In Too Deep Read online

  Today, Nick doesn’t come over to my house. At five, after I know his student council meeting is over, I sit on the edge of my bed and just stare at his window. So close, yet so far away. My heart pounds harder with each passing minute. It was easier to imagine telling him when it was hours away, but now, it seems nearly impossible to think of sitting in front of him and telling him that the truth I made him believe about Carter wasn’t truth at all.

  Finally, the rumbling of his Mustang sounds in the distance, growing louder as he glides down the road, pulls into his driveway. All I can see through the tinted window are his hands gripping the wheel. He doesn’t move for a long moment and I want to know what his expression is. He never sits in his car like that. He bounds out with that off-kilter gait of his, across the lawn, and up the steps to his house. I imagine he’s scowling, upset about what he thinks happened to me.

  I really have to go over there and confess it all.

  Just the thought of it sends my insides into a flurry

  of knots.

  Finally, his hands disappear, the driver’s side door swings open, and he’s standing. He shields his eyes from the spring sun and looks right at me. I just lean on my elbow and meet his gaze. He lifts his eyebrows toward his bedroom and then wiggles his finger. I nod and disappear back into my room, to throw on my slippers and scramble down the steps.

  I have to tell him. I will tell him. Now. Immediately.

  I slip outside and in hardly a second, I’m standing in front of him.

  Nick stands there, chewing on his lip, blinking, staring back at me for a long stretch of a moment. “You still doing okay?”

  I nod.

  “Want to watch a movie?”

  I nod again. He slings an arm loosely around

  my shoulders and guides me over to their cedar porch, all the cute little geraniums pots just beginning to bloom. Our porch is desolate and empty, like the rest of the house. I have the sudden urge to steal a pot and bring it to

  my house.

  It would die, if I did.

  Inside, we kick off our shoes and he pulls me up the stairs. I try not to fixate on every spot where our skin touches, every time our arms or hips bump, but it’s impossible. Three kisses, and it’s like we were never just friends. It’s like we’ve always been what I wanted us to be. But does it matter? I have to tell him the truth about Carter, and what if he doesn’t forgive me?

  Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s unforgiveable. My heart lurches. I don’t know if I could handle that. I need Nick to understand that I’m not a bad person, that I didn’t run out and create this lie.

  We make it up to his room, and he clicks the door shut—his parents never made any rules about girls coming over because Nick’s too perfect in their eyes; he can do no wrong. As soon as it’s closed, Nick spins around, enveloping me in a hug, holding me against his chest.

  “Are you really doing okay? I’m worried about you. It’s like you’re pretending it didn’t happen or something. Faking normal and hoping it’s true.”

  That same haunting guilt sears through me.

  No, I’m not doing okay. And no, it’s not what you think it is.

  I clench my jaw and swallow, wishing I could just tell him right now, with him holding me up against him, when I can’t see his eyes. But I just breathe deeply and remember the smell of him this close, close my eyes and feel the comforting weight of his arms around me, and I’m scared. Terrified.

  I’m scared of losing this before I ever really had it. I’m scared that after months and months of pining for him, he could turn his back on me, go away to Yale, and never look back.

  I’m scared of losing the only person who has ever been there for me. And so all I do is nod and try to memorize exactly how this feels, because I know without a doubt he’ll leave me.

  He kisses the top of my head and then slips his arms from my shoulders. He goes to the TV and flips through his stack of DVDs, holding two out. “Comedy or drama?”

  “Comedy.” Something stupid and mindless is exactly what I need. I perch on the edge of the bed and pick a few pieces of lint off of his suede bedspread. My toes bury themselves into the deep-pile, cream-colored area rug at the foot of the bed. I stare at Nick’s backside as he steps backward, a remote in hand and aimed at the DVD player. The screen pops up and he clicks “play.” I expect him to sit down next to me, but he goes to the door first and flips off the light switch. My stomach lurches.

  It’s still bright in the room, so Nick slides the drapes shut, and my stomach lunges again. Have we watched movies in the dark before? All of the sudden I can’t remember. I want the answer to be no.

  When he sits down next to me, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes on the screen and not the tiny shred of space between our thighs, just a tiny little patch of green quilt. My muscles tense and I want to close that distance, feel the heat of his body through my jeans.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my legs hanging down, my back stiff as a board. When Nick scoots back to prop himself up on the pillows, I go rigid, stay frozen at the edge of the bed.

  “Uh, are you going to sit like that through the whole movie? Your big head is kind of blocking the TV.”

  Half my nerves flood out at Nick’s words. So like our normal conversations. So … Nick. Something hits me and I turn around to see his goofy half-smile. I pick up the pillow and roll my eyes. “No.”

  I scoot back until I’m propped up on at least three pillows. How have I never noticed how small this bed is? How our knees and elbows touch?

  I shift around, trying to get comfortable, wanting to scoot closer to him and further away at the same time. Is it just me or is he leaning slightly toward me?

  God, I’m losing it. Why is it a big deal if Nick leans toward me? This isn’t a freakin’ date.

