The Lies About Truth by Courtney C. Stevens
DEDICATION
To those with physical and emotional scars;
to those who feel sorry for the things they can’t change;
to those broken ones who possess a gentle strength;
to those who do the right thing in the wrong way:
your humanity is beautiful.
Isaiah 61:3.
CHAPTER ONE
Night was like Christmas. There wasn’t nearly enough of it to go around, especially in June. At 8:55, I walked down our little bayside street, crossed the road, and wound through the lot of the Worthy Wayfarer toward what I hoped was an empty shore. My company consisted of sand, circular thoughts, and a wretched pair of shorts.
Fletcher, my therapist, thought getting me back in clothes that didn’t cover my whole body, even at night, was a step in the right direction. I’d agreed to try, and this was my first attempt at bare legs. It was dark, I was in my favorite place on the planet, and I was fine. Showing scars to no one was fine. That’s what I told myself as I reached the dune walk.
I loved the abandoned beach. Loved the sound of sloshing tide. Loved when the Florida sand was neither hot nor cold, but perfectly warm between my painted toes. Over the last year, I’d forgotten the glorious swish-swish sound athletic fabric made during a run. That was the one thing about Fletcher’s challenge I was looking forward to. Six miles of swish-swish. I pressed pause on my playlist and listened deeply: gulf breeze, ocean, my heartbeat, swish-swish, and . . . dang it.
There were people on my beach.
Ducking into the sea grass, I watched the scene—a graduation party. I’d gotten an invite—a pity nod, I’m sure—and I’d deleted the message. The smoky smell of bonfire flames licking wood tempted me to join the party. But wearing shorts, with this many people around . . . I couldn’t think of anything worse.
This was Gray and Trent’s class get-together, not mine, but a few of my former classmates sat on towels. A group of seniors danced and lifted Solo cups and sang off-key verses. Others sat on driftwood logs talking and laughing. Graduation had been two nights ago, and they all seemed to be sucking the last of high school through a tiny straw.
Good for them.
The fire and moonlight made slipping through the dunes seem unlikely, but I needed to run. And I wanted to keep my word about the shorts. The moment I stepped out of the shadows to dart toward the empty coastline owned by the military, Gina yelled my name.
“Sadie.” The wave that came with her greeting was shallow and tentative, but her smile was canyon-deep.
She was genuinely happy to see me. If only I could reciprocate.
I froze on the spot and waited, standing between two towering dunes. There was something about being with an old friend that brought back habits, good and bad. Even after eleven months of awkward interactions.
“Hey, Gina,” I said when she was still a few steps away.
She wove her windblown mane into a tight knot as she approached, and I envied the casual way she put her cheekbones on display. “You got my text,” she said. “I hoped you’d come, but I can’t believe you’re here.”
I tugged on the edge of my shorts and pointed to my shoes. “Actually, I was out for a run.”
She didn’t comment on the shorts, but her gaze lingered on my thigh and a long triangular scar I called Pink Floyd.
“You could come say hi,” she suggested.
I backed away a few steps. “I don’t think so.”
Best friends, even former ones, were supposed to understand crap like social anxiety and scar exposure. All of my previous explanations had failed to register—or Gina couldn’t accept that sometimes when things changed, they didn’t change back. Even if we both wanted them to.