Tess Sharpe - Far From You

My stomach lurches. Saliva floods my mouth, a hot, slick rush that I can’t contain. I gag, moving past the Dumpsters, and manage to get to an empty trash can before I start to throw up, coughing and spitting.

Big hands grab clumsily at my hair, pulling it back as the rest of my breakfast comes up. I jerk away from him, my skin flashing hot and cold, goose bumps breaking out everywhere. Finally I straighten up, wiping my mouth with my hand, my eyes damp with tears, my throat raw. He steps away from me again, leaning against the chain-link fence, his hands in his pockets.

“Kyle…” I start, and then I stop, because I don’t know what to say. I hate that he knows. It’s different with Rachel, with someone safe, someone who didn’t know Mina.

The smell of vomit curls inside my nose, making the queasiness roar back to life, and I press my fingers to my mouth, swallow convulsively, and breathe through pursed lips until it passes. I back away from the trash until my shoulders are pressed against the chain-link fence that separates the restaurant’s back lot from the Capri M-tel. I can see people on the second level, walking back and forth from the ice machine.

“I was so pissed. I yelled at her. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I made her cry, I…I said some really shitty things. And then she wouldn’t take my calls the next day, she wouldn’t listen to me, so I left her that note. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry. But she wouldn’t pick up, and then the next thing I know, Trev’s on the phone telling me that she’d been killed.” He takes a step back, like he needs the distance as much as I do. “I fucking hate you sometimes,” Kyle says. “Every time I see you, I get so pissed at you. Whenever you’re around, I think about her telling me, the look on her face…” He lets out a shuddering breath. His Adam’s apple bobs under the collar of his polo shirt. “She was so relieved. Like she’d wanted to say it forever. And I was just—I was shitty. All I did was make her cry.”

“This is why you lied to the police.” It’s crazy, and I’m furious that all of this, the months I spent trapped at ­Seaside, was because of this. Because she’d trusted him, of all people, with her—our—biggest secret. Because he was mad at being tossed over for another girl.

I hit him, a hard smack across his chest that feels better than it should. “You screwed up everything!” I burst out. “I spent three months in rehab for a drug addiction I’d already kicked. My parents think I’m a hopeless junkie and a liar! Everyone in this town thinks I’m the reason Mina was out at Booker’s Point. Trev won’t even look at me. Not to mention that by giving the police false information, you probably helped the murderer get away with it.”

“There were drugs,” he insists. “I didn’t make it up. I heard the police had found pills. Who else would they belong to? I didn’t want to explain to the detective why I was calling Mina so much that day, so I told him that Mina had said you two were going out to the Point to score and that I tried to stop her. I thought it’d get you in trouble.”

I want to hit him again, but I hold back this time. “Yeah, well, you thought right. The only problem is the drugs weren’t mine. Whoever killed her planted them on me.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve really been clean this whole time?”

“Do you want me to swear it on her grave?” I ask. “Because I will. We can go there right now.”

“No,” he says, too quick, and I realize I’m not the only person who has a problem visiting Mina’s grave. “I—I believe you.”

“Oh, great,” I snarl. “That makes me feel so much better. Thanks a lot.”

He stands there, and now more than ever, he’s like a massive, slobbery puppy. He sticks his big paws inside the pockets of his cargo shorts, biting his lower lip, staring at his feet. “Look, I’m sorry for lying…even though I didn’t think I was totally lying,” he says. “But you did sleep with my girlfriend.”

“I didn’t sleep with her while she was your girlfriend!”

“Whatever.”

“Seriously,” I say. “Look at me.” He scuffs his foot on the pavement, and I snap my fingers in front of his face until he meets my eyes. “You don’t get to be pissy to me about this,” I tell him. “Whatever she told you…” I let out a breath. I can’t think about what she told him, about herself, or about the two of us. Every time I do, I feel everything slipping out of my control, my footing in the gray area precarious.

Nine months. Three weeks. Six days.

I tap the numbers against the skin of my wrist, a heartbeat to build on.

“She liked girls,” I continue when I’ve got a hold on myself. “She only liked girls. The guys were a cover. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it was.”

“I know that,” he says quietly. “I know,” he says again, his face crumpling.

The back door of the restaurant bangs open. “Kyle,” calls a man in a spattered apron. “We need you.”

Kyle ducks his head so the guy can’t see how undone he is. “Just a sec,” he mumbles. The guy nods and heads back inside.

Kyle stares up at the sky, and I give him a moment of silence to get himself together.

“I’ve got to get inside,” he says. He wipes at his cheeks and clears his throat before pushing past me.

“Kyle, Mrs. Bishop can’t find out about this.” I hate how small my voice gets, that I’m practically begging.

What looks like sympathy flickers across his face before he looks away. “She won’t find out from me. I promise.”

He’s doing it for Mina and for himself, not for me, but I don’t care, as long as it stays a secret.

Mina had constructed her cage a long time ago, built by shame from the beliefs she was brought up with. She may have told Kyle. But she never wanted anyone else to know.

I plan on keeping it that way.

TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO (FIFTEEN YEARS OLD)

My phone buzzes. It’s two A.M. and I’m half-asleep, but as soon as I see it’s Mina, I answer.

“What?”

“Look out your window.”

I get out of bed. Mina’s parked across the street, leaning against a familiar blue F-150.

“You stole Trev’s truck? You only have your permit.”

