Chapter 8
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
Charlie
Ryan: Hey. Something came up. I can’t go out tonight.
Me: That sucks. Is everything alright?
Ryan: Yeah. Just family drama.
Me: Okay. Call me later?
Me: Ryan?
Me: Ryan?
Ryan: Yeah. Sure.
He didn’t call. I waited around all night for him to call and he never did.
Now, I’m supposed to be having lunch with Stella, but all I can do is obsess over the potential reasons he never called.
Am I making too big of a deal out of it?
Maybe he did have some serious family issues to deal with and didn’t have time.
But that text? It wasn’t right. Not to mention that it’s noon, and he still has not called or texted.
“Charlie?” Stella asks, snapping me out of my inner turmoil.
“Yeah?”
“What do you think?”
I haven’t got a clue what she was talking about, so I go with a generic, “Yeah. Sounds good,” and pray I didn’t bargain away my firstborn or something.
“Really?” Stella says, cocking a delicate brow. “I had no idea you were such a firm supporter of flat earthers.”
Shit. I’m caught. I don’t even try to refute it. I just sigh and sink further into the bench seat. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
The spicy scents of capicola and salami wafting off my untouched Italian sub are beginning to make me gag. I shove the sandwich across the table toward Stella, rest my forearms on the tabletop and try my best to give her my full attention.
She sighs. “I was just complaining about Jacob and Emma again. Same old, same old.” I give my friend a sympathetic look.
For all my problems with Ryan, at least I’m not forced to watch him with another girl.
That’s got to be its own special kind of torture.
Stella takes my sub and starts wrapping it back up.
“Are you going to tell me what’s eating you, or am I going to have to guess? ”
“I’m probably overreacting,” I say, eyes trained on the hangnail I’m picking, so I don’t have to meet Stella’s gaze.
Stella sets the wrapped sub aside and picks up the sloppiest Ruben I’ve ever seen. “Alright. Well, why don’t you tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if you’re overreacting.” She takes a massive bite of her sandwich, and I watch as half of it spills out onto her plate. “Oops,” she deadpans.
I can’t help but smile a little. It’s not so much that I mind Stella knowing what’s bothering me.
I just really don’t want to talk about it.
Maybe because it’ll make it too real? I don’t know.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t even realize I’m chewing the inside of my cheek until I’m hit with a flash of pain and the coppery taste of blood.
And now, I’m committing self-mutilation. Fabulous.
I quickly release the bit of flesh and soothe it with my tongue. “Ryan and I were supposed to go out last night, but he canceled last minute. He said he’d call, but he never did, and now I’m worried I did something wrong.”
“Why do you think you did something?”
“I don’t know. It just feels like something is off.
” I take out my phone and open my texts to Ryan’s number.
Holding the phone out to her, I say, “This was the last text he sent me. I waited over an hour between each of those later texts. He never takes that long to write me back. I’ve just got a bad feeling. ”
Stella wipes her greasy fingers on a napkin and takes the proffered phone.
Her lips press into a thin, white line as she reads our conversation.
She scrolls through our other texts, her brows drawing closer and closer together as she reads.
“It does seem a little odd. But it’s possible he just got busy with whatever was going on.
Why don’t you try texting him again and see how he responds? ”
I’m biting the inside of my cheek again. “What do I say?”
“Go with the truth,” she says through a mouthful of sauerkraut and pastrami. She chews and swallows before continuing. “Say you hadn’t heard from him and ask how he’s doing. I bet he just got caught up in some family issue and forgot to call.”
I don’t actually believe her, but I take back my phone and text him, anyway.
Me: Hey. Haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?
I set the phone down between us on the table and clasp my hands together.
Stella continues stuffing her face and making an enormous mess—the girl must have used twenty napkins—while I watch my phone like it’s a snake ready to strike.
We’re only watching a few minutes before the talk bubble pops up on the screen to show he’s replying.
“See. That didn’t take too long,” Stella says.
I nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing.
The bubble disappears and we lock eyes.
“Stop reading into it,” Stella says.
I blow out a breath and sit up straight. It’s fine. He’s just taking his time to say the perfect thing. The bubble comes back up but almost immediately disappears again, and I wilt back into my seat.
It pops up again and I’m about to start spewing every curse word in my very extensive vocabulary when a message finally comes through.
Ryan: Yes.
All that writing and I get a single-word answer. I toss my napkin down on the table. “Well, that answers that.”
