“What?” I shake my head. “Wouldn’t that be weird?”
You shrug. “I mean, if you’re not hiding anything, what does it matter?”
I sit there, quiet. Thinking. I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t feel right.
You rest a hand on my knee. “I just want to be as close to you as possible.”
Some of the fear inside me melts away. You love me. You want to know me inside out, just like I want to know you inside out. But still. I can’t shake the wrongness of the question—that you even asked it.
“I know,” I say. “But … it’s my diary.”
You frown. “I read you my poems, my songs. That’s like my diary.”
That’s true. Except you get to choose which ones you read to me. My diary—I don’t leave anything out. The whole mess of me is in there. Matt’s in there. You already hate him, hate that I’m working with my ex and that he gets to see me more than you.
“I trust you—why don’t you trust me?” you say.
“I do.”
“I just … can’t be with anyone that isn’t up-front with me. Summer … she had a lot of secrets.”
Summer is the magic word. I think you know this. I don’t ever want you to think I’m like the girl who pushed you toward suicide. I see it that way now—as though you slitting your wrists were somehow her fault. I’m not like her. I’ll keep you safe. You’ll keep me safe.
So I cave.
I read you parts of my diary the next day. You’re sitting on the hood of your car and I stand in front of you, your arms around my waist. After several entries, your hands drop away. You’re angry—why? I left out the Matt parts, like when I kinda wanted to kiss him when he had flour on his nose that one time. So what is there to be mad about?
“I know you’re skipping parts,” you say. You reach for the diary. “Come on, let me read it.”
You’re right—I have stuff I’m hiding. Entries where I wonder if you’re really the one. Entries that list your faults. Like, I think it’s really dumb you’re super into He-Man. You have the figurines from the eighties and you and the guys are always all I have the power! But maybe that bugs me because you once said I’m not as hot as He-Man’s sister, She-Ra. I’m sure you were joking, but still. Stupid little nitpicky things like that.
If I don’t give you this diary, you’ll know I’m hiding something. And you’ll force it out of me. You asked me a few weeks ago if I’d ever masturbated and I lied, but you could see the lie all over my face. You pushed me to tell you how I do it, what I think about.
You better only think of me, you said. You weren’t teasing—sometimes I think you’d set up security cameras in my mind if you could.
I hand you the diary. But I’m strategic. I flip to a page where it says how much I love you, how maybe we might get married someday. This is the truth and I want you to know it.
After you’re done reading the entry, you pull me closer. You’re beaming.
“See,” you whisper, your lips brushing my hair, my neck. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“No,” I say, relieved. “It wasn’t.”
I never write in my diary again.
SIXTEEN
I like that you tell me your secrets. Sometimes you get so sad you can’t stand it. And you don’t know why you feel this way and you’re terrified your parents will find out. They watch me all the time, you say. Every word, everything I do—it’s like they’re analyzing it. They think I’ll … that I’ll try to hurt myself again.
You confess that the sadness is eating you alive. That the only thing that’s saving you is music … and me. Me.
“Do you ever feel so trapped you can hardly breathe?” I ask you one afternoon. We’re at your house, pretending to do homework but really just kissing every moment your mom isn’t in the room.
“All the time,” you say. “I mean, I love my parents, but this town, this life—it’s their version of heaven. I just totally don’t get that.”
“I know—Nat and Lys are the same way,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in this entire school who actually has a dream. Like, a big dream.”
Nat and Lys have dreams, sure. But they’re human-sized. Nat wants to be a nurse, Lys wants to be a psychologist.
“Which is…”
“Bohemian starving artist,” I say immediately.
“Ha! You would say that.”
I swat at your arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hmmm … let me think,” you say, rubbing your chin. “Remind me—how many times have you seen Moulin Rouge?”
“Well, okay. But even you have to admit that would be a cool life.”
“Grace, are you telling me your life goal is to be a whore dying of consumption?”
I will not be swayed.
“If that’s the only way I can live in Belle Epoque Paris, then yes, yes I do want to be a whore dying of consumption.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come join me,” I say. “You can die of syphilis—it’ll be so much fun!”
You laugh, shaking your head. Your fedora topples to the ground and you pick it up as you turn to an imaginary audience and gesture to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.” You reach up and brush your finger against my cheek, smiling that soft smile that’s just for me. “I need you. You’re the only good part of my day, you know that?”
I bat your hand away, blushing. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
You take my hands and lean closer. “You’re so good at this.”
“At what?”
“Dealing with me.”
“Gav, I don’t deal with you. You’re…” I bite my lip.
“God, I love when you do that,” you say.
“Do what?”
You shake your head. “I’m not telling you—you’ll get self-conscious and you won’t do it anymore and then what am I supposed to daydream about in class?”
Lines, these fucking lines of yours—why can’t I see that they’re all too perfect? How would things have turned out differently if I hadn’t fallen for every single one of them?
“So. I have some news,” you say. “I’ve actually had it for a while, like over a month, but I’ve had to do a lot of thinking, so … yeah.”
My stomach tightens. “College news?”
You nod. I try to smile. I knew this was coming. We both did.
“Okay,” I say, quiet.
“Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not.”
You gently push me. “Liar.”
“Okay. I’m a little sad. Maybe a lot sad. Just tell me and get it over with.”
“I’m not going to UCLA.”
I stare at you. “What? How could they have not chosen you?”
You shrug. “Their loss.”
I feel so guilty for being happy.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I thought you might like to know that I’m staying here. Going to State.”
I blink. “But you’re supposed to move to LA and be a rock star and forget all about me.”
You lean your forehead against mine. “First, I could never forget about you.”
“Once you have groupies you could.”
You laugh and brush my lips. “You’re the only groupie I need.”
“I’m trying really hard not to be happy about this,” I say.
“Why? Were you planning on breaking up with me in September?” you tease.