“Matt,” she says, and I’m like, “Hey, hello.”
We look at each other for a long second, and my eyes brush over the smattering of freckles on the tops of her cheeks and the stubborn point of her chin, and in the breeze, wisps of her hair drift across her face, and she tucks them behind her ears with fingers whose nails are painted bright gold, and I say, “Um,” and she says, “Did . . . yesterday, did—” and I break in with the first thing that comes to mind, trying not to sound too panicked: “Me and Burke are smoking under the bleachers. Do you want to join?” and she says, “I don’t smoke. Thanks, though,” and I’m like, “Right, yeah, you don’t seem like you would,” and she’s like, “Aren’t you worried you’ll get caught out there?” and I’m like, “Nah, it’s a ghost town—only people I saw are, like, Lucas and his boyfriend or whatever,” and the second it comes out of my mouth, I freeze, because he explicitly asked me not to say a word.
And the look on Olivia’s face. Her eyes—those bright, oceanic universes—are wide and disbelieving. “What?” she says. “His—his boyfriend?” and I’m like, “No, it—” and she’s like, “Holy shit,” and I’m like, “No, he told me not to say—don’t tell anyone, Olivia, please?” and she backs up from me. “I have to find Claire,” she says, and I start to call her back, but she’s already disappearing back toward the main building.
“Shit,” I say, “shit, shit,” and I turn, staring back down the path to the trailers. I have to do something. What is there to do? Why am I so fucking stupid?
Heavy iron shame pushes down on my chest, depressing my rib cage inch by inch, and I want to shrivel up and hide from my panic, but instead I yank out my phone and text Burke. Dude I messed up I messed up
He’s a fast texter, as always: Orly?
Yeah I think I sort of accidentally outed someone, like from the closet.
????? Why would you do that though…………
It was an accident!
He takes a while to reply. Well say it was you, they deserve to know it’s your fault! Seriously, Matt, what in the hell I leave you alone for like 5 minutes
I told you. Accident. Plus I’m so high
Dude that is a hilariously bad excuse, I was high during my last calc test and I nailed that shit so you got no license to pin it on that
Sorry
Bro don’t apologize to me! You think it’s my place to say it’s fine?
I tuck my phone away and head back down toward the trailers.
Valentine’s already gone when I reach the bottom of the hill, and Lucas is folding his lunch bag into the overflowing trash can. When he sees me approaching, he brightens. “Hey, Matt,” he says, and as he meets my eyes, nervousness tremors through me. “Lucas, hey,” I say, and every instinct I have screams at me not to admit this, but I fold my arms and think, You’re a coward, Matt, and with a deep breath, I say, “Look, dude, I’ve got to tell you something,” and he says, “Sure, what’s up?”
“Look, I, uh, I fucked up. I just, I was talking to someone and I—it sort of fell out that you . . . that you’re not straight.”
For a second he looks confused, and his confusion makes the lump of guilt in my chest ache. Then the perpetual smile leaks off his face, sliding away like water downhill, and without it, he looks like a different person, no curved lines in his cheeks, his brown eyes blank and serious. He says quietly, “But why would you do that?” and suddenly I don’t want to ever smoke again or give myself any opportunity to screw up someone else’s life with my own carelessness, and any excuse I had evaporates from my mind, and I can’t think of anything to say except, “I don’t know, dude. I saw you and Valentine, and it was on the top of my mind, and I—”
Lucas frowns. “Saw me and Valentine? What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you two—weren’t you just—?”
“But it’s not like that,” he says. “Crap. Did you say anything about Valentine?” and I say, “No,” and he says, “Thank goodness. He’d hate that, I think.”
He’s quiet for a long minute, and I can see the smile trying to hoist itself back onto his face, his lips twitching bravely, but it doesn’t make it. “What am I going to do?” he says, and thoughts churn in my head, sluggish with guilt. “If anyone says anything to you,” I say, “I’ll beat the hell out of them,” and he says, “I appreciate the thought, but, um, I’m more than capable of punching anyone who’s being a douche canoe.”
“Okay,” I say. “Um, I—I told Olivia not to tell anyone else,” and he says, “Olivia Scott?” and I nod, and his remaining composure fractures, his eyes widening and his lips slackening, and he says, “She’s going to tell Claire.”
I search for words, but he says, “Later, man,” and he strides up the path, gripping the straps of his backpack so tightly that all the color drains from his knuckles. I stand there looking after him with the feeling that—just like that, in one careless moment—I might’ve ruined somebody’s life.