We Told Six Lies(26)

“Yeah, we all did. But she took off. She sent a fucking letter, in case you didn’t catch that. There’s no conspiracy here. And honestly, who cares?”

I rub the back of my neck. “No, I mean, you liked her. Maybe you even…”

Nixon’s face relaxes with understanding. “Did I love her? No.” He shakes his head but then looks at me like, Why hide it? “Yeah, all right, I liked her more than a friend. She was a weird girl, and I thought I’d add more balance to her life than you would. I needed a little weirdness, and she needed some normalcy. But she chose you instead.” He shrugs. “It’s whatever. I’m dating Sydney now.”

I know all about him seeing Sydney because I went through that phone he’d forgotten. Saw their nauseating messages. Seems they’ve been seeing each other for a while, and that he likes her a lot if the lovesick texts are any indication.

And Nixon—because he’s a good guy, even after someone creeps into his house—laughs and shakes his head. “Looks like you already knew that. We’re keeping it quiet right now because her ex is a psychopath. Kind of like someone I know.”

Now it’s my turn to smile.

He shoves me a second time, but with less force. “Look, you and I aren’t going to be friends anymore. We both know that. But I do feel bad for you. Molly was like… I don’t know, she was like your tether to other people at this school, and now that she’s gone, you’re alone again. I know that’s got to suck, but also…you’re fucking weird, dude. You do it to yourself. I mean, you broke into my house. Do you know how utterly messed up that is?”

“I know,” I say.

“Do you? Because normal people wouldn’t do that.”

Then normal people don’t love hard enough, is what I think.

But what I say is exactly nothing.

“Look, I’m not going to tell anyone, because as strange as you are, I don’t think you’d hurt anyone. And you’re going to leave me the hell alone, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Nixon leans his head back and inspects me as if he’s considering telling me something. “You should forget about her.”

“I can’t,” I admit in a rare moment of honesty.

Nixon fidgets, and my first thought is, He’s going to tell me they hooked up. He’s going to tell me that, I’m going to break his nose.

Instead, he says only, “Cobain, I think you deserve to know… The thing you had with Molly—”

Coach Miller bursts through his office door and takes three long steps into the locker room, a half-eaten sandwich in his left hand. “What the hell are you two doing in here?”

“About to rob you of a sandwich,” Nixon fires back.

Coach laughs. Says with his mouth full, “I’d like to see you two dipsticks try.”

Nixon follows Coach with his eyes as he powers across the locker room and pushes through the door that leads to the hallway. Nixon’s eyes glide back toward mine. “Maybe, uh…maybe you should talk to him about things.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Nixon shrugs. “I don’t know. Forget it.”

“Forget nothing. What are you saying?” I grab his arm. “And what do I deserve to know?”

“Let go of me,” Nixon says, sounding more dangerous than I’d given him credit for.

“Just tell me!”

Nixon yanks away from me and moves toward the door. He stops just shy of it and says without turning around, “If you come near me, or my house, again, I’ll call the cops and tell them what happened at the party.”

Confusion pulls my brows together. “What?”

Nixon drops his head, shakes it. “The fight, dude. The way you were shaking her.”

I step back as if struck. “That’s not what happened.”

“I know what I saw.”

He pushes through the door as ice crawls through my veins, as it spirals from my fingertips, covering the entire room in sheets of permafrost. The party. That was the night Molly disappeared. We’d gotten into a fight, but I hadn’t hurt her.

My heart explodes in a blizzard of fear, and I remind myself, though I shouldn’t have to, that I did nothing to Molly.

I did nothing.





NOW


When I spot Holt’s truck outside the house, I almost turn around.

I really don’t want to see him right now. He’s supposed to be on my side, but I’m starting to feel more suspicion from him than support.

I walk through the front door without a sound, as if I’m an intruder here the same way I was at Nixon’s house.

When I don’t find Holt in the living room, I head down the hallway toward the bedrooms. I check his room first, but it looks exactly like it always has. A full-size bed neatly made, a poster of Nolan Ryan stuck to the wall, and rows of worn Western paperbacks on a secondhand bookshelf. His clothes are missing from his dresser, but a photo of us fishing as kids still sits on top. Even the plastic basketball hoop still hangs on the back of his door. How many games have we played with that stupid plastic ball?

The only thing I ever destroyed him at.

As dated as all this stuff is, my room isn’t much better. Redecorating isn’t exactly a priority when your parents can’t even afford health insurance.