Page 21 of Who I Really Am

I can’t expect it if I don’t deserve it.

Adults who lie stink.

Much like last night, lying does not jive with my value system—at least not the one I aspire to, the one I was raised with and have always claimed.

I reach for the comforter and tug it over my face. I’m only cold on the inside, but I want to hide. Problem is, I am wherever I go. There is no escape.

I’ve never been calledslutbefore. Technically, Tylon didn’t say the word either, but it was the loudest unspoken insult I’ve ever heard.

We have a history, Tylon and I. Sophomore year in high school he followed me around constantly, asking me out almost that often. He was a scrawny freshman, nothing more than an entertaining distraction in geometry class. One day, he hunted me down and asked me to be his homecoming date. As I stood there trying to find an escape hatch, Pierce Adams, our school’s Mr. Everything, walked up and asked the same question. Three guesses which one got ayes.Honestly, I barely took Tylon seriously.

As far as my date with Pierce, we won king and queen, but that was the only thing good that came from the night. Pierce told the entire football team we’d done far more than kiss.

Needless to say, I didn’t recognize grown-up Tylon at Jake’s, not until Marco elicited his name. Obviously, he remembered me and holds my high school foibles against me. Last night, my leaving with Marco must have confirmed his impression and his hatred.

And aren’t I one lucky girl that Marco was there to witness it?

As if his opinion of me could sink any lower.

So, I hide here in my own home, in my own bedroom, because a man I’m not sure I can ever face again is down there, somewhere.

I can’t throw him out and ruin his week at the beach.

Funny, I’d like a do-over for last night. Yes, my behavior was awful, but I want a repeat because…I like Marco. For all that he’s a pick-up-a-stranger kind of man, he seems like a really nice guy. Funny, too.

I yank the comforter off my face. This is not working. Exhaustion, physical and emotional, consumes me, but sleep is not happening. This room, complete with the trappings of my younger, more innocent self, mocks me.

I walk next door to Tripp’s old room. Hands down, it has the best view of any spot in the house.

I turn the lock on the French-style doors and throw them open. Yes, I’m air conditioning the outside, but so what? Stepping to the railing, I inhale the salt air, let the breeze ruffle my hair. The ocean waves keeping time along the shore make me feel small.

Iamsmall. Lest I’ve ever harbored illusions otherwise, the events of the past months have set me straight. I am nothing. I am no one. The world keeps on turning, oblivious to my sudden absence from real life.

My tumble from grace.

Oddly, there’s strange comfort in the realization.

Still, like the waves I’m watching, my stomach dips and rolls. I’m hungry, but not. I come inside, pull one door shut, then leave the other cracked only enough to allow the drone of the surf.

I fall onto the bed, and for a few minutes, follow the ceiling fan on its lazy swirls about the room. A shiver vibrates through my arms, my torso. Everywhere, really. My stomach flips over, and I consider a dash for the bathroom, but the feeling passes. I curl onto my left side, steepling my hands under my cheek. The pillow is soft, and when I inhale, Marco’s scent fills my airways. Strange how after less than a day I recognize his smell. I’ll take this secret to the grave, but the truth is, that kiss last night is seared into my psyche.

I nuzzle deeper into the pillow, and somehow, suddenly, feel a little less alone.

CHAPTER 8

Annalise

When I wake up, the angle of the light in the room suggests I’ve been out some time. As I stretch and wipe away the cobwebs, I realize I feel better.

But I am famished.

I stop by my bedroom and dig my phone out of the covers where I left it and go downstairs. I need food.Now.

The problem is, Mom, Dad, and Vance, my newest adoptive brother, have been gone for ten days, so the walk-in pantry has severely limited options. I do find a more than half-empty bag of sort of stale potato chips and shovel a handful into my mouth.

I startle at a knock on the side door but quickly recognize Marco’s shape outside on the steps, the lowering sun gleaming off his tanned skin. As best I can make it comply, my full mouth hollers for him to come in as I motion with my crumby hand in the process.

Stepping over the threshold, he scowls, tossing a look toward the doorknob. Yet a second scowl lands fully on yours truly. “Why is that not locked?”

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