Especially if that person might not like what she sees.

“Sometimes I go to group therapy,” I blurt out.

She tilts her head to the side, furrows her brows. “Does. Not. Compute,” she says like a robot.

I laugh, loving her ability to be totally direct and silly too.

“This group. It’s like a support group,” I say and I’m still kind of embarrassed to say it, am still totally ashamed, not of the group, but the fact that I am a card-carrying member.

“Like AA? Is that why you don’t drink?”

“Sort of, but not for alcohol addiction. For something else.” I swallow hard. “I’m in a sex and love addicts recovery group.” I don’t tell her that’s how I know Trey, or that he goes, because that’s not my secret to tell. Instead, I start to unravel one little lie. “Because I’ve made some pretty dumbass choices about boys and men.”

“But you’ve never even given a blow job,” she says, as if she’s found the loophole that will prove I’m wrong.

But I push through and focus on the facts. “I know. And I’ve never had sex either. Which I know makes it seem ridic that I’d go. But yet, therein lies the conundrum. I took money for sex. Well, not sex. But weird little fetishes. I was sort of an escort.”

Kristen drops the field hockey stick on the floor. “You were an escort?” She repeats. “Like an escort-escort?”

I nod, bracing myself for the goodbye. For the sneer. For the tell-tale signs that she’s thinks I’m disgusting. “Yes. A high-end call girl.”

“But you never had sex with them?”

“No. Never. Not even close.”

She exhales loud and long, as if that will somehow help her make sense of this news. She holds out her hands. “I don’t get it. You were a call girl during the time we were friends in high school?”

“I started when I was seventeen. So, yes. When I was a senior in high school and all through freshman year of college.”

She smacks her palm against her forehead. “Am I stupid? How did I not notice? Not see it?”

“You’re not stupid. I’m just really accustomed to covering up. It became a way of life for me. To cover up.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” she says, still in a monotone, eyes wide as the moon.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as if I’m being chided. Maybe I am. I can’t just drop this bomb on her and expect her not to jump or flinch. But at some point you have to stop running from your past. You have to stop letting it define you. You have to puncture it before it swells so big and full that it takes over you. “It wasn’t something I told anyone though, Kristen. It was something I did secretly. It was something, to be honest, that I was kind of addicted too.” Each word tastes strange on my tongue, but not dirty, not bitter. They just taste like a new food I’ve never tried.

Then, as if Kristen has snapped out of her shock, she nods quickly many times. “I get it. I understand. I’m just kind of reconfiguring my hard drive now,” she says, tapping her skull. “And finding room for this new data point about you.”

“Do you think I’m gross?” I ask, worrying away at the cuticle on my thumb.

She shakes her head. Vigorously. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Why not?

“Because you’re not. You’re you. Yeah, I really wish you’d told me sooner,” she says in that direct and honest way Kristen has. “But I also understand that it’s not something you wanted to share. And if you do want to share, I’ll listen.”

We sit down on the linoleum floor and I tell her more. I tell her about Morris, about Cam, about Miranda, about the book she’s making me write. I don’t tell her everything. I don’t offer up every sordid detail. Being truthful doesn’t mean you have no boundaries. Sharing a secret doesn’t mean you have to overshare. But I tell her enough and her eyes go wider with every detail. It’s like stripping bare in front of someone and asking do I look fat, when you know you are fat, when your skin is rippling with cellulite waves.

And now I want to know if everything has changed. Worry lodges deep in my belly, and my throat catches as I ask the inevitable. “Do you still want to be friends with me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be silly. Of course. And I might want you to tell me tawdry tales from time to time so I have fodder for a screenplay someday. Could you do that?” she asks with a wink.

I laugh once. “I’d much rather give you my stories than Miranda.”

She smiles sympathetically. “That really does suck that you had to do that.”

“It was pretty much the worst homework assignment ever.”

Kristen leans forward, pats my knee. “Hey. I know that was hard to tell me. All of that. But I also think it’s kind of cool that you trusted me enough to tell me. And now I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest, okay?”

I brace myself, my instinct, my fear zooming back. I try to remind myself it’s okay to let people in. “Okay. Hit me.”

“You are in love with Trey, aren’t you?”

My breath stops. I don’t even know what love is, I want to say. Instead, I borrow a phrase from her playbook. Because it’s the truth she asked for. “It’s complicated.”

“Or maybe it’s not. Why haven’t you seen him much in the last few days? Just busy? Or is he suffering from some tattoo-induced stupor?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jordan said Trey got himself a new tattoo today. I figured that’s why you guys weren’t together. That he was busy getting inked.”

My stomach contorts with fear and worry. With Trey, a tattoo is never just a tattoo. It’s a symbol, it’s a message, it’s the way he expresses the things he won’t say.

A tattoo is a cry for help.

I need to find him. Even if he won’t call me back.

Chapter Sixteen

Trey

I have my armor on. My earbuds are in and Over the Edge blasts in my head, the music a shield. I make it through the lobby, feeling like a character in a video game darting and dodging cars and trucks to cross a crowded street.

I press the button for the elevator, and it’s empty when it arrives. I step inside, then seconds later, I hear a voice. A sexy, sultry voice.

It’s like I’m being tested, but then that’s the point. I want the test. I’m here to prove to myself I can do this. I can make it across the alligator-strewn waters of my parent’s apartment building.

A gorgeous blond with impossibly long legs and a red dress that looks as if it’s been painted on waggles her fingers at me. “Hold the elevator.”

I swallow, my throat dry. I push the open button.

She walks inside. “Hello there.” The words are a purr from her cherry lips.

I grab the brass bar behind me, holding on for dear fucking life as the elevator shoots up.

Her stop is before mine, and she casts a quick glance before she leaves. I heave a sigh as the doors close.

I passed the first test. I picture some army dude, a colonel maybe, in a room with one-way glass, barking out orders. “Cue the cougar in the elevator. Next, roll out the MILF.”

But seconds later, I’m at my parent’s floor. This is the real test. The assault rifles, the grenades–-the army commander is preparing to launch them all at me as I head to Antarctica.

I take out the earbuds and turn off the music. I know this hallway in the dark, without a flashlight. I could find my way in and out of this building blindfolded. This is where I grew up, became fucked up, and then was told to shut up.

I stop at the door, then take a beat. Gritting my teeth, drawing a breath, steeling myself.

I knock.

My mother answers, and even though it’s late, she’s up because she rarely sleeps. She’s still dressed too. She’s wearing jeans and a button-down blouse. Her hair is in a neat ponytail. She holds a medical journal in her hand.

“Trey, is everything okay? What are you doing here at midnight? Come in.” She gestures to the apartment, every surface perfectly and pristinely cleaned.