“God, that’s kind of a juicy one, huh?” she said, lips pursed. “I don’t even think Alexis knows how much I despised it. Absolutely no shade on cheerleading. That sport is intense. It just wasn’t for me. But I tried out the summer that my mom got remarried and my dad was so worried about us. The day I came home and told him I made the team was the first real smile he’d worn in months.” Her voice caught at the end, but she coughed through it. “He thought having a big group of friends, something to focus my attention on would help me get through the tough parts of their divorce. When I would have traded all the terrifying moments of flying through the air for spending more time working on the school paper.”

I stood and shoved the vine in the trash bag, the shape of it like the tentacles of some ancient sea monster. “Makes sense to me,” I said. “You wanted more time to tell stories.”

She tilted her head. “It was all I thought about, even if I was just writing up articles about the yearbook club or new football mascot designs. I managed to grin and bear it through cheerleading for three years and never, ever admitted it to my dad. His heart was very…fragile at that time. I didn’t want to put any extra pressure on it.”

I watched Tabitha yank weeds and trash with her usual exuberant energy, dancing around like this was a regular morning hangout between friends. And I wondered about a person who seemed so open—about life and her wants and her feelings—but had lied to her family about her own happiness just to keep them smiling.

“Would you ever tell him the truth?” I asked.

She hesitated, mid-motion. Then she shook her head. “Probably not. The guy still has every picture and trophy up in a dusty glass case in our house, right next to the pride flag he’s been hanging out the second-story window every June since the year I came out. Seems pointless now, doesn’t it?”

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my arm. “I know what you mean. And I’ve been there. Sometimes it’s harder telling people the truth if they’ve already got this idea about you in their head.”

Some of the tension left her shoulders. “It really is.” She hauled a large tangle of weeds into the bag. “Remember how we walked to high school together twice a week?”

“Wednesdays and Thursdays,” I said, then turned away, feeling too eager.

“Yes. Because Tuesday night, you, me, and Rowan were all in different practices for our various sports. And I have such a strong memory of us comparing weekly injuries as we walked—or limped—in our sweats to class. Didn’t you show up to a support group meeting once with a black eye?”