just say that, Yes, she and I’m sorry for lying, I was afraid. If she was ever going to come out, if she was going to suck it up and tell someone—somebody, somebody—weren’t Riley and Lin the perfect people to tell? Riley, who talked back at the kids from school, the ones who would call the few out kids faggots as they walked by. Riley, who would not hide her disgust toward the word or those who said it. Or Lin, who answered the door one day when Pike was dissociating, long before she knew what that even was. Walked ten miles to Lin’s house, shedding her panic like snake skin, had not realized how far she’d gone until Lin opened the door, till she gave her a tall glass of water then drove her home and never once made Pike tell her anything, was just calm and present and good.
Why could Pike not tell them? Why did she distrust them so suddenly, so fiercely, when they had never given her a single reason to distrust them before? Pike opened her mouth and tried—truly, she did—went to swallow the unwarranted fear of a rejection from either of them. Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip, all nerves, the clean sharp taste of salt from the sea on her tongue.
“God, I really am sleep deprived,” Pike said instead, the shame from her lie already gathering at the back of her throat. “I missed my morning ritual today, too.”