Free The Lies About Truth by Courtney C. Stevens

didn’t lie to him. “I need to ask Gray something.”
    Max pressed the novel flat against his chest and raised his eyebrows. “You sure about that?”
    “I’ll make short work of it.”
    He kept most of his thoughts to himself and instead chose to quote one of my emails to him from last October. “Remember, the edge of darkness is one sand-filled step after another looking for the right thing in the wrong place.”
    “I know. I know.”
    When I’d cried my heart out last October, all the tears ended up on Max’s virtual shirt. After living through the Ginaand Gray betrayal, I didn’t want Max to think this trip to visit Gray was romantic in nature. I also didn’t want to pony up about the letters. Not yet. Not while I still suspected everyone.
    “This is a business call,” I said.
    “You promise?”
    I put my hand on Max’s shoulder and walked my fingertips up to his chin, skimming lightly over his neck. My touch brought sunshine to his dark eyes. The intimacy of that action didn’t strike me until I imagined him doing the same to me.
    His hand near my mouth. His fingertips touching Idaho. His mouth on mine. I liked to imagine things like that. Imagination was a gift I kept in my front pocket.
    “Hmm,” Max said as he laid his hand over mine. We sighed ourselves into a pair of smiles. “Do I get the rest of that later?”
    So far we’d made the jump from emails to flesh better than I’d expected. Now, if I could just keep my shit together and be normal . . . “We’ll see,” I said playfully.
    “Hurry back.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “My mother hasn’t been to a mall in a year. I’ll never get her out of there without reinforcements,” Max said.
    Mom and I had argued about the mall last night. Much like the home-schooling discussions, I lost with flying colors.
    “Don’t worry. My attendance is mandatory,” I told him. “Spawn of Satan, remember?”
    He changed his tune when he saw how anxious I was. “It won’t be that bad.”
    “Says you.”
    “I’ll get you out of there if you need me to.”
    “How?”
    “Who knows? Shoplifting. Choking. I’ll tell Mom I have to drop a deuce.”
    We both laughed.
    “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said.
    He raised his novel and said, “Me either. Now go, so you can come back.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    The trip to the beach took all of five minutes and an eternity. People were out enjoying their weekend. Joggers and walkers and bikers with bells. Military hard-asses and women in spandex. Old people in golf carts.
    I tucked my chin and sped up, remembering Fletcher’s insight into my paranoia about being in public.
    “Sadie, the whole world doesn’t get up in the morning just to watch you,” he’d said. “They have songs on their iPods, worries at work, relationships that suck, kids to feed. Most of them don’t have time to consider your scars.”
    I’d argued that might be true for people his age— I’d stuck that knife in deep—but my friends were visual. We were a tattooed generation of Instagrammers. Hell, we invented the selfie.
    His answer: I wish you would take a selfie.
    My return: Maybe I will.
    I would not be taking a selfie today.
    In an hour, the beach would be full of more eyeballs. Thankfully, Gray was alone, setting up chairs and umbrellas.
    I toed off my flip-flops and left them on the wooden walkway, watching Gray carry a load of twelve chairs in a box formation. This job suited him—it required someone strong enough to lift and charming enough to get the tips. The stretch between the Worthy Wayfarer and Blue Waters had been Gray’s territory since he was old enough to work.
    Sweat dripped down his back as he set the chairs in place and came back for another load. He was fast and efficient, unaware of anything but his job. I waited to walk down until he started setting umbrellas. He drilled a hole in the sand with a bit longer than my leg, dropped in the umbrella, and popped it open against the wind. Gray was about to add