The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Laurie Stolarz (best books to read fiction .txt) 📖

I darted for the path, able to see the familiar fluorescent light of the Lightning Gas Station: the golden bolt.

When at last I’d made it, I stood away from the pumps to try phoning my aunt again, on the off chance she might pick up. No dice.

I continued forward. A mini-mart stood up ahead, across the street. I hobbled toward it, tempted to remove my shoes. I’d be faster with bare feet. I started to cross the road just as the VW-van-from-before came screeching around the corner, straight in my direction, stunning me still. Did he see me? Or was it too dark? Did he notice the flashlight beam?

A loud, blaring siren sounded then. The van’s horn. The driver wasn’t slowing down. He was coming straight for me. The headlights flashed, blinding me, telling me I needed to move.

I lurched forward, diving onto the sidewalk, landing on my forearms, peeling free the top layer of skin. Still, the van continued down the street, screeching around a corner.

I got up and continued to the convenience store, only to discover the CLOSED sign hanging on the door. Meanwhile, blood dripped down the length of my forearms. Dirt tattooed my skin. I sat on a bench, trying to hold it all together. Anxiety walloped inside my heart, cinching my lungs, stealing my breath.

Finally, my phone went off.

Felix: “I’m really sorry, Terra, but I can’t find my stepdad’s keys. I’m thinking they’re in his bedroom, in one of his pockets, probably, but he and my mom are currently occupied—draw your own conclusions—and I can’t exactly risk a lifetime of damaging images I won’t ever be able to erase. But where are you? I’ll take my bike.”

I stood up, trying to picture the tension inside my chest like a ball of ice that gets smaller with each breath.

“Terra?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure? Where are you, even?”

“Not far now. I’ll be home soon enough.” Two more streets, plus up one hill, then just over a bridge. “I’m about twenty minutes away.”

“How about Uber-ing home, just this once?”

“You know I won’t.”

“It’s no different from a cab.”

“I don’t do cabs either. I’m just going to walk.”

“Okay, so pretend I’m walking with you. Talk to me until you get home. How was your night?”

A wheeze escaped from my throat. “I can’t right now.”

“Talking and walking, I get it. In fact, I get winded just thinking about it. So, how about I tell you about my night?”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“Quite the contrary, not good at all—unless you consider whining, moody, cod-craving pregger-cats endearing.”

I’d never been so happy—or willing—to hear about Felix’s feline dilemmas (his mother was a breeder of the Persian variety). About fifteen minutes—and three angry cat stories—later, I finally arrived home to my aunt’s house. I snagged the key from the planter on the stoop and unlocked the door.

“You there?” Felix asked.

“Here,” I said, tossing the key back and locking up behind me.

“Better?”

“Much.” I let out a breath. “I seriously owe you one.”

“How about your vintage Gucci shades? They look way better on me anyway.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks again.” I clicked the phone off and peered outside, from behind the curtain, unable to shake the gnawing sensation of being watched.

But the street looked quiet.

And everyone’s lights were off.

It’s a peaceful night, I told myself. The purply sky was punctuated by the sliver of a yellow moon and a sprinkling of stars. Had my father been by my side, he’d have told me a sky that color meant the following day was sure to be beautiful.

Unfortunately, I’d never find out.

NOW

3

I wake up early and go downstairs. My aunt is already up, dressed in her running gear. She places a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, at the kitchen table.

“What are your plans for today?” she asks.

“School stuff,” I lie. I’m taking online classes to earn my GED.

“You should get out for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.” She downs a shot of wheatgrass, straight from the juicer.

I’m actually planning to walk—a five-mile trek through Hayberry Park—but she doesn’t need to know that.

“How’s school going anyway?” she asks.

The real answer: I’m failing history, and I got a 58 on my most recent geometry exam. What I actually say: “It’s going pretty well.”

“Nice.” She nods. “The way you’ve been working so hard, trying to turn things around … Your parents would be proud.”

Correction: My parents would never buy a bit of this BS. They also would’ve believed me six months ago, when I came home covered in dirt and needing stronger meds.

I force a bite of oatmeal: steel-cut oats, soaked overnight in almond milk, and freshly ground flaxseed. My aunt is a health nut. Clean body, clean mind. There’s no place for my dirty, pill-popping self.

I pour a layer of maple syrup over the oatmeal, much to Aunt Dessa’s distaste. I can see the irritation twitching on her lip. To her, maple syrup is the devil’s food, right up there with sugar, flour, and hydrogenated oil. To me, it’s holy water because it reminds me of my mother.

“Aren’t you going to have some?” I ask her.

My aunt pushes in her chair, even though she never sat; the legs make a scratching sound against the floor. “I’m going to head out for my run, but I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”

She pokes her earbuds in before I can respond, then forces a smile—the same off-centered grin as my mother’s. My aunt Dessa looks a lot like my mother too—same honey-colored hair, same wide brown eyes and pointed chin. Even her voice sounds similar: delicate, like tinkling wind chimes. Sometimes, when I hear her talking on her cell, I’ll linger a few seconds, imagining it’s my mother’s voice, that Mom’s still here with me.

Other times, I’ll pretend it’s my dad’s coffee cup on the table, that he just stepped away for a second, to answer an email, to change his shirt. He’ll be right back, I tell myself.

After my aunt leaves, I retreat to my room, wishing my parents