"Why'd you really stop running?"
I felt myself take in a breath, like this had hit me in my gut: it was that unexpected. Questions about Jason I could handle, but this was something else. Something more. But we were playing Truth, and so far he'd played fair. It was dark and quiet, and we were alone. And suddenly, I found myself answering.
"The morning my dad died," I said, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, "he came into my room to wake me up for a run, and I was sleepy and lazy, so I waved him off and told him to go without me."
This was the first time, ever, that I'd told this story aloud. I couldn't even believe I was doing it.
"A few minutes later, though, I changed my mind." I stopped, swallowing. I didn't have to do this. I could pass, and if I lost, no big deal. But for some reason I kept going. "So I got up and went to catch up with him. I knew the route he'd take, it was the same one we always did. Out our neighborhood, a right on Willow, then another right onto McKinley."
Wes wasn't saying anything, but I knew he was listening. I could just tell.
"I was a little less than halfway into that first mile when I came over this ridge and saw him. He was lying on the sidewalk."
I felt him look at me, but I knew if I turned to face him I'd stop. So I just kept talking. My footsteps, our footsteps, were so steady. Keep going, I thought. Keep going.
"At first," I said, "it didn't even compute, you know? I mean, my mind couldn't put it together, even though it was right in front of my face."
The words kept coming, almost too fast, tumbling over my tongue like they'd been held back for so long that now, finally free, nothing could stop them. Not even me.
"I started running faster. I mean, faster than I ever had. It was adrenaline, I guess. I'd never run that fast in my life. Never."
All I could hear were our footsteps. And the quiet dark. And my voice.
"There was this man," I went on. "He was just some random guy who'd been on his way to the store, and he'd stopped and was trying to give my dad CPR. But by the time I got to him, he'd already given up. The ambulance came, and we went to the hospital. But it was too late."
And then it was done. Over. I could feel my breath coming quickly, through my teeth, and for a second I felt unsteady, as if with this story no longer held so closely against me, I'd lost my footing. Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, to how it holds you to a place. "Macy," he said quietly.
"Don't," I said, because I knew what came next, some form of I'm sorry, and I didn't want to hear it, especially now, especially from him. "Please. Just—"
And then, suddenly, there was light. Bright yellow light, rising over the other side of the hill, splashing across us: instantly, we had shadows. We were both squinting, Wes raising one hand to shield his eyes. The car had a rumbling engine, and it seemed like it took forever to pull up beside us and slow to a stop.
"Hey." A man's voice came from behind the wheel. After all the brightness, I couldn't make out his face. "You kids need a ride someplace? What you doing out here?"
"Ran out of gas," Wes told him. "Where's the nearest station?"
The man jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. "About three miles that way. Where'd you break down?"
"About two miles that way," Wes told him.
"Well, get in then," he said, reaching to unlock the back door. "I'll run you up there. You about scared me to death, though, walking out here in the dark. Thought you were deer or something."
Wes pulled open the door for me, holding it as I climbed in, then sliding in beside me. The car smelled like cigar smoke and motor oil, and as the man began to drive I could make out his profile: he had white hair and a crook nose, and drove slowly, almost as slowly as Bert. It was amazing we hadn't seen him coming. He'd just appeared, as if he'd dropped out of the sky or something.
As I leaned back against the seat, my heart felt like it was shaking: I couldn't believe what I'd just done. There was no way to take the story back, folding it neatly into the place I'd kept it all this time. No matter what else happened, from here on out, I would always remember Wes, because with this telling, he'd become part of that story, of my story, too.
"That you?" the man asked, glancing back at us in the rearview mirror as we passed the Wish van.
"Yes, sir," Wes replied.
"Well, you had no way to know, I guess," he said, and I wasn't sure what he meant until about a minute later, when we crested a hill, took a corner, and there was a gas station, all lit up. The neon sign in the window said, almost cheerfully, open. "Had no idea how close you were."