I’m pretty sure that I can only live with one option.
“You don’t understand,” I tell Amber desperately. She looks at me with furrowed brows, a bit startled.
“What don’t I understand?”
“The ring isn’t—” Before I can finish, Amber’s phone trills with Dolly Parton singing “I Will Always Love You.” It’s way too loud for a hospital waiting room, and she quickly answers it before one of the nurses can complain.
“Hello?” she whispers into the phone, and then she motions at me. “It’s Talon.”
Amber’s latest boyfriend, Talon, is what we respectfully refer to as a stoner. Dirty Converse, weed, and skateboards are Talon’s whole life. Despite not being her usual type, at three months in, he is easily Amber’s longest relationship yet. For such a big romantic, Ambs is terrible at relationships. She’s great at getting into them, frequently obsessing over someone for weeks before finally asking them out (or getting them to ask her out). There’ll be the first two weeks of grand gestures and epic declarations and “I think he’s theone” before it all just…peters out. Surprisingly, Amber and Talon still appear to like each other right now, as she delves into a long, whispered conversation with him, repeating the whole story about the accident and the ring. Amber’s run-through is detailed, dramatic, and almost gleeful in the moments she forgets to be somber. My head spins suddenly, and I drop into the nearest seat to regain my balance.
“Wellapparentlysomeone else our age was in the accident, but I still haven’t heard if it was anyone we know.” Amber’s voice is stressing me out, so despite not feeling great, I push up and walk through the halls until I find a restroom far enough away to feel safe.
As I feared, I look like the cargo truck personally ran me over multiple times.
I tie my microbraids into a bun on the top of my head and clean up my smeared makeup. But I’m woozy, the way you are when you haven’t eaten in a while, and it trickles all the way down into my body until I feel like a shell of myself. Maybe I just need some sugar.
I splash cold water on my face to wake up.
Amber’s call with Talon has reminded me of exactly why I don’t want her to be the first person to hear about me and Jason. She’ll be sweet about it, comforting, but I know a part of her will just be dying to share it with someone. The news will be everywhere by the end of the night, and being the talk of the town because Jason broke up with me is the last thing I want.
God, I can picture it already. Everyone’s sympathy—faux kind smiles and condescending hand squeezes—or worse, diverted gazesand whispers, their quiet confirmation that I was never good enough for him.
Zadie Cartwright, Most Likely to Think She Was Better Than She Is.
I call Monique. I won’t get Amber’s softness from Mo, the empathy and determination to be on my sideno matter what. It’s the reason I’m far more likely to confide in Amber when I just need a sympathetic ear. That, and I’ve known Ambs way longer. Both my friends held me and cried with me when my dad died. Still, with Mo, I know I’ll get bluntness and possibly a talk about right versus wrong, aka why I need to fess up and tell the truth. But maybe Mo will understand why I lied about the ring after everything that has happened.
Mo’s phone rings and rings, but she doesn’t answer. Chances are, she is already safely tucked in bed, as per her grandparents’ wishes. Mo and her siblings spent years in foster care before being adopted by their grandparents four years ago when she moved to Sterlingwood. Mo is half-Jamaican and has all types of feelings about being saved by her white grandparents, but the fact that they all love each other is indisputable.
I decide to leave her a voice memo.
“Mo, it’s me. I need you to promise not to judge me for what I’m about to tell you.”
I’ve heard that confession is good for the soul, so I swallow my nerves and spill my guts in the note. About how Jason broke up with me, about how sad and confused I feel, about wanting to know why, and the lie I fed Amber about the ring. I’m just getting to the end when someone beats insistently on the door of the restroom.
“One second!” I say, squirting soap into the hand without a phone.
Knock knock knock.
“I said, one second!”
But when the pounding continues, I quickly end Mo’s message.
“I have to go, Mo. Some psycho won’t let me even wash my hands. Love you, bye.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“Oh my God, can I finish?” When I open the door, I’m shocked to see Marcus Riddick. Marcus with his lazy grin and his messy, shoulder-length dirty blond hair. He’s wearing a soccer shirt, but he’s paired it with jeans. It occurs to me that he was the only player on the Sterlingwood Silvers who didn’t show up to Jason’s room earlier.
“M&Msor Skittles?” Marcus says, apropos of nothing, smiling broadly at me. I tug at my sleeve when what I really want is to shut the door in his face. A long time ago, Marcus decided our “thing” was playing an everlasting game of This or That. I did not agree to any such thing, so I completely ignore his question.
“Did you get the time wrong?” I ask, and it comes out more snide than curious. His cousin is in a coma, and he can’t even be bothered to show up to see him on time.
My real concern is that I thought I was far enough from the ICU that none of Jason’s teammates or family would be around, but I don’t know how long Marcus has been standing out here. If there’s any justice in the world, Marcus cannot be the first person to know about me and Jason.
That sleepy smile stretches across his face now. “Something like that,” he says, voice gritty like he just woke up from a nap.
“Did you…How long have you been waiting?” I ask him, trying not to show my panic.
