“I visited Ace, my friend from home, at his college sophomore year. Him and his frat brothers dared me to drink a handle of rum, and so I did. I blacked out instantly. Woke up the next morning in their backyard withI LOVE DICKwritten on my forehead in permanent marker, and I spent the rest of the day puking in his dorm room. I vowed never again.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Wes, that’s an awful story. How long did it take to get the Sharpie off?”
“Ages.” He reaches up to touch his forehead, cringing at the memory. “I’m surprised I don’t have permanent scarring on my forehead from how hard I scrubbed at that marker. I practically scraped off a layer of skin.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“Alright. Your turn. What’s the story?”
I open my mouth to protest and then close it. As much as I’m afraid to admit it, a part of me wants to let him in. A part of me wants to tell him the things I’ve never told anyone. To bare my secrets. Expose my scars. I want to trust him with things that matter, because I have this weird, inexplicable feeling that he’ll cradle my faults with careful hands and embrace them with an empathetic heart.
But despite how much I want it, I’m not ready. I may never be ready.
So I tell him a version of the truth, leaving out the darkest details—the reasons for my actions and the fucked-up consequences of them—becauseI, Ivy Combs, can’t handle them. And if I can’t, how the hell can I expecthimto?
“I was pissed at my parents,” I tell him, staring down at a pull in his comforter, “so I raided their liquor cabinet and drank way too much whiskey. In my room. Alone. I blacked out andcouldn’t stop throwing up. It was so fucking dumb. They ended up taking me to the hospital instead of attending my brother Noah’s super important baseball game. They were so angry. It was...bad. The worst night of my life.”
Lie.It was the second worst.
When I glance back up at Wes, he’s frowning at me, regret swirling behind his eyes. “Jeez, Ivy,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to tell that story.”
I manage to give him a sad smile. “It’s okay. I’ve never told anyone about that before.”
“What were you pissed at them about?”
“Mom, something happened.”
“What?”
“Last weekend I…Last weekend I went to this party with Farah and Alexis and?—”
“You WHAT?”
I shrug a shoulder. “My mom overreacted to something I did.”
LIE.
You tried to tell your mom what happened to you, and she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t care that you couldn’t get out of bed. She didn’t care that something was seriously wrong. She punished you for skipping school and compared you to your “angelic” brothers and when she heard that you went to a party with your friends she refused to hear the rest of the story, even though you’d just been r?—
“Where’s your bathroom?” I blurt.
You needed her, and she wouldn’t even listen?—
“Right there,” he says, pointing to the door next to the dresser that I assumed was a closet. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
I nod. And then I keep nodding because sometimes that’s all I’m capable of doing. The lie clanks behind my teeth before breaking free of my lips. “I’m f-fine, thanks. I’ll…be right back.”
I dart into the bathroom before he can say anything further and shut the door. Bracing my hands against the sink, I take a deep breath. Exhale. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Leaning down, I flip on the tap and splash cold water on my face, counting backward from ten.
You’re so pathetic,says that voice in my head.
I can’t help but agree.
After a while, there’s a hesitant knock on the door. I turn off the water, feeling off balance.
“Everything okay, Ivy?” comes Wes’s strong and steady voice. I latch onto it, and the floor stabilizes beneath my feet. “The food’s here.”
“I’ll be right out!” I call, wincing when my voice shakes.
