The Lies About Truth by Courtney C. Stevens Page A

we learned all those old songs.”
    “He never told me that.”
    “It was our thing.”
    “We always biked to the jetty on my birthday,” I told him.
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “You can remember him anytime you want with me,” I offered.
    He kissed my forehead and thanked me.
    Down at the dock, we hung our feet over the bay and listened to the inky water lap against the posts beneath us. There was salt in the wind and moonlight on the water. Usually, when I breathed in this view, I was not small. I was part of something that covered two-thirds of the world.
    Not tonight. I was a dust mote on a universe-size stage.
    I realized, sitting there next to Max, that I didn’t want to shrink the world so it would fit me better; I wanted to expand. That really, that’s what Fletcher and I had been working on allyear. Even though I was so damn slow about it.
    “Star Time?” Max asked.
    “Please,” I answered.
    Star Time was a Trent original. We’d all be hanging out, chatty as blue-haired ladies in a beauty shop, and he’d yell, “Star Time!”
    That meant we should give ourselves to nature and shut up. Trent went balls-to-the-wall all day, but he was a big believer in listening to the world’s little moments at night. Wherever we were on his parents’ boat, we’d lie back, quiet as little shadows, and look for poetry in the night sky.
    I thought I’d already found some. Now, if I could only find the strength to hold on to it.
    In unison, Max and I reclined on the wooden planks. They were splintery and full of uneven places and raised screws, but so cozy and familiar, I could have taken another nap. I laced my hands over my belly button, and Max did the same.
    “I like that one.” Max pointed at the space above the Big Dipper.
    “Cassiopeia?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    He didn’t care which constellation I picked. Picking out stars was like picking out snowflakes. It was difficult to tell if we’d chosen the same ones, but they were all good choices.
    “Cassiopeia was a queen,” I said.
    He took his eyes off the sky. “Like you.”
    “Um, not exactly, Romeo, since she went around boastingabout her unrivaled beauty.”
    He laughed. “That does sound like you, but . . .” He turned back to the sky. “You should boast about your beauty.”
    “Max.” I didn’t mean to sound so condescending, but it came out that way before I could correct my tone.
    “I’m not joking,” he said.
    “I don’t even know how you can look at me when I look like this, much less bring beauty into it.”
    His mouth opened in an O, surprised. “Look like what? Sadie, you look just like you always have to me.”
    “Except with these.” I pointed to Idaho and Nameless.
    “That’s not what I see.”
    “It feels like that’s what everyone’s looking at.”
    He huffed. “God, I’d like to kick Gray Garrison in the nads.” He sat up and forced me to do the same. His hands cupped my face and he locked eyes with me. “Look at me.”
    We were inches apart. There was nowhere else to look.
    “Your face is beautiful, but I’m not some shallow asshole who falls in love with a face. You hear me?”
    That rasp in his voice was perfect.
    I braved an answer. “Yes.”
    “Sadie, you could go through a million windows and nothing would change.”
    He leaned forward.
    Our noses touched.
    I thought about his lips.
    I imagined he’d close his eyes soon, but he didn’t.
    His head tilted—a clear invitation—lingering just far enough away that I still had a choice. Then, he moved his hand to my hip and part of me that had been asleep for a long time woke up. I made my choice.
    A kiss can be a kiss or it can be an event.
    I have cared about Max McCall all my life. Never like this , but since we were three and nine and twelve and fifteen and this past year and everywhere in between. Friends had become friends who became more than friends.
    “I couldn’t see you when we were kids,” I said when there was finally room to speak.
    He tucked a