“I borrowed it. And no one’s gonna catch us. Come on, let’s go.”

I pull my shoes on and sneak downstairs. I’m in pajama pants and a tank top, but it’s a warm night and I don’t care. Mina beams when she sees me coming out the door. “Where’s the cane?” she asks as I get into the passenger seat. “You have another three weeks—”

“I’m getting better without it,” I interrupt. “It’s fine. I need to get used to walking. Even the guys at PT said so.”

“Okay,” Mina says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

We roll down all the windows and head to the lake, singing along to the radio. Taking the back road, we head toward a spot only locals know, where we’ve spent hundreds of lazy hours over the years, swimming and soaking up the sun.

The lake stretches out in front of us and Mina pulls over, parking in a turnout by the side of the road. When we get out of the car, I can hear the soft lapping of the water against the rocks below. The moon’s high in the sky, shining off the water. We’ve been coming to this spot since we were kids, but it was easier to navigate the trail down to the shore back then.

Mina helps me down the tricky stretch to the little beach. We strip down to our underwear, and there is nothing self-conscious about her when she tosses her shirt onto the rocks. I follow suit, slower, more carefully. Mina walks into the lake, waiting until she’s hip-deep before slipping under. She comes up with a splash, her dark hair flying everywhere as she beams at me in the moonlight.

The water is cold—almost too cold—against my skin, and goose bumps prickle on my arms as I wade in after her. My toes dig into the muddy bottom for better traction, but once I get deep enough, I can lift my feet and let the water buoy me back and forth, weightless, almost painless.

Mina floats on her back, staring up at the sky. “I heard something today,” she says.

“Hmm?” I float next to her, letting the water support my body.

“Amber said she saw Cody buying condoms at the drugstore last week.”

I reach my arms above my head, pushing through the water, away from her.

I’m not fast enough. She jerks forward, off her back, splashing everywhere as she treads water, facing me. “You didn’t!” When I don’t say anything or look at her, she says, “Oh my God, you did.”

“So what if I did?” I ask, and it comes out way more defensive than I intend. Cody and I had been dating for months; it had seemed like the thing to do. I just didn’t want to tell anyone afterward.

She should know how good I am at pretending. It’s all we do. It’s all I do. I pretend that I don’t hurt, that I want Cody, that I don’t want her, that I’m not taking too many pills, that my virginity had been important.

It hadn’t been. It only means something when it’s with the right person. And I couldn’t have her.

“I can’t b-believe…” Mina stutters. “Oh my God.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I mumble.

“Yes it is!” She says it so quickly, and I can hear the catch in her voice.

Like she’s about to cry.

“Mina.” I start to swim over to her, but she turns from me, dives deep. She glides under the water, and when she surfaces I can’t tell if it’s tears or lake water dripping down her face.

We never talk about it again.

A week later, Mina and I are at a party at Amber’s when Amber waylays me, walking across the crowded deck with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands, twirling her sun-streaked hair around her finger. We’re outside. Amber’s house is next to the river, and I’ve been zoning out, staring at the ducks riding the current downstream.

“What?”

“You mean Mina didn’t tell you?” Amber’s eyes widen. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.…”

“Amber, out with it,” I snap. I can be a bitch when I need to be. And no matter how much Amber would like it to be her, I’m Mina’s best friend.

“Mina’s totally sleeping with Jason Kemp.”

“What?” I can feel blood drain from my face. I have to tighten my hold on my cup so I don’t drop it.

I look for Mina immediately, instinctively. When our eyes meet across the deck, I understand: she planned it, she wanted it this way, she’d just been waiting for me to find out—and I hate her for it.

It’s the most vicious thing she’s ever done to me, but really, how can I blame her?

Two weeks after that, two weeks of her hanging off Jason’s neck, of them making out everywhere, of that gleam in her eye, the way she’s pushing at me, punishing me, I finally can’t handle it anymore. I’m sobbing as I crush the pills.

I’ve been on the edge of this for months, gulping down too many, numbing myself to the pain. Numbing myself to her. This is the inevitable next step down, the evolution of my fall.

It’s like a roller coaster, the dip and slide searing through me, going straight to my head. The buzz—fleeting, but oh so good—floods me, and I’m reaching for more before it vanishes completely. Anything to erase her from me.

But some marks, they don’t fade. No matter what.

NOW (JUNE)

When I get home, I stare at the evidence board on my mattress because I can’t think about anything else. I take Kyle’s picture down, rip it in half, and toss it on the floor, barely resisting the urge to stomp on it a few times.

“Sophie?” My mom knocks on my door. “Your dad said your knee was hurting. I came home to check on you.”

“Just a second.” I scramble to push my mattress down. My sheets are in a tangle on the floor, and I don’t have time to do anything but pile them on the bed, shoving Kyle’s torn picture under my pillow and throwing myself on top of the mess. “Come in.”

She frowns when she sees me, flushed and guilty-­looking. Knowing Mom, she probably has a numbered list of things to watch out for when it comes to her junkie daughter.

“What are you hiding?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Sophie.”

I sigh, reach next to my bed, and grab the shoe box stashed underneath my nightstand. I flip it open, spill the contents onto the comforter. Photos spread everywhere. “I was looking at pictures.”

My mom’s face softens, and she picks up a photo, one of me and Mina, our arms wrapped around each other, neon-green swim caps clashing horribly with our pink tie-dyed racing suits. “This was before your growth spurt,” she says.