I start to slide out of my seat, but Stella grabs me by the wrist to stop me. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
I purse my lips and give her a hard stare.
“Okay. I admit, it doesn’t look great, but running off to confront him probably isn’t the best way to go. Let’s think this out, logically.”
I tug my wrist free and get to my feet. “Screw logic. If he doesn’t want to see me anymore, he needs to stop being a giant puss and tell me to my face.” I grab my purse and phone, spin around and head for the door.
This is a terrible idea. Actually, this might be at the top of my list of terrible ideas—and that list is long and varied.
Like the time I told Claudia Santa kept her presents hidden on the roof.
Or when I found an old phone in our attic and thought it would work if I stuffed the exposed wires in an electrical socket.
(Hey, I was four. Blame that on poor parental supervision.) Even worse than the time I decided to play-act smoking, while sitting on my bed, with a rolled-up napkin and lighter.
Oh, and when I took the old MG my dad had been fixing up for a joyride, not knowing he hadn’t finished screwing on the muffler.
Let’s just say, I can be a bit impulsive at times. So, given my history of bad spur-of-the-moment decisions, I should probably take a few hours (or days) to fully consider the ramifications of my actions. But then I wouldn’t be me now, would I?
I open the van door and step down into the parking lot.
It’s probably ninety degrees outside, which is bad enough, but with the heat radiating off the asphalt, it’s like I’ve walked into an oven.
My stomach churns with nerves, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other until I come to a stop at the glass door leading into the shop.
The sign says it’s open, so I let myself in.
A bell chimes over my head as I enter, and I only have to wait about thirty seconds for Ryan to step through the door in the back of the room.
He’s busy looking at a clipboard, so he doesn’t notice me at first. When he lifts his head to greet me, his chest goes still.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he parrots. Setting down the clipboard, Ryan steps around the counter, but he stops short, leaving something like twenty feet between us.
He can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands.
First, he crosses his arms, then drops them to his side, on his hips, in his pockets, and all the while, he’s rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet like a little boy.
It would be cute if it weren’t for what his nervous behavior signifies.
We just stand there a while, looking at each other, and it’s so fucking confusing because even though he’s undoubtedly blowing me off, I swear I can see longing in his eyes. “Uh… Hi,” he says again, ending our standoff.
I clasp my hands into fists and spit the words out before I chicken out. “What’s going on, Ryan?”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his lips pressed into an angry line, incongruous to the devastation coloring his eyes. Then his gaze drops to the floor, and I know we’re finished. “I’m… Uh… I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Maybe it’s that there are too many emotions pummeling me too quickly for any single one to stick, or I’m in shock or just straight-up denial, but when I finally find my voice, it comes out cold and flat, “Why?”
He blinks, like my question caught him off guard, but recovers quickly. Squaring his shoulders, he looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I don’t think we’re right for each other.”
It’s a lie. I don’t know how I know, but I’m sure of it. Someone doesn’t do a one-eighty like this for no reason. I take a deep breath, squashing the sadness crushing my heart like a vice, and settle into my anger. “Bullshit,” I say. “Tell me the truth, Ryan.”
“That is the truth.”
“Please,” I say, crossing my arms to hide my shaking hands. “That’s the lamest brush-off in the book. You might as well have said, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”
He blows out a breath and turns toward the countertop, his hands gripping the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “What do you want me to say, Charlie? We’re too different. You’re from a nice, middle-class family and I’m… me. It’ll never work.”
“You didn’t think that a couple of days ago.”
“Well, I was wrong,” he says, his voice turning hard, angry.
“Look at me,” I say. Ryan’s head swivels to face me, but his gaze continues to flit between me and the floor. It’s enough to see the glassiness building in his eyes. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”
Nostrils flaring, he slams his fist on the counter and shouts, “I don’t want to see you anymore. Jesus Christ, Charlie, isn’t that enough?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he tears around the counter and through the back door, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the wall.
In his wake, all that is left is an oppressive silence closing in around me.
I try to hold on to the anger. It’s so much easier to manage than sadness, but it slips away as quickly as it appeared.
My chest aches like someone played whack-a-mole with my heart, and I rub it absently with the heel of my palm, knowing it will do nothing to ease the hurt.
I straighten my spine, blink back the tears in my eyes and head for the door.
The sweltering heat hits me like an anvil the moment I step outside.
Legs wobbling like a newborn fawn, I make my way across the lot, climb inside my mom’s van and shut the door.
Then I burst into tears.