I rolled my eyes toward him and latched my hand with his.
Trent tried out the words. “Okay, I might be gay.”
That was far enough for one day.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“Understanding.”
I wished Trent had given Max and Gray and Gina that same opportunity to understand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Max stayed on the Jet Ski as I disembarked. His eyes were glazed over in thought and didn’t meet mine when I asked, “Can we talk later?”
“I’m sure we can. I’ll call.”
That response was better than I expected.
I zombied my way inside, wondering if this was how Trent felt in that moment before he told me about Callahan—as if he might lose me.
Even though it was lunchtime, I took a long, hot shower, Sharpied my scars—even Idaho and Nameless—and crawled into bed feeling worse than I had in a year. How in the hell had life ended up like this? This was why we’d all lied. We wanted to avoid this explosion, and destruction came all the same.
I slept on that thought until late in the afternoon, when my parents returned early from Pirates and Paintball. Drawers and doors slammed shut as Mom and Dad put away camping and food supplies. I listened for their whispers among the noises, but they weren’t talking. The crashing and banging sounds communicated enough. They were home . . . and angry.
Mom’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood hall floor, slapping toward my bedroom door like Godzilla. My doorknob turned.
“Sadie.”
Slam. She dropped my weekend bag on the floor and glared at me.
“What did you do?” she asked. Her voice pinched each word.
“I came home early.”
“No. What did you do to your face?”
I slowly lifted the covers over my mouth and then over my whole head, remembering the Sharpie session I’d done before I’d fallen asleep. There was no explanation.
Mom walked over to the bed and sat down. “Baby, what’s going on?”
I had a one-word answer. “Life.”
“I thought you were getting better,” she said, completely forlorn.
“I am better.”
She tugged the covers down, peeled my hands away from my face, and held on. “Honey, this doesn’t look better. This looks scary.”
“I am scary.”
She kissed me all over my face, like the Sharpie was a million boo-boos that needed her love. Over and over, with each kiss, she said, “Be okay,” as if they were prayers.
Maybe they were.
When she finished, she didn’t let go of my face. “Are you listening to me?”
She made sure I was.
“What you did today was rude and selfish. Leaving in the middle of the weekend. Not even telling us why. You left us to pick up your campground site and get your bag. You ignored my texts.” She growled, and then sighed deeply. “Your father and I were . . . I don’t know what we were, but this”—she squeezed my cheeks and softened her voice—“needs to be addressed first.”
She stood up and left. When she returned, she had a package of alcohol wipes. Very carefully, in neat, gentle strokes, she cleaned the Sharpie off my face. I pushed up my sleeve for her to see Tennessee.
She cleaned it, too.
I lifted the covers, and let her see Pink Floyd.
There was so much sadness as she scrubbed away the damage I’d done to myself. In a quiet tone, as she threw away the supplies, she said, “I’m calling Dr. Glasson.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Where are your Sharpies?” she asked, as if they were drugs.
“In my drawer. The one beside my bed.”
Mom slipped both markers into her pocket and walked toward the hall. When she closed my door behind her, she opened it again immediately. “I love you,” she said fiercely.
Mom threw those sweet words at me, and I snatched them out of the air and tucked them to my chest.
“I love you too,” I echoed back.