirt and hold it behind my back. She takes it and turns on a dryer that sounds like a jet engine, making it impossible to talk. Which is good, because I need to come up with a plan.
"I don't want to talk about our last text conversation," I say when the dryer shuts off. But it comes out wrong. Too abrupt and kind of accusing. "It's just that I don't like some of the things I've been reading—about the person I was before the accident. So. I can't let our friendship pick up where it left off."
Crap. That probably made it worse.
I cross my arms over the borrowed bra and turn to face her. And I'm grateful to find that she's less naked, but her eyes are rimmed in red. She offers me the warm shirt and I slip it on quickly before I say, "It's not that I don't want us to be friends. You were really nice to me in those IM transcripts. A lot nicer than I deserved."
"That's not true, Ally. You're a good person. The best friend I've ever had."
"Did I tell you that Noah called me from Georgia after his grandmother's funeral?"
"How do you know about that?" she asks.
"Noah told me."
"Wow. That's ironic." She swipes her fingers under her dark eyes and wipes them on her denim shorts. "It was strange as hell to see you guys holding hands. How did that happen?"
"Um, yeah. It's weird for me too," I say. But I don't want to answer her question. Because all of a sudden it seems ridiculous to think there's some kind of universal plan for Noah and I to be together.
"He looks at me like I'm this sweet girl who planted flowers for his grandmother while she was in the hospital," I blurt. "But to me, that girl—the Allyson I became after we moved to Virginia—was not a good person. I lied to him on the phone that day. And I had to be lying to you after he cursed at me in the lunchroom, right? The thing I can't figure out is my motive. That's why I asked you to meet me today. I thought you might know. Or like, can you make an educated guess?"
Samantha's eyes shift to the wall. Or to the mirror maybe.
Yes. She's looking at my reflection. And one eyebrow is hiked a little higher than the other, like she's seeing her old friend in a new way, and she's not impressed. I square my shoulders and lift my chin—because I want her to see the Allyson I remember. "I'm here because I need to help my little sister," I say. "She's torturing herself because she feels guilty about something she did and you must know what it is because she's been frantic for me to talk to you."
Samantha tugs the gauzy shirt off her shoulder, fluffs it out and pulls it over her head, trapping her long black hair underneath. "I can't answer your question without talking about that text conversation," she says, her tone stiff now.
"Because it's going to complicate my relationship with Noah, right?"
"It's going to complicate more than that."
Okay. "But in that conversation, it seemed like there might've been two separate issues. So if that's true, could you just...please...not talk about whatever it was that was scaring the crap out of you?"
Samantha agrees with a nod, but her lips are pinched and her eyes won't meet mine. Not even in the mirror.
"You didn't know about the phone call," she says. "I didn't either until a few days before your accident. I ran into Dodge's best friend at a party and he had new information. We came up with a theory that someone else answered Dodge's call that day. Someone who has access to your phone and sounds an awful lot like you."
"Okay, yeah. That's..." I get an image. Like a conjured memory of Lindsay, looking like the little sister I remember, except she's twisting a stack of bracelets that are wrapped around the arm that's holding my phone to her ear.
It's so obvious I feel stupid for not figuring it out myself. But more than that, I'm so incredibly relieved. There wasn't another boy! Everything I read on the IM app, all the hurt and confusion I felt after Noah yelled at me in the cafeteria was real. I wasn't lying to him or Samantha.
"You were planning to confront her," Samantha says. "That's how we left things."
"I must have, because Lindsay is the reason I read the IM transcripts. She wanted me to contact you—because she wanted me to find out about her lie, obviously. But I don't understand why she wouldn't just tell me herself. Unless..."
There's an urgent knock on the door. Samantha calls out, "Occupied," and threads her arm under her hair to liberate it from her shirt.
"Ally, it's me. Noah."
"Oh, um. I'm fine," I call out.
He knocks again, louder this time, and I open the door. Just a crack. "You don't sound fine," he says.
"Samantha and I are talking, but it's okay. I promise. We'll be out in a few minutes."
He nods, taking a step back, and I close the door.
"What is his problem?" Samantha asks, obviously offended.
"Sorry, that's my fault. I kind of brought him along for protection. I thought if he was here then you might be less likely to talk about the...other thing."
"Well yeah," she says, and her frown relaxes, but the hint of a cringe that replaces it isn't much better. It's like she's agreeing that the other thing is definitely something I'm going to want to keep from Noah. "What are you going to tell him about Lindsay?" she asks.
"Um. I'm not...I haven't—"
"You're not going to tell him?"
"I don't know," I say, returning her harsh tone. "I haven't even had a chance to think about it."
Samantha's shoulders drop with a huffy sigh. "Sorry if I sound like I'm judging you," she says—still sounding like she's judging me. "But this is huge. When we talked about it before, you didn't need time to think about how you felt. You were furious."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," I say. "I'm not that girl anymore. I don't want to punish my sister for something she did when she was too young to understand the consequences. I just want her to know I forgive her, so we can get back to having the kind of relationship we had before we moved here. So my family can start getting back to normal."
Samantha's face scrunches and her head shifts back. I don't know this girl, but I'd know that look on anyone. She thinks I've lost my freaking mind.
"Well," she says. "One of the consequences is that Dodge thinks I hate him. I used to go out with his best friend, and the two of us were dying for the two of you to hook up. So when Dodge cursed you out, for no apparent reason, I turned on him." Samantha walks to the toilet and pulls on the roll of paper. "He was one of my best friends," she says, dabbing at her damp cheeks. "I knew how much he loved you. I should've asked him what was wrong. If I had, I would've figured this out a long time ago and you wouldn't have..."
She shakes her head and bites into her bottom lip. Like it's all she can do to hold back the rest of that sentence. Which makes me think it has something to do with the thing I asked her not to talk about.
"I've been holding onto this secret," she says. "And I've held on to all the anger and guilt that goes with it for almost three months. I can't take it anymore, Ally. We have to tell Dodge what Lindsay did to him—so I can get forgiveness."
"But I... Noah doesn't..."
That phone call is ancient history, and if given the choice Noah probably wouldn't want to know.
"I love you, Owl, and I'll hold my tongue about the thing you don't want me to talk about until the day I die, but please don't make me keep this secret. You weren't going to before, back when you could remember what it felt like—after more than a year of not knowing why Dodge cut you out of his life—to find out that it was Lindsay, that she actually was trying to sabotage your relationship. That she succeeded."
"No I don't remember," I say. "But you were there, and you told me in those messages—you said it more than once. You didn't like the way I treated Lindsay. So. You should know better than anyone that I brought this on myself. I abandoned her after we moved. She was just doing those things to get my attention."
"Yes, but this is different. What Lindsay did to you and Dodge was devious and calculated. She crossed over a line—and she must know that if she's so frantic for you to find out about it after all this time. Didn't you say she was torturing herself with the guilt?"
"She is," I say. Defensive, because I don't like Samantha's mocking tone.
"Then let's go out there and tell him. That way we can all apologize and Dodge can forgive—or not forgive—but at least it will be out in the open."