  Is it?

  I blink several times and stare at the poster that hangs over the top of the TV. The same poster I’ve seen a thousand times before. This is Nick. Why am I freaking out like this? He’s my best friend. I’ve seen him go skinny dipping. Okay, so I covered my eyes mostly, but I saw skin. He tried to convince me to go too but I chickened out, just like I’m sure he expected me to.

  Now I wish I hadn’t chickened out.

  Our arms are definitely touching now. The hairs on mine stand up. I breathe as normally as possible but I swear my lungs aren’t quite filling up.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out on you yesterday,” he says.

  I wave my hand. “Water under the bridge,” I say.

  Now. I should tell him right now what really happened.

  “No, you didn’t deserve that. I just … panicked. And I made you cry. And with what you’re dealing with, you need someone to be there, not yell at you. I just feel so guilty … ”

  “It wasn’t you. It was my whole day. I was so confused when I got to school … ” I take in a deep breath. I need to just lay it all out there. “People were staring and I didn’t understand why, what they were all talking about, and then I overheard these girls in the bathroom and realized everyone was saying Carter … ” My voice breaks and I can’t seem to say the words. I don’t think I ever have said them, which I suppose is the ironic part, right? That I can’t even say the words and everyone else has no problem?

  I feel smothered by it all. Smashed and weighted down by the lie. Half of me wants to tell the truth and end it all, but the other half wants to keep it going, act as though nothing is wrong at all. I’m eaten up inside.

  I sit up in bed and chew harder on my lip. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I mean, it’s not like I went out and told people he did that. You know that, right?”

  Nick sits up next to me, takes my chin between his thumb and finger, and turns me to look at him, his eyes boring into me. For a long second, I wonder if he can see the truth in my eyes. I half expect him to jerk away and call me a liar. “Of course I know that. No one ever wants something like this to happen.”

  I groan inwardly, breaking our eye c
ontact and looking down at my fingers as I twist and wrench them together. He’s not understanding what I’m trying to say. What I need to say.

  Nick clears his throat, twisting a few strands of my hair between his fingers, and I close my eyes and memorize the feel of it. We’re so close, our skin inches apart. What if I tell him, and I never feel it again? What if he’s disgusted by me?

  “I need to tell you something,” Nick says.

  “Me too,” I blurt. Panic and fear swell immediately. “I mean, uh, you. You can go first.”

  He lets go of a long sigh, drops his hand so that he’s not touching me any more. “Reyna gave me an ultimatum.”

  I blink. I was not expecting that. “Huh?”

  “Before we broke up. She said it was her or you.”

  “You told me she didn’t like you talking about me

  so much.”

  “Well, it was more than that. She could tell I wanted to be more than friends with you. She said I had to stop seeing either you or her, because she wasn’t going to play second best.”

  My jaw no longer seems to work. I’m just staring at him, lips parted. Even Reyna knew he liked me? How could she see it when I didn’t?

  “It’s funny, really,” he says.

  “What is?”

  “That she noticed it before I did. How strongly I felt about you. I mean, I knew, I guess, but I was afraid to ruin our friendship. I was afraid you didn’t feel that way. So I was trying to talk myself out of it. But she could see through it.”

  His fingers stop stroking my skin. “And now I hate myself because I should have acted on it a month ago, when we broke up. When I realized she was right. I could have been there for you on Friday—I could have stopped that from happening. But I was too busy sulking in the game room, picturing you with Carter.”

  He smiles a soft, sad smile. “I’m going to hate myself forever for that, you know? I should have protected you.”

  The silence hangs over us like a too-heavy veil, and I’m suffocated by it.

  He feels guilty. That he didn’t stop something that didn’t happen.

  My stomach is like a bowling ball, heavy and uncomfortable, and I shift around on the bed, but it doesn’t go away. I have to tell Nick the truth. I have to.

  He clears his throat. “Anyway, what did you want

  to say?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you had something to confess too.”

  I blink. “Oh.”

  My lips tremble as I try to force the words out through the wedge in my throat. What if I lose him before I ever really had him?

  I can’t. I can’t lose him, not now. He’s the only one in my life who has ever really mattered.

  “Uh, I forgot.”

  “Oh.”

  Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  Twelve

  After the movie, I’m back at home, curled up in my chair with the same blank notebook, feeling lower than ever. I’ve put it off for another day. How could I have told him, though? When he chose me over beautiful, exotic Reyna?

  I could never be what she is: pretty and outgoing. I’m always going to be stuck in this too-skinny body with too-frizzy curls and too-narrow eyes. I don’t deserve him. Our friendship is strong; it could survive a lot. But I don’t know if it could survive this. Nick would never let me ruin Carter like I am and then just … forgive me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t tell him. Maybe I shouldn’t tell

  anyone.

  I close my eyes and heave a deep breath. Of course I will tell the truth.

  I pick up a pen and lean forward, staring at the doodles and blank lines on the pages of the notebook.

  Words used to come easily to me. Even before I knew I wanted to be a writer for a living, I was already a writer. The words would flow the second I put the pen on the paper.

