Adrian’s face appears in the window.
“We need to talk.”
I leap out of bed and open the door. “Yes, we really do, because—”
“Not here,” he says. “I’ve got my truck out front. Let’s go for a drive.”
* * *
He doesn’t say where we’re going, but as soon as reach the on-ramp for 295 I figure it out. We merge into fast-flowing traffic, connect with 76 West, and cross the Walt Whitman Bridge, soaring high above the shipyards and seaports of the Delaware River. We are going to South Philadelphia. Adrian is bringing me home.
“You don’t have to do this. Turn the truck around.”
“We’re almost there,” he says. “Five more minutes.”
It’s too early for football and the Phils must be out of town because the expressway is clear, no traffic. Adrian takes the exit for Oregon Avenue. He keeps glancing at his GPS, but from this point I could direct him blindfolded. I still know every road and stop sign and traffic light. All the old businesses are still here: the fast-food places and the cheesesteak shops, the Asian supermarkets and the cell phone retailers and the sports bar/strip club that recruited two of my classmates straight from high school. No one was ever going to mistake my old neighborhood for Spring Brook. The roads are full of potholes; the sidewalks are littered with broken glass and chicken bones. But many of the rowhouses have new aluminum siding and look better than I remember, like people have been making an effort to keep everything nice.
Adrian stops at the corner of Eighth and Shunk. I’m guessing he found my address online because we’re right in front of the short squat rowhouse I used to call home. The bricks have been repointed, the shutters have a fresh coat of paint, and there’s bright green grass where our white gravel “yard” used to be. Next to the front door is a man standing on a ladder; he’s wearing work gloves and scooping dead leaves from the rain gutters.
Adrian shifts into park and turns on his flashers. I haven’t seen any of my neighbors since high school and I’m afraid of being spotted. The houses are all packed tight together and it’s easy to imagine everyone opening their doors and streaming outside to gape at me.
“Please just drive.”
“Is this where you grew up?”
“You already know it is.”
“Who’s the man on the ladder?”
“I don’t know. Just drive, all right?”
The man turns to study us. He’s middle-aged, balding, not too tall and dressed in an Eagles jersey. “You need something?”
I’ve never seen him before. Maybe my mother has hired a handyman. More likely, she’s sold the house and moved away and this man is the new owner. I wave an apology and turn to Adrian. “If you don’t go right now, I am getting out of this truck and walking back to Spring Brook.”
He shifts into drive and we move through the green light. I direct him through traffic to FDR Park, South Philly’s go-to spot for picnics, birthdays, and wedding party photography. Growing up, we all called it “the Lakes,” because it’s speckled with ponds and lagoons. The largest one is Meadow Lake and we find a bench with a good view of the water. Off on the horizon, against the gray sky, we can see the elevated roadways of Interstate 95, six lanes of cars hurtling to and from the airport. And for a long time we don’t say anything, because neither of us knows where to start.
“I wasn’t lying about the scholarship,” I tell him. “In my junior year, I ran a 5K in seventeen minutes, fifty-three seconds. I was the sixth-fastest girl in Pennsylvania. You can google it.”
“I already googled it, Mallory. The first day we met, I ran home and searched for every Mallory Quinn in Philadelphia. I found all your high school stats. Just enough to make your story feel credible.” Then he laughs. “But nothing on Twitter, nothing on social media. I thought it was cool—this aura of mystery. The girls at Rutgers, they’re on Instagram twenty-four/seven, posting glamour shots and fishing for compliments. But you were different. I thought you were confident. I never imagined you were hiding something.”
“I was mostly honest.”
“Mostly? What does that mean?”
“I only lied about my past. Nothing else. Not the pictures from Anya. And definitely not the way I feel about you. I was going to tell you the truth last night, over dinner, I swear.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares out over the lake. Some nearby kids are playing with a drone; it looks like a miniature UFO with eight furiously spinning propellers, and every time it passes by, it sounds like a swarm of bees. I realize Adrian is waiting for me to continue, that he’s giving me the chance to come clean. I take a deep breath.