The Lies About Truth Read Online Free PDF

corner booth) and gelato (chocolate). We were almost late to the airport.
    Was it against the rules to buy a guy flowers? It was either roses, magazines from the Hudson News stand, or ten bucks toward something sketchy from the refrigerated case. I couldn’t show up empty-handed after a year, so I went with the roses. Yellow, because yellow was more masculine than pink.
    “Yellow means friendship,” Mom said.
    “Dammit.”
    Mom laughed. “Max probably won’t know that.”
    I stared a hole through the arrivals board from my corner of the small waiting area. Mom plopped down in one of those uncomfortable leather seats, tapping her foot while she checked email on her phone. When flight number 4563 from Miami changed from On Time to Landed , I came and stood next to her. Right on cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
    Max: On the ground.
    Me: Waiting area!
    “You ready?” Mom asked.
    “I’m . . . not sure,” I admitted. My hands poured sweat, and I wiped them on Mom’s shoulders to demonstrate. I figured she used to spit-clean my face in public, and paybacks were a bitch. She gave me an “Oh, gross,” but smiled the whole time.
    “You look great,” she promised.
    “We did our best.”
    To keep from pacing, I tucked into a ball at her feet and smelled the roses. They were sure to make Max laugh—a nice way to kick off his return. Perhaps a distraction from my face.
    Max: At the gate. Warning! I smell like a plane & I sound like an engine.
    Me: I don’t care.
    Max: *Smiles*
    Mom and I stood up, anxious. Sonia appeared first and waved.
    “Hey, Sadie! Hey, Tara! I’ll be right there.” Her voice stretched down the monochrome hallway to greet me before she darted into the women’s restroom.
    Behind her was Max. I nearly collapsed at the sight of him. When Max left for El Salvador he was five six and 175 pounds; I never dreamed he’d return at over six feet. Stocky and boyish transformed into lean and ropy and . . . sort of hot.
    Hot. (adj.) a word I never expected I’d use to describe Max McCall.
    The closer he came, the more I realized he looked nearlyidentical to Trent. I lowered the fedora, ensuring it fully covered Idaho, and prepared myself for his examination. Max half jogged, half ran toward the security exit and flipped an apologetic wave to the TSA lady guarding the Point of No Return.
    I imagined the TSA lady smiling at him, loving her job of witnessing reunited families.
    “Sadie.” His voice strained to reach above a whisper, but he sounded so happy.
    “Max.”
    There was no hesitation on his part. He threw out his arms as if he were catching the entire sky, and cinched us together.
    Instinct took over, and I held him back. The fedora fell off.
    Plane smell was a mixture of fajita, sweat, and Max. Plane smelled perfect. I dropped the roses on the fedora and held on all the way to my fingertips. Inside his hug was rough and firm and warm, like a cozy sleeping bag on a January night.
    My You look like Trent came out as, “You’re so . . . tall.”
    “I’m glad to see you, too.” Max lifted me off the ground and swung me side to side. It was such a Trent thing to do, or maybe now it was such a Max thing to do. Regardless, this total smash of muscle-against-muscle friendship was hard to put into words.
    I didn’t try. I just enjoyed it.
    When the hug ended, he latched on to his backpack straps and looked at me. I didn’t let him linger. I grabbed my hat and shoved it on my head, checking with Mom for a nod of approval.
    She gave it as Max said, “You look amazing.”
    That gravelly voice worked on me. He meant what he said, but I set my sights on the carpet, unsure of what to say or whether to argue. I had a hat over Idaho, jeans over Pink Floyd, and sleeves over Tennessee. Of the bigger scars, that left the jagged one that arched up from the right corner of my mouth that I’d never named. I’d considered Mississippi, because it was two crooked, jagged lines—a sideways squiggly lightning