just gone away. There was a picture of my face, circulating out there on the net.
Now more than ever, I had to try to be someone else.
Or flat-out disappear.
Fifteen minutes later, Hunter and I sat on the back of a wooden bench, our feet on the seat, our elbows on our thighs. As we sipped our coffees, I watched the waves roll in and thought about how carefree he’d appeared yesterday as he’d swum in them. Then in the distance, one of the military jets zoomed across the sky, and I hunched my shoulders, my mind reeling back to all the suffering Lucas had gone through because he’d befriended me. Even though he was okay now, the consequences he’d experienced were more than anyone should endure.
I crossed a line inside of myself and made a choice. I couldn’t put Hunter in danger any longer, and now that a police sketch of me was being broadcast online, we were in much too deep.
“So …” Staring hard at the horizon, gathering my resolve, I cleared my throat. “I figure you can just drop me off at the bus station.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him snap his head around, his brow furrowed. “What?”
I forced myself to look at him, to keep my voice and gaze steady. “Look, I don’t know anything about this man or how he might react to me showing up on his doorstep. He could be really pissed that I tracked him down. Besides, there’s no point in you giving up your fall break for what might turn out to be another wild goose chase.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
I was relieved by his acceptance, but disappointed at the same time.
“It’d be way more fun sitting in my room playing video games.” Then I heard it, the sarcasm in his voice. “Come on, Mila. I don’t have anything better to do. And if this guy does turn out to be a jerk, you don’t want to be by yourself.”
I shook my head. “I can’t ask this of you. I can’t be that selfish.”
“Why do I get the feeling that there’s more to it than that? Are you upset about this morning, about the kiss that didn’t happen?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
I finished off my coffee and looked at a nearby trash can. Calculations of distance, angle, velocity, and wind speed flashed through my mind before I tossed my empty coffee cup—perfect shot, no rim.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Talk about a loaded question. I fiddled with my hands in my lap, with the fraying fabric of my jeans. Waiting for the words to come. “Look, Hunter, I …”
My throat tightened, trapping the rest of the sentence inside. I pictured the horrified look on his face when I answered him honestly. Him backing away in disgust.
I coughed and tried again. “Here’s the thing …”
I closed my mouth without finishing my thought and Hunter’s eyes glazed over, like his mind was suddenly someplace else. The bench creaked as he vaulted off it, tossing his cup into the trash can at the same time. He headed toward the waves.
I guess he was fed up with me.
“Hunter,” I whispered into the stillness, but of course he couldn’t hear me.
The space inside my chest shrank, or at least it seemed that way. Because all of a sudden, this enormous pressure smashed and shoved at my synthetic heart, my stomach, everything, until it felt like they were flattened, distorted into much smaller shapes. Should I go talk to him? I wondered, as I watched him pace back and forth at the water’s edge, kicking up sand with his steps. Or should I just leave, make my way to the bus station on my own? Or maybe—and here was a timely thought—maybe I should never have called him in the first place.
The cramp in my chest intensified as I slid off the bench and my shoes sank into the warm sand. I walked over to where Hunter now stood with his arms at his sides, just staring into the dark blue water beyond. I reached for his closest hand, and laced my fingers with his. But even though we were touching, I felt his distance. It was like a Grand Canyon of distrust was forming between us, and it was all my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “It’s not that I don’t want you to come with me.”
That was the truth.
“Then why won’t you let me?” he muttered.
One manufactured heartbeat. Two. By the time I got to three, I hoped I could give him an explanation, anything that might make this easier—for the both of us.
“I … if I told you, I don’t think you’d understand.”
Hunter had traveled across multiple states at the drop of a hat to help me, and yet this was all I could bring myself to say.
When he didn’t reply, I started to pull my hand away, but then I felt him curl his fingers more tightly around mine and the panicky stomach-plunging-to-my-feet sensation that had taken over me a minute ago subsided.
I just didn’t want him to hate me.
A ragged sigh erupted from Hunter, and like we were somehow connected, the easing of his tension flowed into me, through our linked hands. He turned and he drank in my features like he could absorb every tiny line and curve. Read every lie.
His voice was barely audible over the sound of the ocean surf. “My dad walked out when I was nine. My mom got remarried when I was eleven.”
He dropped my hand and stuffed his own into his pockets, kicking at the sand beneath his feet. “You know how when some dads walk out, the mom makes up a story about why? Something nicer than what really happened?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not my mom. She and my stepdad don’t believe in sugarcoating. So when she thought I was old enough, she told me all about him. How he had a drug problem, got arrested. Went to jail and repeated the same mistakes again and again after he was paroled. Finally, he realized having a son cramped his style, so he stole her spare cash, her jewelry she’d inherited from her grandmother. Stole her wedding ring, which she took off every night to clean. Then he bailed.”
Oh my god. “Hunter, I’m so sorry. I had no id—”
But he held up his hand. “Let me finish. I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me. I’m telling you because—you’d think because of her being so honest, I wouldn’t want to find him, right? Wouldn’t want to get to know him? I mean, what kind of kid would want an asshole like that in his life? But I do. I feel like something is missing—like, how can I know myself if I don’t know my dad? Even if he’s a total douchebag.”
He gazed off into the distance again. His next words were so soft, even my superior auditory functions had to work overtime so I could hear. “Sometimes, I think I would have been better off if she’d lied. Because now all I can wonder is—what if I turn out like him? What if there’s something wrong with me?”
A fierce protective instinct flooded my nonheart. I wanted to assure him that there was nothing wrong with him, not even close. That
