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Belly Conklin is in the driveway and the first thing out of Conrad’s mouth is a lie. It's not the only place he lies to her this summer, either- he lies to her in the car, on the court, at the country club. Deception on the back porch and at the kitchen table and, hopefully, in his eyes.
Conrad has been a practiced liar since the middle of April and now it's the middle of June, and the bags under his eyes are decidedly darker and his liver is decidedly weaker. This secret is not the same as the other, (the other, sitting vile in his gut) though; this secret is one he's not so conflicted about hiding, he thinks, tying and untying a bowline knot agitatedly, and it's small and harmless- chiefly, to epithelial cells.
The secret is this: He thinks Belly looks better without glasses, too.
-
Lying to Belly becomes a reliable summer hobby. Like: No, I didn't crash your date because I wanted you to remember I existed; Yeah, I forgot your birthday, happy birthday, I guess; and the greatest one of all is to himself- No, I don't have feelings for Belly. I can look at her and think she's cute but it doesn't mean I have feelings.
It's not because he wants her to hurt. It’s not. He remembers when she was 6 and she went rolling down a sand dune and cut herself on a shell, and his pudgy hands immediately dropped the shovel he was holding and he nearly ran over Jere’s sandcastle in his haste to get at her side.
That's the last thing he wants.
But he woke up hungover again today, and he's just- Jesus, he's embarrassed - he's Googling the price of a casket, he doesn't want to get out of the fucking bed. The truth is this- His mother is dying. His mother is dying. Oh, god, his mother is dying. Why lie to himself, too?
-
June seeps into July. Belly gets drunk. Belly almost kisses him. And Belly keeps wearing the swimsuit Taylor got for her.
When Jeremiah was 10, he'd told Conrad that he had a crush on Belly. She was Jeremiah’s second crush, after the redhead that ran smack into him under the monkey bars. Between sips of Capri-Sun, he'd explained it plainly: “Belly is my friend and she’s funny and we have the same favorite ice cream flavor so I want to marry her.”
Conrad, freshly 11, did not care much for marriage. He cared about joining the NFL as linebacker and also about knots. But he also cared about Belly and silently wondered why Jere had left out important details like that she was a good swimmer and volleyball player and how her smile made you smile back. He thought it kind of an injustice that those hadn't been mentioned even though they seemed kind of obvious. Belly deserved better.
“When are you going to propose?” Conrad asked.
Jeremiah took a long, noisy draught of his Capri-sun. “Probably Friday,” he said, and then never spoke of it again.
Six more Julys and Jere has kissed about a million boys and girls, and yet Conrad looks at his hands resting atop her thighs, astride on his shoulders, and can't help but wonder if he remembers. If he's been carrying a Belly-Conklin-torch for years, and this all suddenly went from bad to exhaustingly convoluted. There's a sick twisting in his gut, looking at them, so visceral he has to fight to keep his face straight, his lips from contorting. He wonders if her skin is still slick with water. He wonders if her neck tastes like chlorine or salt. He wonders if he should storm to his room and put his head in his hands. He thinks he will.
Conrad nurses a joint and wishes he had kissed her on the dock. He wishes he didn't have to see her in that damn swimsuit, with her legs and neck and chest. He wishes he had never started anything with Nicole in the first place. He wishes Nicole was here on his bed with him, right now. He wonders if Belly is ever jealous of Nicole, and then he feels like a fucking idiot. Belly and Nicole are friends. Belly’s so- she's a fun and sociable person, and of course she doesn't just think about him all the time, and-
The weed is making him panic.
He dreams they get married in a Chuck-E-Cheese and in his vows he tells her he's loved her since they were kids. But then his mother isn't there, she's not in the audience, and suddenly he's in a hospital room- It smells like antiseptic and grief, and his back hurts so bad, and he wakes up hungover- this is the root of the problem, isn't it?
-
He’s never really thought about the fact that she sleeps right down the hall from him, but he does now, darkness heavy as his duvet. It could be two a.m. and she’d be up on Instagram like she always is and he could sneak in and press a kiss to her lips, two to her neck, three to her thighs- Conrad can almost picture the look on her face. Almost. He knows her well enough to imagine it but he fucked up enough to be stuck with that. He can imagine her smile, at least. He’s stared at it enough times in the past month.
God, he’s never really realized that living together presents a lot of opportunities. He's pretty sure she has. The thought's gossipy and heady, and he hides a smile that nobody's there to see. He wants her. He does.
He'd be running to her room right now, if he was sane and stable and good enough. But he's not.
-
A hop, skip and a punch to Belly floating in that white silk, far too intangible for his comfort- pearly, exalted, beaming. Conrad dancing with her like they're still kids in the kitchen and Belly, paradoxically, telling the world she isn't one anymore. He’s glad he got to do this, if nothing else. Say goodbye. A night of goodbyes nestled together like a Matryoshka doll. It feels like- well, he's very happy for her. But it feels like the end.
-
(August, and his mom's gonna try. August and relief that's a little suffocating, actually. To be honest- the sacrifice of the past few months crushes his windpipe. Since honesty seems to be the theme. To be honest- It doesn't feel fair but it does mean he's gotta hit the ground running.)
Belly’s lips are so, so close to his. She chokes on her words, a little bit. When he puts his hand in her hair it catches on a knot. He gets the feeling they’ve both been waiting for this a long time.
“I want you to want me.”
I do want you.