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Fraud

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

Saturday afternoon, my parents go on a date, their first in ages.

“Movie, then dinner,” Dad tells me, tying his Sambas. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

“Very sure,” I say. Even if they hadn’t chosen a rom-com and a bistro filled with tables for two, there’s no way I’d tag along as their third wheel.

And anyway, I’ve got a date of my own.

Mom comes skipping down the stairs. She’s wearing a floral dress, white Vejas, and a distressed denim jacket she borrowed from my closet. With her sandy hair blown out, she looks fresh and happy.

“Good lord, Cam,” she says, eyeing Dad’s ancient shoes. “You’re wearing those?”

He looks to me. “You like these, don’t you, Millie?”

“Love ’em,” I say, and peek at the clock. If they don’t scoot soon, I’ll be late.

“Next PCS,” Mom says, “those things are going in the donations pile.”

“They’d better not!” Dad says, playing aghast.

She gives a grandiose shrug. “Moves are hectic. Things get misplaced.”

“All my fraternity T-shirts,” he laments, as if he lost real, valuable treasure. “Gone.”

“There, there,” I say, patting his shoulder, ushering him toward the door. “You guys will miss your movie if you don’t get going. Have fun!”

From the porch, I watch as they get into the Volvo. Dad says something to Mom. She smiles, dipping her head, so it must’ve been complimentary, and probably cringe. They drive off looking the way they used to before we left Virginia, before Beck passed, before life became muddled with complications.

I swallow back the sour taste of culpability.

They wouldn’t be so lighthearted if they knew the secrets I’m guarding.

I fill Major’s food and water bowls, shrug on a hoodie, and smooth balm over my lips. Then I head for the basketball court.

Isaiah’s there, along with Trevor and Molly. They’re swapping wild shots, goofing around. When Trevor sinks a distant three-pointer, Molly prances over and kisses his cheek. That’s when Isaiah spots me and his face, seconds ago vexed by Trevor’s lucky shot, transforms. He jogs over, takes my hand, and twirls me around.

“Okay, why do you look hot in gym clothes?” he says.

I laugh. I’m wearing charcoal running tights and black Nikes with a light blue hoodie. I pull its zipper down to show him what’s beneath: the East River High basketball T-shirt I bought from the student store. “I figure if I’m going to be with a basketball badass, I ought to look the part.”

His palm finds my cheek, and his mouth meets mine. We kiss, a greeting that fills me with warmth. As it ends, his hand skates over my jaw and down my neck, until his fingers find the neckline of my T-shirt. In an undertone, he says, “I love it.”

A flurry of emotion ripples through me. It’s the first time he’s used that word. It was just an offhanded remark about a shirt, though he could’ve tossed out a dozen other verbs. His choice, this moment, seems pivotal, like one I’ll turn over before I fall asleep tonight, and wake up remembering tomorrow morning.

Is it possible he’s falling in love? When our eyes meet, his dance. When he speaks to me, his voice is honeyed. When we touch, his body unwinds, the way I imagine it does as he sinks into bed at the end of a long day. Isn’t that love? Comfort realized in another person?

Sometimes I think I might be falling in love too.

But when that notion enters my head, fraud follows closely behind, and I worry I’m doing him a disservice, offering him a fraction of a whole.

I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone the way I loved Beck.

I lift onto my toes and kiss him again. He answers, pulling me in. My heart dips, then pitches skyward.

Love.

Maybe…possibly. What if?

“Isaiah!” Trevor hollers. “Are we playin’ or not?”

Isaiah pulls back, rolling his eyes. “We’re playing.”

We hang out on the court awhile, the boys running spirited scrimmages, tossing the ball to Molly and me when we’re paying enough attention to receive it. After narrowly missing a shot, Molly runs at Trevor, leaping onto his back. He catches her legs, laughing.

“You promised we could get frozen yogurt when we’re done here,” she tells him. “Which should be right about…”

“Now,” Trev says. He looks to Isaiah and me. “Y’all want to come?”

“You guys go ahead,” he says.

Watching as they make their way down the block, I ask Isaiah, “Not a fro-yo fan?”

“It’s fine. I’d rather have cookies though.”

“Me too.” I check the time. My parents’ movie is probably letting out, which means they’re on their way to dinner, which means I’ve got more than an hour before they get home. “Want to go to Buttercup Bakery? We can walk to my house and get my car.”

He tucks the ball under his arm and takes my hand and off we go.

We’re approaching my driveway when a silver sedan turns the corner up ahead. I don’t pay it any attention; I’m so enchanted by Isaiah’s laughter and the heat of his palm. It slows in front of us. Even still, it takes me second.

It’s Mom’s Volvo. She’s in the passenger seat, and Dad’s behind the wheel.

My heart free-falls.

Dad stops adjacent to where Isaiah and I stand.

He lowers the window.

He raises his sunglasses, eyes steely.

Mom gapes.

I drop Isaiah’s hand.

“Lia,” Dad says.

Vapidly I say, “I thought you were going to dinner?”

“We did,” Mom says, looking between Isaiah and me.

I slide a step away.

“The movie was sold out, so we ate early.” Dad clears his throat. “Are you going to introduce us to…your friend?”

I glance at Isaiah, whose face is shuttered.

“Isaiah,” I croak. “My parents. Cam and Hannah.”

“Colonel and Mrs. Graham,” Dad corrects, and I might throw up. Never— never —has he suggested that my friends should address them so formally. The first time Paloma, Meagan, and Soph came over, he was casual and friendly, and Beck never called my parents anything but their first names.

“Nice to meet you,” Isaiah says. “Lia and I were just—”

“Hanging out at the park,” I butt in. “And Isaiah was walking me home.”

His gaze swings to mine. I was expecting confusion or concern, maybe anger. His actual expression, bleakly vacant, is much worse.

“Sure,” Isaiah says, coolly composed. He gestures toward the house. “And now we’re here— you’re here—so I’ll take off.” He shifts to face me, looking just over my head, the hand that used to hold mine squeezing in and out of an anxious fist.

I think I could do this forever , he said the other day.

Today he says, tepidly, “Lia, it’s been real.”

And then he continues down the sidewalk, basketball beneath his arm, alone.