Little Lies

“Maverick, this is Josiah. I tripped this morning and broke my glasses, and Josiah has graciously lent me his eyes so I could find you, although I’m sure he’s very much regretting that now.”

“Just imagine how much more he’d regret it if it was Riv he was meeting.”

He has a point.

I turn to Josiah. “Anyway, thanks so much for helping me out today. I know you’re meeting friends, and I don’t want to hold you up.” I’m 100 percent giving him an out and hoping he takes it before Mav says something else embarrassing.

“Honestly, it’s no problem. I’ll see you on Wednesday?”

“For sure.” I nod.

“Nice to meet you, Maverick.”

“You too, man.” He waits until Josiah walks away. “Look at you! Making new friends on day one. Just don’t introduce him to your feral twin, and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know what was worse, living at home last year or living with you two now.”

While River went to Chicago and lived on campus, where literally everyone we know is, I got to live at home in Lake Geneva with my parents and take a general year at the local college. In hindsight, I think it was the right move for me. Did it suck to miss out on all the stuff that comes with living away from home? And was it hard knowing that pretty much my entire network of friends and cousins were out here? Yup. But it was nice being away from my overprotective brothers. I even had a boyfriend that no one threatened to murder. It was an experience I needed and wanted. That relationship only lasted a few months, but I managed to get in some great experimental learning since he had his own room on campus.

“At least now you have some freedom.” Mav tosses my keys at me. They fall to the ground because I can’t see them, and my ability to catch is questionable on a good day with glasses.

“I can’t see to drive, Mav.” I point to my face and nearly poke myself in the eye.

“Oh, shit, right.” He bends to retrieve them. “Huh, well, I have class in ten. I could take you after that?”

“You know what? It’s fine. I’ll walk.”

“I’ll take her.” Kodiak’s deep voice makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“See, perfect? Thanks, K.” Mav is all smiles and cluelessness as he pats Kodiak on the back, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and takes off.

“You don’t have to drive me home. I probably have a spare pair in the glove box,” I mutter. I’m sure my face is on fire. The humiliation from the last time I was alone with him comes flooding back, like blood rushing to a fresh wound.

“You’re gonna need to know where the car is parked, regardless.” He’s so close, it’s hard to breathe.

I’m glad I can’t see him clearly. I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but the words get trapped in my throat. It didn’t used to be like this. For a long time, Kodiak was my safe space. We used to tell each other everything. I thought he was my soul mate—until I screwed everything up and made him hate me, and then he went and made sure I hated him back.

“Let’s go. I don’t have all day.”

I practically run to keep up with his long strides.

I want to make some kind of cheeky remark, but the last time I spoke to Kodiak, the results were less than desirable, so it’s better for me to keep my mouth shut. Besides, there’s a good chance I’ll trip over my words like I trip over my feet.

Tears of frustration and embarrassment prick at my eyes. I feel stupid. Clumsy. Unwanted. A nuisance. Girls whisper his name as we pass, and one falls into step beside him, asking about some party on Friday.

He barely acknowledges her, aloof as always.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks.

I don’t bother to look at her or give any indication that I’m aware I’m being talked about as though I don’t exist.

“No one you need to concern yourself with. See you at the party on Friday.” He snaps his fingers at me, like I’m a dog. “Come on, pick up the pace.”

I follow him across the parking lot, teeth clenched, fighting the urge to scream or cry. This is so humiliating.

My car beeps, and I rush around to the passenger side, but Kodiak has only unlocked the driver’s side door, so I yank on it twice and then have to wait until he feels like hitting the button a second time.

“Please let there be glasses in here somewhere.” I slide into the passenger seat and flick open the glove compartment, pulling out the manual and insurance papers in hopes that I’ll find something, anything. Even an old pair with the wrong prescription would be welcome. Or forgotten contact lenses.