“You do know it’s a movie, right?”
I scowl. “Don’t interrupt my emotional ramblings with relentless logic.”
This is one game he won’t play with me. He doesn’t talk about book or TV people as if they’re real, speculating about their lives after the story ends. In my opinion, if Ryan has a fault, it’s his lack of imagination. He’s practical to the point of pain sometimes. At least, it bothers me a bit when he reins me in and reminds me this stuff’s not real. It’s not that I don’t know that but sometimes I like a world somebody has created so much that I want to stay in it a little longer, dreaming of the possibilities.
He doesn’t reiterate his position—that a work of art is exactly what it is, nothing more or less. You can’t add to it any more than you can draw mustache on the Mona Lisa. To which I say, Yeah, but you can wonder why she’s smiling. You can write a story about it. But this is a bridge that Ryan can’t cross; his brain just isn’t wired that way. It’s also probably why he rocks at chemistry, and I do not.
“Hey, I liked it,” he says, smiling. “You could tell he’s still crazy in love with her, regardless of how many women he slept with.”
“You’d think if he really loved her, he wouldn’t want anyone else.”
“Sometimes sex is just about wanting not to feel alone. Or it can start that way, anyhow.”
I feel like I’m about to fall into the deep end of a pool without a swimsuit. Ryan and I have never talked about this stuff. Ever. Obviously, I’m a virgin, as I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Which means I’m sixteen and never been kissed, let alone … other stuff.
“You know that how?” Grinning, I add, “If you say she lives in Canada, I’m calling bullshit.”
He searches my face, brown eyes serious behind the hipster glasses. “No, not Canada.”
So there is somebody. Why didn’t he tell me? Shock rockets through me with hurt hot on its heels. A normal person might get mad, but I’m afraid of anger, so I never let myself go there. My therapists don’t realize they’ve trained me to suppress it, but I feel better that way. Safer. I’m really, really determined to be good. Positive. Worthy of a second chance.
So I manage a smile, shoving away the bad feelings. “Who? Where? When? Damn. I sound like a journalism lead.” He laughs, as I intend him to, and it eases the tension. “Seriously, Ry, you can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”
“Her name is Cassie.”
So he’s not gay. There’s another little pang, as I remember how much I liked him last year. Strangling that, too, I put on my attentive face, encouraging him to continue.
“And she’s twenty-one.”
Holy crap. What do I even say? I mean, it’s kind of skeevy. Why is this Cassie messing around with someone Ryan’s age? Not that he isn’t awesome. But still.
I’m guessing he interprets my expression correctly because he explains, “It’s not her fault. When we met last year, I told her I was eighteen.”
“So she thinks you’re nineteen now? Why aren’t you in college?”
“I’m saving up.”
“Wow. So your entire relationship is based on lies. And sex, I assume?” He looks so miserable that I don’t say more, even though I so could. I thought Ryan was better than this—he’d never lie to a girl to get her to sleep with him. But as it turns out, that’s exactly what he’s done. Hurt and discomfort pushes up toward my throat. I really want to yell at him.
But I won’t. I can’t.
“That wasn’t why,” he starts, but it’s a weak effort, and he gives it up.
“I don’t understand at all, Ry.” Then something horrible occurs to me. “Why do you put your arm around me so much at school? And walk me to my classes?”
“I never said we were going out,” he tells me quietly. “I just didn’t deny it when people asked.”
“To hide this … whatever it is. Did it ever occur to you that if you have to cover it up that maybe it’s not okay?”
“Yes.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair.
This … this is huge. It was one thing when I thought the misunderstanding about us just happened. Knowing he did it on purpose—and for such a shady reason—makes my stomach cramp. I can’t get mad at him. So I embrace pain and sadness instead; I can deal with that duo better. That only ever hurts me. And that’s fine. I’m used to it.
I swallow hard. “Why involve me? What’s the point?”
His dark eyes are pools of hurt. “You know how they are at JFK. If you’re never seen with a girl, they assume you’re a closet case, and you saw how that turned out for Jon Summers.”
“Damn,” I whisper.
Jon killed himself last year. He came out at school, which was a brave thing to do, but people didn’t take it well. They bullied him until he eventually left to be homeschooled, but that didn’t fix it. His house was vandalized repeatedly, until he got ahold of some of his mom’s pills. When I found out, I felt so horrible. I wished I’d done more, but he refused to see anyone after he left JFK, and sometimes, it’s impossible to know how bad somebody feels until it’s too late.
Ryan goes on, “Best-case scenario, they assume I’m not gay, but I’m such a loser that I can’t get anyone to go out with me. That doesn’t end well for me either, Sage. Or I can choose to be a douche and brag about the older girl I’m banging. Provided anyone believes me, that would hurt Cassie a lot.”