We Told Six Lies(36)

I felt myself throb inside my jeans, and before I could stop myself, I pushed your clothing up and put my mouth where my hand had been. You gasped, and I thought my body would explode if I didn’t get inside of you. If I didn’t have every last inch of you.

Over our heads, the birds called to one another. And the snow continued to fall over us, but neither of us shook from the cold. I buried my face in your neck and pulled your sweater down.

But I wasn’t done with you yet.

I leaned back and looked into your face once more. You were so vulnerable. And powerful. You seemed afraid of how much you wanted this, of how much you wanted me, and yet you had the ability to crush my entire world inside a closed fist.

I slipped my hand beneath your jeans. Just the tips of my fingers, but you lifted your lips toward me. Closed your eyes because you knew what I would do to you. I hooked my arm beneath your knee and pulled your leg open wider, then crawled my fingers back to where I’d been. I drew slow circles beneath your waistband and kissed you until I couldn’t wait any longer.

I unbuttoned your jeans. Pulled down the zipper. Bit the soft skin on your neck and moved my hand beneath your underwear. Found that part of you ready for me. You moaned in anticipation, and I was there to meet that need.

I sank my finger inside you and stroked the outside of you, too.

You arched your back, closed your eyes, and said my name.

I moved faster, pressed harder, and when I felt your hand moving toward my jeans, I pulled your head into my neck. Your hand worked faster than mine. Gripping me. Moving with me.

I hadn’t been touched like this before, let alone by someone I cared about. With someone I wanted so badly that hell itself could swallow us whole, and as long as we stayed this way, I wouldn’t have minded the heat.

We stayed like that, on the ground, in the snow—heavy breaths, rocking bodies, gripping flesh—until release washed over us both.

As you gripped my jacket, as the cold slammed into us and we both said—We should leave, we should leave—the words were on the tip of my tongue.

I wanted to tell you then. Had it been long enough?

It was only December. Only the first frost, and I knew winter would get much colder. Maybe I should wait, I told myself.

I should wait.

So I didn’t tell you then how much I cared. How I’d never survive the loss of you. I shouldn’t fall this fast for a girl. It’d only been a month and a half of stolen moments. Of peach jam on the corner of your lip, and me singing the lyrics wrong, and you taking your shoes off because you wanted to feel the water, and us sneaking into the movies and then buying tickets for strangers in line, and you kissing me and me kissing you and you caring about me and you caring about me and you caring about me.

I didn’t tell you what I was feeling because I couldn’t have handled it if you didn’t say it back. I rolled away from you, and my eyes fell on the sky. And then, in an instant—a change.

Blue sky gone.

Trees—different trees—suffocating the once empty space.

A dog, barking.

I clenched my eyes shut, reopened them.

The sky was back.

I bolted upright, looked around, fear seizing me by the throat.

“You okay?” you asked, sitting up beside me.

I didn’t know what had happened. Didn’t know exactly what I’d seen.

But I knew why.

The more I fell for you, Molly, the more I felt something else pressing on me. Something I needed to remember.

When you get too emotionally charged, the therapist had said, that’s when you lose yourself. So we need to keep you stable. You have to keep yourself stable.

But I didn’t want stable.

I wanted to feel alive.

I wanted to feel you.

But I could tell that I was slipping.

Could you?





NOW


When I get home from school, my dad is waiting for me on the couch. He’s strangely silent while I drop my bag on the kitchen table, and then he asks—no nonsense—if the police brought me in for questioning again. I hesitate only a beat before nodding, because I can tell he already knows.

My father is quiet for a long moment and then stands up, sighs, and insists we go for pizza. I don’t want to go and nearly refuse, but he’s wearing that expression that says he won’t take no for an answer.

He puts a hand on my back as we walk toward his car, and it should be comforting. It should, but it doesn’t feel that way. He opens my door, and I climb in. I’m suddenly worried that I finally screwed up enough for my father to scream at me. For him to grab me by the shirt and shake me and ask, What’s wrong with you? Instead, he drops down into his own seat, closes his door, and pulls in a long breath.

He looks at me. “Are you okay?”

I’m not sure why, but his loving words feel like a dagger to the chest. But why?

I nod.

“That was the second time they questioned you, right? Or have there been other times?”

“No, only those two.”

He runs a hand over his jawline, thinking. “Listen, next time they ask to speak with you, you tell them no. You tell them to come talk to me or your mom.”

“Because she’s always available,” I mutter.

My dad drops his head to the side, looks at me with sympathy that sends needles beneath my skin. “You know your mother loves you. She loves both of us. But she cares about other people, too. The world would be a better place if more people were like her.”