less alone. It hurts, even more than the years of wondering why my birth mother abandoned me, why my parents loved Laurel more. It hurts because without this missing piece, I will never feel complete.
“Selfish!” I shriek, releasing another stone into the night air. “You’re . . . all . . . just . . . selfish!” My voice echoes around the canyon, bouncing back at me fainter and fainter until it’s gone.
Then my hands are empty. I stand there for a moment, my breath heaving, my fingers clenched. I could pick up more rocks. I could throw them all night.
But suddenly I think of Becky’s ravaged face, thin and tear-streaked, its faint resemblance to my own unmistakable. I remember the stricken look on my grandfather’s face as I screamed at him earlier
tonight. And the rage begins to seep out of me, like water from a sponge.
I am a long way from forgiving them. But maybe, just maybe, they’ve already punished themselves enough for their mistakes. They’ve already suffered more than I would wish on any of them.
Something snaps in the bushes. I stop and listen, my heart pounding, but whatever it is goes silent. Some nocturnal creature on its way home, probably. Turning away from the cityscape, I sit on the bench
again, exhausted. I should start heading back down to the parking lot, and across the street to Nisha’s so I can make someone drive me home. But I don’t want to see any of my friends right now. They’re
always waiting for me to show the slightest sign of weakness. The only person I’d let see me when I’m vulnerable like this is Thayer.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Thayer’s number—I have no service out here, but I just want to look at his picture. It’s my favorite photo of him, gazing out over Wasson Peak. Thayer normally smirks for
the camera, and even though I love that signature cocky smile of his, I managed to take this picture before he realized it. This thoughtful, serious side of Thayer—this is who he is when he’s with me.
I sigh, looking at the picture and blinking back tears. I love Thayer. When we’re not fighting, we’re perfect together. We make each other stronger. The only thing that’s keeping us apart is the secrets we
’ve been hiding, the lies we’ve been telling. Thayer was the one who wanted to keep our relationship a secret. And I agreed. I didn’t want to hurt Garrett or Laurel or Madeline.
But I’m tired of lies. All our sneaking around is just as bad as the secrets my parents kept from me. We’ve hurt people, including each other. I’m not afraid of how real our love is, and I don’t care who
knows it.
I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp night air. I’m going to break up with Garrett and go public with Thayer. Garrett will be hurt, I know. His face will turn purple with rage, and he’ll say some mean
and ugly things. But isn’t it kinder, in the end, to rip off the bandage now? To stay with him any longer would be leading him on.
I open up an e-mail on my phone from our secret account and start to type, overcome by the sudden need to say all this, to get it down while the emotions are fresh and raw. Dear Thayer, I begin.
And then I keep writing. I tell him everything I’ve held back so long. That I’m ready to move on to the next stage of our relationship. That I love him. It all comes pouring out of me.
And then I hear another noise, another soft rustling in the bushes. I pause, my nerves singing. It doesn’t sound like an animal to me.
Someone is in the canyon with me.
“Hello?” I call. Maybe Becky came back to tell me more about my sister. Or maybe my dad came to pick me up.
But no one answers.
My blood picks up speed again, my pulse thudding in my ears. I save my draft and stand up from the bench, but I can’t see beyond the trees and boulders that circle the little clearing.
It could be Madeline—Thayer could have called her from the hospital. Maybe he asked her to come pick me up and she decided to mess with my head a little first, punish me for being out here with her brother.
I deserve it.
“Is anyone there? Say something,” I yell. I sound braver than I feel. “Come on, it’s late, I’m not in the mood for this shit.”
I take a few steps toward the source of the sound, willing myself not to look scared. Someone might be videotaping me from the trees. In the Lying Game, you never know when one of your friends is getting
footage of you looking like a moron, or setting you up for a fall. You’re always waiting for your comeuppance. It used to be fun. I used to crave that adrenaline rush, that feeling of being just a little out
of control. But that was back when we had an emergency brake. Before I destroyed it.
Just a few weeks earlier, I’d pretended to stall my car on the train tracks. It was a good prank. But during that stunt I’d done the unforgivable: I’d said, Cross my heart and hope to die, the phrase we