I turn to see Wesley standing by the back door.
“Oh my god, you’re back.” I run to him, and he grunts when I hug him. “Sorry.” I release him, remembering the stab wound on his side. “Are you okay?”
“Mentally, no. Physically... also no.”
“When did you get back?”
“Monday,” he says. But it’s Thursday, and he never said anything.
“Oh. You never texted, or called, or...”
“Yeah,” he says. “I just needed some time.” He grabs the lighter fluid from the cement steps, pouring it over the wood and pieces of Annica’s memorial, and lights it. We both sit in the chairs around the small fire. “I need you to tell me everything, and I need it to be the truth.”
I don’t want to cause him any more harm, but I am tired of lying, and I don’t think I could do it if I tried. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“The truth, Sloane.”
So I tell him about the journal, about working with Asher to catch Miles. I tell him how Asher caught me trying to hide evidence, and about the agreement we made in order for him to help me. Then I tell him what happened that night when I found him upstairs. The whole story feels rehearsed for how many times I’ve said it by now. To Grange, to my friends, to the therapist, and now to Wes.
His mouth forms a hard line, taking it all in.
“Where were you? Where were you when she took me upstairs?”
“I was with Asher,” I admit.
“Doing what exactly?”
I couldn’t say it. “I think you already know,” I whisper.
We watch the flames crack and hiss. The photos now nothing but ash in the wind. I don’t want to ask him what this means for us, or if I even want there to be an us. Can I even ever really be with Wes if half my heart belongs to someone else?
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“I know this year was hard for you, and I was so caught up with Marissa and the house for most of it that I didn’t even realize what was going on. You had to make tough choices and do difficult things. And I don’t even blame you for falling for my cousin because it seems like he was the only one there for you through it all. I just wish you told me.”
“I wish I did too.” How different would things be if I had just confided in him from the start? “Are we breaking up?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I think we are. As a couple, but not as friends.”
Friends. That word again. But this time, I feel relieved to hear it. He should hate me; he should never want to see me ever again. I look over at him in the orange glow of the fire before standing up and walking over to him. He looks up at me, unsure of what I’m doing as I sit on his lap, curl in my knees, and lean onto his chest. He lets out a breath and brings his arms around me, holding me that way until the last embers go out.
“Almost ready?” Adrienne says from my door.
I stand in the mirror of my bedroom with my cap and gown on over my white dress.
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
When we leave the apartment for the ceremony I almost trip when my foot collides with the small package sitting on our doormat. Ripping it open, and looking inside, I see what looks like a large stack of paper. I pull it from the packaging and read the sticky note on the front.
This was never my story to tell.
MH
“What is that?” she asks.
“Um, one second,” I say, going back inside.
It’s the story he wrote about the murders. I take it to my bedroom and set it on my bed. I’ll come back to it later. Maybe I’ll read it. But I look at it again, then at the small trash can in my room.
