We Told Six Lies(15)

I shook it but didn’t say a word.

Your mom hugged you again, like she was afraid you’d suddenly vanish. I wondered how hard it had been for you to get out the front door today. How hard it was for you to leave any day.

“Sit, sit,” she said, and guided Molly to a table overflowing with cloth napkins and punch glasses and a blender that looked like it cost more than our rent. “Did you guys meet at school?”

“Yeah,” you said.

Your mom glanced back and forth between you and me. “Maybe you two would rather go into Molly’s room and talk.”

“Yes,” you said, and started to stand up.

But your mom remembered herself and grabbed your hand. “Or. Or you could stay out here with me for a little while. I’m feeling… I’m feeling kind of down today.”

She made a frowny face then, like a child.

“I could make something.” She looked at her kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. As if she couldn’t quite remember its purpose. Her gaze popped back toward us. She grinned. “Or we could just talk. How are your classes, Molly? Do you have any classes with…? I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Cobain,” I offered.

She reached across the table for your hand, but you moved it into your lap. I resented your mom for putting that look on your face. But I felt sympathy for her, too, because I knew the deep, unrelenting sensation of wanting company. The difference between us was that she reached for it, and I pushed it away, too afraid of rejection to try.

You bore your mother’s questions with one-word answers—yes, no, maybe, sure—until I could tell you couldn’t take another moment.

“We have to go,” I said. “We’ll be late.”

“Oh. Where are you two off to?” she asked. “Need a ride?”

“No. Thank you,” I said, and reached for you.

You pulled your arm away, but you did follow me out the door. When I came here, I’d imagined spending time in your room. Of seeing your things. Of feeling grossly inadequate in comparison to your lavender bedspread and built-in bookshelves and your antique writing desk. I just knew you’d have a writing desk.

But what happened instead was an awkward twenty-minute exchange before frustration infected every part of your body, draining you of life.

Your mother drained you.

“You can’t just show up at someone’s house,” you said, walking past me once we were outside. “I didn’t tell you where I live, you know. I know I didn’t tell you.”

“No, you didn’t.” I jogged to keep up. “I followed you home one day.”

You stopped on the sidewalk, a safe distance from your house. From your mom.

“That’s creepy, Cobain. It’s…disturbing.”

I leaned back. “You don’t really think that.”

You pressed your lips together and glanced away. “Most people would find what you did weird. Just showing up like this. It’s weird.”

“You aren’t most people,” I said calmly. “You wanted me to see where you lived. You wanted me to meet your mom, too.”

“What the hell do you know?”

I took your elbows in my hands. “I know you.”

You laughed then, and I won’t say it didn’t hurt me. “You’ve known me a month. You don’t know shit.”

“I know you paint your nails just to chip off the polish,” I said. “I know you like trees best when they’ve lost their leaves. I know you want to cut your hair, but you’re afraid no one will notice you once you do. I know you love blue mascara and panda bears and covered bridges.”

I tightened my grip on your elbows.

You didn’t pull away.

“I also know you’re desperate for someone to figure you out. And I think that starts with where you come from. I came here to figure you out, Molly.”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because I want to show you that I don’t care. That whatever it is, I’ll still be here.”

You raised your eyes and looked at me. The hardness in your gaze softened. The cunning in your mind relaxed.

You said, “He let me go.”

And tears filled your eyes. You bit down on your anger, your entire body shaking in my hands. You weren’t mad at this memory you were holding, I don’t think. You were mad because you didn’t want me to see the emotion on your face.

But I saw it anyway.

And though I didn’t know who you were talking about or what had happened, I said, “I won’t let you go, Molly.”

It was the right thing to say.

I could see it in the lift of your shoulders.

I raised my hands to your jawline. I couldn’t wait a second longer, Molly. I just couldn’t. My thumbs drew circles on your cheeks as I pulled your face closer. If the world had split between our feet, asphalt falling to the center of the earth, I would still have found a way to hold on to you.

“You’ll be sorry,” you whispered.

I brought my mouth to yours.

You pushed your body against mine, and I wrapped my arm around your waist, and we just kind of…fell into each other. It was the first time we’d kissed slowly, my thumb tracing your jawline, your hands warm against my upper back. Our lips moved softly, tongues softer still, and when our kiss ended quietly, we kept our arms around each other, your cheek on my chest, my chin resting on your head. In that one perfect moment, we could have crashed into the sun and I wouldn’t have noticed the heat.