Lies You Never Told Me(59)

“Elyse . . .”

“No, seriously, Aiden. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where would we go?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Away. New York. L.A. Somewhere we can disappear in a crowd. Somewhere we can be together, alone.”

He shakes his head. “Think of what you’d be giving up . . .”

“What?” I snort. “Life with my mom? Thirty hours a week mopping up spilled soda? A best friend who . . .” The words catch in my throat. I want to say “stabs me in the back,” but I know that’s not right. I know Brynn thinks she’s helping me. Still, who is she to decide what’s right for me? I’ve been taking care of myself as long as I can remember. I don’t need her—or my mom, for that matter—thinking she knows better.

“It won’t work.” But he looks like he’s running calculations, plotting a course. “What will we do? How will we get by?”

“We’ll figure it out. You did, when you were a teenager.”

“That was different. I didn’t have to take care of someone else.”

“You won’t have to take care of me,” I say. “We’ll take care of each other. We’ll do it together.”

He exhales gently. His breath floats away in a cloud.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” he whispers. “But I would go anywhere to be with you.”

I put my hands on either side of his face, look into his eyes. “Then let’s go. Because I’m yours, Aiden.”

Our lips meet, my fingers cold on his warm cheeks. He gives a little groan of frustration.

“I need a few days to get things ready,” he says.

My heart leaps. “Does that mean yes?”

He gives a strangled laugh. “It means I must be out of my mind.” He kisses me again. “But the thought of living without you is worse than the thought of being caught.”

Every last doubt dissolves. It’s all I wanted to hear. I wipe my face, tears and rain mingling together.

“Do you think you can be ready by this weekend?” he asks.

“I can be ready by midnight tonight,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Friday. I’ll pick you up at the bus stop by the school at midnight.” He examines my face, then smooths my hair back from my forehead. “When we go, we’ll have to move fast. Be ready.”

I nod. I’m already making a mental list of what I’ll need.

I’m already saying goodbye to everything else.





THIRTY-THREE


    Gabe




The flames race along the bottom of the house, faster than I could have imagined. I’m moving before I even have a plan.

I run toward the window, waving my arms, but Catherine and her father are already moving, turned away from the window and heading into another room. My phone is in my hand, 911 already punched in. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” The voice sounds far away. I pound on the window.

“Catherine!” I scream. “Fire!”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down . . .”

I take off around the side of the house, looking for the nearest door. The smell of burned wood and gasoline clogs my nostrils. In my hand the emergency operator’s voice buzzes low and calm. “What is your location, sir?”

“I’m at 157 Meadowlark. There’s a house fire. I can smell gas. There are two people in the house. Hurry, please!” I hang up the phone as I skid around the corner to the front just in time to see the porch erupt into flame.

Fire engulfs the steps, dancing up the pillars into the eaves. I stagger back, blinded by the lurid orange light. A sudden gust of air sweeps in, and for a moment the flames dim.

Then they roar back, stronger than ever.

From far away I hear the sound of sirens. But there’s no time to wait.

I grab a cinder block from the edge of the flower bed. I don’t even feel its weight as I throw it with all my might at the nearest window. The sound of breaking glass is swallowed by the noise from the flames. Jumping up, I grab at the edge of the window and swing my leg over the sill.

“Catherine!” I yell. “Catherine! Where are you?”

I’m in a spartan living room. There’s a plain brown couch, a small flat-screen TV on the wall, and three floor lamps. No decorations, no shelves or old granny-square afghans or anything remotely personal. I can already see a thin gray haze along the ceiling. A fire alarm shrills through the air.

Where is she?

I stumble toward the hallway, and suddenly she’s there, standing in front of me, coughing into her hands. Her eyes squint through the smoke. “Gabe? What are you . . .”

Her father staggers out of one of the rooms, sliding a beat-up leather bag over his shoulder. “The window’s jammed. We have to go out the front. Go. Go, go.”

Then he sees me.

“What the hell . . .” His voice is a low snarl.

“The front door’s on fire,” I say quickly. “I broke a window in the living room. Go!”

He grabs Catherine and pushes her ahead of him, shoving past me. I stagger into a wall that’s so hot I can feel the skin on my hand peel away.

A roar thunders through the house, a hot wind gusting. Something else must have caught. The house groans. I make my way after them in time to see Catherine disappear out the window. There are flames running along the ceiling now, licking up the walls. Mr. Barstow stands behind her until she’s out, and then follows without sparing a glance in my direction.