Page 5 of The Summer We Lie

"Me too." The guilt hits me immediately, sharp and unexpected. "I'm sorry I've been so busy lately."

"Skye, stop." Harper twists to face me fully, her expression serious in a way that makes my stomach clench. "You don't have anything to apologize for. I know what you're dealing with. I just miss my best friend sometimes."

The simple honesty of it makes my throat tight. Since Dad left, I've been moving through life like I'm underwater—everything muffled and distant, every action requiring twice the effort it should. There's never time to just exist anymore, never time to be nineteen and stupid and carefree.

"We need to make Saturday nights movie night," Harper announces, turning off the TV. "Non-negotiable. Even if we have to watch on your phone in the library bathroom."

Despite everything, I laugh. "I'm down. Though let's aim higher than bathroom viewings."

We move through the familiar routine of cleaning up—Harper gathering the empty containers while I fold the throw blankets we've been using. The domestic simplicity of it feels precious, like something I should memorize and save for later when everything gets complicated again.

"Goodnight," I call as I walk down the hall. "Oh, and don't forget dinner tomorrow."

"I won't," she calls back. I go into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth. When I'm done, I climb into bed under my sheets and download the Obsidian app. I already market myself as a virgin on Good Girl Gone Live and I only do light stuff—talking to men topless or naked, strip teases, and for some of my good-tipping regulars, I'll masturbate for them in private sessions. I've never even thought of this though. There's a section for members, apply for membership, and list yourself as available. I click that last one and fill out the required information, my hands shaking slightly as I type. At the bottom it asks what I'm interested in and I select the auctions , then it opens a text box asking me to add any details or requirements. I think for a moment, then start typing. Minimum winning bid of $600,000—if it doesn't go over that, I'm not trapped. Must meet in person first to make sure we're both comfortable before the "event." Transportation must be provided to me or they come to me—I'm not travelling alone to some stranger. And the most important one of all: no married men. I hover over the submit button for a long moment, my heart hammering. Then I close my eyes and hit enter, taking a deep breath. Holy shit, did I just do that? Oh my God, what did I do? I go to delete it, but it says it's processing and will email me when it's been approved. Fuck.

Panic rises in my chest like floodwater, making it hard to breathe. I frantically tap through the app, looking for a way to delete what I've just done, but the auction has already disappeared into some administrative limbo. An email notification pops up, promising I'll hear back within one business day.

I set my phone on the nightstand with hands that won't stop shaking and pull the covers up to my chin. The ceiling stares back at me, blank and unforgiving, while my mind races through every possible catastrophic outcome. What if someone recognizes me? What if this gets back to Mom? What if the wrong kind of person wins and⁠—

But then, cutting through the panic, I hear Justin's voice from yesterday: "It's okay, Skye. I don't mind changing schools. I know Mom's trying her best."

Fifteen years old and already more mature than our father is. Already accepting that his world has to shrink because the adults in his life have failed him.

I close my eyes and try to imagine what a million dollars could do. College paid for—mine and Justin's art school when he's ready. Mom's mortgage caught up, her car fixed, her medicine she's been rationing because the co-pays are too expensive. Security. Stability. The kind of future Dad's leaving has stolen from us.

Maybe Harper is right. Maybe it really is just sex.

But as I lay here in the dark, listening to my heart pound against my ribs, I can't shake the feeling that I've just crossed a line I'll never be able to uncross.

Chapter Three

Skye

"Hey girls," Mom says when we walk in the back door.

"Hey Mom Number Two," Harper says, walking into the kitchen and washing her hands. "What can I do?"

"Hey, I'm going to show Justin something. I'll be right back," I say.

"Okay, Hun. He's in his room. Tell him dinner will be done soon so he needs to come down."

"Will do," I say, walking into the living room and heading upstairs with my sketchbook clutched against my chest.

I knock on his door but get no response. I try again, a little louder this time, and still nothing, so I push the door open gently. Justin's sitting at his desk, completely absorbed in his drawing, headphones clamped over his ears and blocking out the world. I walk over, careful not to startle him. When I get close enough that my shadow falls across his paper, he notices me and takes his headphones off.

"Hey," he says, his expression brightening.

"Hey. Whatcha working on?" I ask, leaning over his shoulder to examine the intricate sketch of a cityscape. The detail is incredible—tiny windows reflecting light, precise architectural lines, even tiny people going about their lives. He's so good it makes my chest ache a little.

"It's a project for art," he says, running his finger along the edge of a skyscraper. "I've been working on it for three weeks."

"Well, show me what you have," I say and sit on his bed, the springs creaking slightly beneath me. He grabs the sketchbook and brings it over, sitting beside me, our shoulders touching.

He explains the project with growing enthusiasm, flipping through pages of preliminary sketches and different compositions. I love them all—the way he captures light and shadow, the precision of his lines—but one particular drawing of a beach at sunset completely draws me in. The waves curl perfectly toward shore, the sun bleeds gold and crimson across the horizon, and there's a peaceful emptiness to it that makes me wish I was there right now, toes in the sand, without the crushing weight of everything pressing down on me. It looks like the perfect escape.

"This one," I say, pointing down at the beach scene, my fingertip hovering just above the paper to avoid smudging his work. "I love this. The way the light hits the water... it's like you can feel the warmth."

"I was going between that one and the NYC one," he says, glancing between the two drawings with a critical eye.