Page 22 of Broken Secrets
“That’s not right,” he says quietly. “Whatever Jeremy did to your mom, that doesn’t give her the right to keep you from knowing your father.”
“But what if she was protecting me? What if being second choice would have been worse than being nothing at all?”
“You don’t know you would have been second choice. That’s your mom’s assumption, not fact.”
CHAPTER SIX
I dragmyself to first period, my eyes feeing like sandpaper. I feel like I didn’t sleep.
Derek finds me at my locker before second period, his presence instantly calming the chaos in my head.
“How are you holding up?” he asks, leaning against the locker next to mine.
“Barely.” I pull out my chemistry textbook, avoiding his eyes. “I keep thinking about Emma. About how she gets to have family dinners with him and I only get to wonder about it.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know that.” I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. “But it doesn’t stop the hurt.”
His hand finds mine, his fingers warm and steady. “I’m here for you.” he kisses my cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”
He walks me to chemistry, and for the fifty minutes of molecular bonding and electron configurations, I almost forget my problems at home.
My phone buzzes with a text.
MAYA
Mom suggested I invite you for dinner tonight. She’s making your favorite lasagna. No questions asked, just food.
I stare at the text, realizing I’ve been so consumed with the Jeremy situation that I’ve barely talked to my best friend all week. Maya, who’s been there for every crisis since we were thirteen. Maya, who deserves better than my radio silence.
ME
Yes, please. I really need this.
MAYA
Come over around six.
Maya’s house smells like garlic bread and home. Mrs. Carlson greets me at the door with a hug that lasts just long enough to remind me what maternal warmth feels like without the complications of secrets and lies.
“Baby girl, you look tired,” she says, studying my face with the concerned expression of someone who’s been watching me grow up for five years. “Are you eating enough? Sleeping?”
“I’m okay, some family stuff.”
She nods knowingly. “Family stuff is the hardest stuff. But you have people who love you, remember that.”
“Of course, thank you.”
After a while, we sit for dinner. Maya’s little brother Caleb complains about algebra, and Mrs. Carlson fusses overeveryone’s plates. “Olivia, how’s soccer going?” Mr. Carlson asks, passing the garlic bread. “Maya says you’re having a good season.”
“It’s going well,” I lie smoothly. “Coach thinks we have a shot at league championships.”
Maya catches my eye across the table, and I can tell she knows I’m not being entirely truthful. Maya has always been able to read me like her favorite book.
After dinner, we escape to her room. It’s filled with nexplosion of fairy lights, polaroid photos, and the kind of organized chaos that somehow makes perfect sense. Maya flops onto her bed, patting the space beside her.
