Page 85 of Lucky Night

And tell them the whole truth, she says.

Every bit of it, he agrees.

Their eyes meet.

Fourteen

They’re smiling.

Daring each other.

His finger hovers over the screen. Moving closer and closer to Caroline’s name. Waiting for Jenny to stop him.

He’s almost touching it…

He breaks first, laughing as he tosses the phone on the bed. She watches it land.

Why can’t we do it? she wonders. Show them our true, whole selves. Just put it all out there.

It’s too risky, he says. If they knew the truth about us—not just this, but everything we hide, every unkind thought, every untoward impulse—they’d stop loving us. Plus, it’s impossible to show ourselves in full. Words are inadequate. Another person will never truly understand what’s going on in your mind. He taps his forehead. We’re alone in here. Inescapably partitioned.

She looks out the window, depressed suddenly. They’re alone. Not just the two of them, but everyone. A collection of separate souls, little self-pods, careening around the universe. Banging off one another, or missing one another completely. Never uniting. Always lying.

Why must they lie?

Because the truth is impossible.

Is it, though?

Let’s try, she says. Tell me something monstrous. Something you’ve never told anyone.

He leans back in the chair, yawning, thinking it over. He doesn’t resist, or imply by his expression that she’s a nosy pest. Has she worn him down, vanquished his balustrades? Not balustrades—she keeps forgetting his nerdy boat word. Is he starting to feel more comfortable opening up, confiding the secrets of his innermost heart?

I love jerking off to your author photo, he says.

She is speechless.

I do it a lot, he adds. And by a lot, I mean, a lot.

She bursts out laughing.

It’s such a great photo, Jenny. Do you even realize?

Did you buy a copy of my book?

Multiple copies, he says. One for every bathroom in the house. One for my car, my office, the backyard shed…

Nick!

I’m probably why you’re still on the bestseller list, he says.

You perv! They’re YA novels. I’m supposed to look kind, and friendly. Not sexy.

That’s what’s so fantastic about it. You’re so demure, but with this hint of sluttiness—

What?

The way your head is tilted, he says, that lacy collar on your blouse, good God, and how your hands are crossed in your lap—

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