I feel like it should be easy to tell the truth, now that I’ve made the decision. But later that night in the safety of my room, I can’t find the words again. I keep imagining how it would feel to have the whole world hate me.
“Okay then,” I say to myself. “I need help.” I grab my laptop and set it up on my desk. I sit down and very purposefully type “how to tell the truth” into the browser search box.
There are about twenty million possible web pages for me to look through. The ones at the top of the list belong to a popular national blog, a wikiHow, and a relationship expert. I skim through all three of them, but it’s mostly common sense. There are no magic solutions to make what I have to do any easier. It occurs to me that I’m living with an expert in telling the truth when it’s ugly and difficult and you’ve been hiding it for a while. Dad and Rachael were having an affair for over six months before he came clean to my mom.
It’s surreal, the thought that maybe my dad typed these very same words into his iPad one day, looking for some advice from strangers about how to do the right thing.
But Dad only had to worry about Mom turning on him; okay, and me, and maybe some of Mom’s colleagues at the hospital. But then he moved away from all the people who judged him and basically started over. How am I supposed to escape an entire internet full of judgment and threats? Are there even places left on the earth with no web access at all?
Sighing, I push my laptop back and rest my head on my desk.
My phone buzzes with a call and I’m grateful for the distraction. I’m surprised to see an unfamiliar local number pop up on the display.
“Hello?” I say warily.
“Hey, it’s Elliott.” He continues before I can even respond. “So I know it’s a bit creepy to call you like this, but you’re new in town and don’t know that many people so, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out?”
Definitely a weird development, but I could use something to take my mind off figuring out how to tell the truth. I don’t think I’m going to solve that problem tonight. Still. It feels . . . unnatural to go somewhere with a boy who isn’t Dallas.
“What do you mean by hang out?”
“That is when two friends spend time in the same location.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to be my friend.”
It’s strange to hear someone call me their friend. I did not expect that to be part of my Springdale, Utah, experience. “Where would we go? It’s after ten p.m. I thought everywhere here closed by six, especially on a Sunday.”
“Not everywhere.” He laughs lightly. “It’s a surprise.”
“How’d you get this number?” I’m stalling because I’m still deciding if I want to go.
“Rachael added it to the volunteer database at work.” He pauses. “I bet you’re bored right now, aren’t you? I can fix that. There’s something I want to show you. Just say yes and I’ll be at your house in two minutes.”
“How do you know where I live?” I ask, my voice rising in pitch.
“Rachael had a Labor Day barbecue for all the staff last year. I not only know where you live, I’ve peed in your bathroom.”
“Lovely,” I mumble. “I’ll be sure to think of you when I’m brushing my teeth later.”
Elliott laughs again. “So are you in, or what?”
“Maybe. Hang on.” Slipping my phone into the pocket of my jeans, I stroll down the hallway to the living room. Dad and Rachael are both on the sofa, watching the end of a movie. Leaving the house at this hour is going to involve a lot of explaining. I’m not in an explaining kind of mood.
But I’m definitely in an escaping kind of mood.
“You okay, hon?” Dad asks.
“Yeah. Hey, can I go hang out with a friend for a while?”
Dad glances at the clock. “It’s kind of late, isn’t it? What friend?”
“His name is Elliott. He works for Rachael.” I look back and forth between her and my dad.
“Elliott, huh?” A smile plays at Rachael’s lips.
“Ah,” Dad says. “I think I met him at some point.”
“You met him at last year’s Labor Day barbecue,” Rachael says. “Elliott Helberg. The kid who wants to be a veterinarian. He and Gen have been working on a trail project for me.”
My eyes flick to the front window. A white truck pulls up across the street from the house. “So can I go or what?”
“What did you say you guys were going to do at this hour?”
I start to blush for some reason. Leave it to my body to betray me at the worst possible moments. “I—I think just go for a drive. He said he had something he wanted to show me.”
“Oh, is that what he said?” My dad makes a noise between a cough and a snort.
My face gets even hotter. “Jeez, Dad. Not like that. I’ve only known him for a week. We’re barely even friends.”