  But tonight …

  Nothing happens. I’m empty of words, of stories, of anything. I’m as empty as the page in front of me. I groan and throw the pen across the room. How can I be a professional writer when … I can’t seem to write?

  I click on my Facebook bookmark, glancing up at the calendar pinned over my desk. Four days until graduation. Four days until I tell my dad where I’m going to college.

  When I look back at the screen, I can’t help but recoil, sit way back in my chair. My whole page is filled with messages, and a bubble tells me I have seven private messages, too.

  Tracey: *Hugs*. Hope you’re okay.

  Vic: You’re a fucking liar.

  Vic is Carter’s co-captain for the basketball team. I hit the X and delete his comment.

  Britney: OMG!! I know we haven’t talked forever but I hope you’re okay!

  Mindy: My thoughts are with you …

  The glory of living in a town with a graduating class of forty-five. We all know each other, and Facebook is pretty much auto-friending. The cheerleaders don’t talk to me, but they don’t mind sending me friend requests.

  Brent: I meant what I said.

  The guy who grabbed me in the courtyard. Carter’s best friend. My stomach clenches as I delete his comment. He wasn’t in the room. He doesn’t know what really happened.

  But he’s right.

  I start deleting them all, without reading them. Half the school wants to give me virtual hugs and the other half wants to bash me, and none of them are my friends anyway. Most of these people haven’t spoken two words to me in months, unless it was some part of a school assignment.

  The only one who is my friend is the one whose window stares right at mine—but it doesn’t matter, because the truth will tear us apart.

  I open my private message box and start deleting those, too. But then I see one I am afraid to click on.

  Who the hell do you think you are? is the subject line. And it’s from Carter. It arrived this morning.

  My mouse hovers over the X. I should just delete it. There is nothing in that message that could be good. Carter has to be completely and totally enraged right now, thinking I made up the lies on purpose. Spread them as some kind of revenge.

  But maybe I can reply. Explain. I’ll apologize and tell him that I never said he did it. That people saw me and just jumped to conclusions. I’ll tell him how I’m going to fix it.

  So I click on the message.

  You fucking bitch. I let you in my house and this is how you repay me? By LYING? You’re going to tell everyone the truth. Or your life will be miserable—I promise you that. Today was just a taste of what’s to come if you don’t undo this.

  I sit back and blink rapidly, rereading the message over and over.

  What will he do if I see him in person? How can I go to school again without making it abundantly clear I never meant for this to happen? I pull my legs up into the chair with me and rest my chin on my knees, staring blankly at the screen, wishing I would have just told everyone the truth as soon as I heard those two girls in the bathroom.

  I go back to my main page. Click on the little status-update box. With shaky fingers, I start typing.

  LISTEN UP: Carter didn’t do anything wrong. I never said he raped me. Someone misunderstood things and spread a lie. CARTER DIDN’T DO IT.

  I should have thought of this sooner. Tell the truth without facing anyone. Then I’ll stay home tomorrow, make sure the truth has enough time to make the rounds. By the time I go to school again, it’ll be old news. This whole thing will just … go away. I grab the mouse and move it to the “submit” button.

  I stop short of clicking it, the arrow simply hovering right over “submit.” What will Nick do if he finds out this way?

  But I have to do it, and all I keep doing is putting it off. I’ll post this here right now, and that will force me to walk back over to his house and spill the truth before he sees it here and it’s worse. This is my guarantee—once I’ve posted it here, I can’t back out of telling the truth.

  My finger trembles as I move it to the button.

  A bubble pops up in the corner of the scre
en. An instant message.

  Listen, skank.

  I jerk back so fast my chair rolls away from the desk, and I have to scoot forward again and lean in to see the message. It’s Carter. His golden hair beams at me from his tiny little user-icon, that same perfect smile spanning from ear to ear, showing off his flawless teeth.

  My life is hell right now because of what you’ve done. Fix it now or I’ll fix it for you, and it won’t be pretty.

  Whoa.

  YOU threw yourself at ME, and I didn’t want you, or don’t you remember that part?

  I swallow. I never threw myself at him. But I do remember his ugly sneer as he laughed at me, running his fingers through that perfect hair of his. I remember the cruel tone to his voice as he called me a two-bagger. I remember the gleam in his eyes, his arrogance unhidden.

  I slide my chair back, away from the computer, listening as the IM box beeps over and over as he floods my page with a flurry of angry comments. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

  The comments scroll by so fast I can’t read them, not that I’m trying.

  I picture that girl in the parking lot, her emerald eyes glimmering with tears as she recounted the way Carter mocked her, his group of goonies cackling right along with him. I think of Tracey, who gave him her virginity only to be dumped. I think of the way his eyes lingered on my upper thighs, that smirk on his lips, before he told me I was too ugly to get with. I think of the word “whore” emblazoned on my locker, for everyone to see.

  And then, as an overwhelming wave of fury overtakes me, I pull my chair closer to the desk and start typing.

  I didn’t do this to you. But you know what? You kinda deserve it.