Lying Out Loud

“Then as shitty as it is, maybe the divorce is for the best.”

“He’s still a dick. And I’m done talking to him.”

Guess Ryder and his dad hadn’t resolved their issues yet.

We were passing the elementary school, and without even saying a word, we both started walking toward the empty playground.

“What does your mom have to say about that? About you not talking to him?”

“I don’t really talk to her about Dad,” he admitted. “She gets upset about it. Mad, even. I can’t blame her. She’s a great person, and he screwed her over.”

I wanted to point out that, not long ago, Ryder was (rightfully) upset that she’d dragged him all the way to Illinois without even asking how he felt first.

But So

“What about you?” he asked as we made our way toward the swings. “What’s your family drama?”

I shrugged and sat down on one of the swings. The leather was cold, even through my jeans. “It’s pretty boring.”

“That seems unlikely,” he said, sitting on the swing beside mine. “You just said you’re living with Amy. Doesn’t sound too boring to me. Where are your parents?”

I’d already had to move the conversation away from my mother, and I wasn’t eager to return to it. So instead, I blurted out something I hadn’t talked about in years:

“My dad’s in prison.”

“Oh.” Ryder looked startled, and I couldn’t help but notice the way he moved away from me a little. Like he suddenly remembered that I wasn’t the rich, beautiful girl he wanted.

I was poor white trash.

At least by his standards.

But, to my surprise, Ryder shifted again on his swing, his hands wrapped around the chains, and swiveled to face me. And he didn’t look disgusted at all. “How long?”

“In and out since I was seven. But I haven’t seen him in … I don’t even remember the last time I saw him. My mom stopped taking me to visit after she divorced him, when I was still in elementary school.”

“Does he ever try to write to you?” Ryder asked. “Or call?”

“No,” I said. “Although I’ve moved since the last time I saw him. My granddad died and we moved into his old house. Plus, I don’t have the same cell phone number. So I guess I don’t really know. I just assumed he hadn’t because my mom always told me what a deadbeat he was. Not that she’s the most reliable …”

I shook my head, and before he could ask about my mother, I started talking again.

“I’ve thought about him some. I’ve considered writing him a few times, but I always talk myself out of it.”

“Why?”

Ryder’s green eyes were watching me, glued to me. Intent. It sent a shiver up my spine. And yet … it was easy. Telling him all this. Being honest about something I usually wasn’t.

“I’m scared.” It was something I’d never said out loud. “I’m scared he’ll let me down … or that he won’t want me. And I figure maybe it’s easier if I just don’t give him the chance.”

“So

I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for touching me or for everything I’d said about my father.

“It’s okay,” I said, deciding I’d rather he apologized for the latter. “He probably is the deadbeat I’ve always imagined. Chances are I’m better off.”

“Maybe.”

We sat on the swings for a while, not talking. And that was okay, too. As much as I liked talking, or typing, to Ryder, it was kind of nice to just sit with him and watch as the sun began to set in the distance.

“We should get going,” he said after a while. “It’s about to get dark.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Because elementary school playgrounds are known to be a hotbed of crime and debauchery after sundown.”

“I meant because it’s going to get even colder, smart-ass.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. Our fingers stayed locked together for just an instant longer than they should have, and when he let go, my hand felt too cold.

I shoved both hands in my pockets and followed Ryder toward the sidewalk.

We walked back to the library in silence, our shoulders brushing lightly against each other.

“This is me,” I said when we reached Gert. I slapped the old clunker on her hood. “Sweet ride, huh?”

“Is it going to start?” Ryder asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that the million-dollar question.” I pulled my keys from my purse and unlocked the driver’s side door. “It was nice hanging out with you today, Ryder.”

“You, too.”

I expected him to walk away, but when he didn’t, I looked at him again.

“You should write to your dad,” he said.

I frowned at him. “Why? I told you, he’s probably the deadbeat loser my mom always told me he was.”

“But he might not be,” Ryder said. “It’s been years, you said it yourself. And if you’ve been thinking about him anyway … Maybe it’s worth a shot.”

“But … but what if he doesn’t care about me?” My voice trembled a little on the last words. “What if he lets me down?”

“You won’t know unless you try,” he said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving here, it’s that sometimes people surprise you, if you let them.”

He was looking right at me when he said this, and the butterflies swarmed in my stomach once again.

He took a step back and started moving toward his car. “See you at school, So

I nodded, but I didn’t get in the car. I just stood there, in the December cold, and watched him walk away.

That night, alone in the guest room, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay there, replaying everything that had happened with Ryder. The way he’d smiled at me. The way he’d looked at me, like for once he was actually seeing me, not just his dream girl’s a

But, mostly, I kept thinking about what he’d said about my dad.

Sometimes people surprise you, if you let them.

I hadn’t seen my dad in years. I hadn’t even mentioned him to anyone in years. Not until today. But I’d thought about him. A lot.

He used to push me on the tire swing in our backyard when I was little. He used to bring home big gallons of cookies-and-cream ice cream because it was my favorite. He used to say, “Quiet. You’ll wake up So

Then he got arrested for the first time.

And then the second.

The first time it was for boosting cars, but I only knew that because I’d heard some people in town talking about it when I was little.

“Isn’t that the Ardmore girl? You hear about her dad? Goddamn thief.”

That’s when I started lying, telling people he was an international businessman, not an inmate.

I didn’t know what he’d been charged with the second time. Or any of the times after that. All I knew was that Dad hadn’t spent more than a couple of weeks out of jail since I was seven.

Mom took me to see him every week until she didn’t anymore. He was an asshole. He was a deadbeat. That’s what she said. That’s what I believed.

Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t. Ryder had me questioning all of it now.

My dear friend insomnia wasn’t going anywhere, so I peeled myself off the bed and headed downstairs. Mr. Rush kept an office on the first floor, but Amy and I were welcome to use it if we needed the desktop. And since I wasn’t sure how welcome I was to Amy’s laptop these days, it seemed like a more suitable option.

It was 1:12 a.m. when I opened up the Word document. And it was 1:36 a.m. before I managed to type the first word.

It was a short note. But it felt like pulling teeth. Each word was scary and raw. Each word made me vulnerable. What if it was easier to just leave him out of my life than to reach out and have him hurt me?