Read Online Triangles by Ellen Hopkins - Free Book Online

with
    me. Problem is, I see
    him as hers. And
    in him, I see her.
    And anytime I’m with
    Vern, I can’t help but think
    of my treasured friend, standing at the altar in ice blue. Valerie isn’t a memory, nor is she a ghost.
    She is, forever, a presence.
    THE COUNTY EMPLOYEE
    Parking lot is a huge rectangle,
    maybe a quarter mile around.
    We complete half of it at a brisk
    pace, exchanging a bit of workplace gossip—who’s getting divorced,
    who’s sleeping with whom, who
    has recently entered rehab. On the far side of the asphalt, the tenor of our conversation changes when Vern
    asks, So, are you seeing anybody?
    “You mean, like, seriously dating?
    No. I was, but … didn’t work out.”
    I spare him the grisly details, or
    maybe I spare myself. I don’t want
    to talk about Geoff or even think
    about him. “How about you?”
    He shakes his head. I haven’t been with anyone since … It gets lonely, 161/881
    you know? I mean, the kids keep me busy enough. But it’s not the same as having a best friend around—
    someone to confide in. To trust.
    “I’ve never really had one of those, not one I slept with, anyway.”
    I have. And I miss her. But I can’t keep mourning forever. It’s toxic.
    We turn the corner, and I walk
    even faster, trying to avoid what’s coming next. But it’s inevitable.
    Hey, slow down a little, would you?
    So, I was wondering if maybe we—
    you and I—could see each other.
    I don’t know what to say. That I was closer to Valerie than to my own sister, and so it would feel incestuous? Am I just being stupid? He’s cute. Sweet.
    Gainfully employed. But I don’t think I could ever fall in love with him. “Vern …
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    Listen. This last breakup was difficult.
    I decided to spend more time with Harley, give myself a vacation from dating.” True enough. “Maybe in the future?” Cop-out.
    A COP-OUT
    According to Encarta, is
    a “feebly transparent
    excuse for refusing to face
    up to something.”
    Excuses,
    apparently, should be
    thick with honesty. Opaque
    with believability. They
    are
    best offered up cold,
    no time to invent elaborate
    embellishments or
    futile
    misdirection. But where
    is the dishonor in
    fabricated justification
    if
    one is attempting to spare
    fragile feelings?
    Can deceit, not
    seen
    or even intuited, perhaps
    be the proper choice?
    A deception uncovered might
    be forgiven if viewed
    through
    164/881
    a veil of compassion.

    Holly
    DECEPTIONS
    Come in many sizes:
    Huge.
    Like lying about going
    to the movies, while
    really meeting someone
    to engage in extramarital
    boffing—even if the boff
    happens to suck, so isn’t
    even close to worthy of all
    the ensuing guilt. Gack.
    Big.
    Like telling your parents
    you’re spending the night
    at your girlfriend’s, when
    in fact you’re going to a drug-
    and booze-soaked party with
    with your horny boyfriend.
    Medium.
    Like claiming you’ve taken
    up running completely for
    its health benefits, though
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    you know it’s more about
    all that positive attention.
    Small.
    Like writing erotica in
    private moments. Dirt,
    floating in your bathtub.
    THE
    FOURTH
    WEDNESDAY
    IN
    JUNE
    I inform my family that I’m going
    out to a play with a friend. Don’t
    know why I feel the need to lie,
    except if nothing comes of this writing thing, it will just be another whim lacking follow-through. My last hobby was watercolor. I took a class and
    everything. Really enjoyed the creative process and my teacher said I had
    a talent for landscapes. He even offered to introduce me to a friend who has a gallery. But then Papa got sick and I quit the class and just never picked up a brush again. Maybe someday. Or maybe the writing will fill the same artistic gap inside me. Who knows?
    I tuck the journal with the unfinished story deep inside my purse. Not sure if I’ll find the courage to pull it out.
    Not sure I’ll find the drive to finish it, 168/881
    let alone keep working on the collection I envision writing.