Rachael rolls her eyes at my dad. “He’s a good guy. Let her go.”
“All right. But be careful,” Dad says. “I know you’re vulnerable right now and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I lean over to give my dad a kiss on the cheek. “It’s not a date or anything. No one is getting hurt, I promise.”
My dad nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “And next time he picks you up at a reasonable hour and comes to the door like a gentleman. And you need to be home by twelve-thirty.”
“Aye aye, sir. I will relay the messages.” I give my dad a mock salute and then hurry out the door before he can change his mind. I cross the lawn and the street to where Elliott is waiting for me in his truck. He leans over and opens the passenger door for me.
“Hey,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it. Seemed to be quite a discussion going on.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket as I slide into the truck. “Ugh. You heard all that? I saw your truck and totally forgot you were waiting on the phone.”
“No worries. It was just a lot of muffled talking.”
“Mostly Rachael telling my dad that you’re a good guy.”
Elliott snickers. “It’s true . . . for the most part.”
As we turn onto the main road, the streetlamps illuminate the cab of the truck and I get my first real look at Elliott out of his uniform. It’s probably a longer look than it should be. His black hair is kind of disheveled, but purposefully so, like he put wax or pomade in it. His T-shirt hangs on his body in a way that emphasizes his pecs and abdominal muscles without making him look like one of those bulked-out bodybuilders who live at the gym. Tanned arms emerge from his shirtsleeves, the outline of his biceps and triceps visible through his skin.
“You’re staring at me,” he points out, before my eyes get a chance to drop below his waist.
“Sorry. You just look different out of uniform.” Even though this is absolutely not a date, I can’t help but compare Elliott to Dallas. Physically, they’re complete opposites. Dallas was tall and pale and blond. Even with his styled hair, Elliott is definitely a lot more casual—Dallas wasn’t one to wear tennis shoes or track pants outside the gym.
Elliott gives me a sideways glance as he continues down the main street of Springdale. “Different how?” His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.
“You know . . . sportier? More laid-back?”
“Sportier . . . Thanks, I guess.”
“Except your hair. Did you put some sort of product in it?”
“Maybe. Is that okay?”
“Yeah. It looks nice.” Even as I say the last word, I regret it. Dallas and I might have broken up by now if he had lived, but it still feels wrong to be telling some other guy he looks nice.
Elliott loses the smile battle as his lips curl up into a grin. “I’m glad you like it.”
I slouch down in my seat as we pass by the businesses of Springdale—all closed at this hour—in rapid succession. I try to push thoughts of Dallas out of my mind, not because I don’t want to think about him, but because I don’t want to start crying again on Elliott.
I give him a quizzical look when he slows down at the outskirts of town. He pulls the truck into the parking lot for something called Zion Outdoor Experts.
“Are we breaking into a sporting goods store?” I ask.
“My dads own it,” Elliott explains.
“You’re taking me shopping?”
Elliott parks the truck and then hops out into the parking lot. “No, but I can get you a thirty-percent-off discount during normal business hours if you’re interested.”
“So then what are we doing here?”
“Nothing.” Elliott strides across the gravel lot, passing up the entrance to Zion Outdoor Experts and stopping in front of the next shop, which has no sign. Boards have been pounded across the window so no one can see inside.
“Look. I’m not really into . . .” I trail off, unsure exactly where Elliott has brought me. Maybe this is where he and his friends bring girls or get drunk or something. I glance around the darkened parking lot, suddenly realizing I don’t know very much about this guy.
Elliott is flipping through a bunch of keys on his key chain, but he pauses and looks up, a bemused smile on his face. “What, Jen? What aren’t you into?” His dark eyes study me curiously.
I realize he has a key to unlock the front door. “Oh, your family owns this too?”
“Yep.” He smirks. “And don’t worry. We keep our crack house and our brothel on the other side of town.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you. It’s just—”
“That you don’t trust anyone?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, prepare to be surprised.” Elliott unlocks the door and pushes it open.