We Told Six Lies(54)

Something in your gaze flickered as soon as those words left your mouth. Like you wanted them back. But no way would I give them to you.

“Cobain, listen,” you said.

But I didn’t want to hear it. I was too afraid of what you’d say. Too worried you’d reclaim what you’d just said. Because you would do something like that, Molly. You would chase I belong to you with But I belong to everyone else, too.

And I couldn’t hear it. I’d scared you last night, or maybe you’d scared yourself. Either way, I couldn’t handle the repercussions.

The bell rang, and my body buzzed at the chance to escape.

“I can’t be late again,” I said. “Mr. Freedman will have my ass.”

I turned and walked away from you. Didn’t even look back.

Maybe by the time we saw each other again, I reasoned, you would have moved past last night. I’d say something like, “Let’s just move past this, all right? Let’s go to the park and make up stories about the little kids. Pick which ones will become veterinarians, and which ones will become serial killers.”

And you’d say, “I get the good swing.”

And I’d say, “You always get the good swing.”

And you’d say, “I love you, too, Cobain. I don’t know why I haven’t said it before.”

I’d take your hand, and you’d take mine, and I’d make you repeat what you said about being mine.





NOW


Duane’s apartment complex is everything I remember it being.

A lima bean shaped pool sits between the buildings, and people stand around it with drinks in their hands as music throbs from the speakers. It’s the middle of winter, and yet these people want so badly to be seen. They need to be seen.

And I need safe passage to Duane’s front door.

I pull my hoodie over my head and stuff my hands into my pockets. Keep my shoulders hunched as I stride up the stairs. Large metal numbers scream from the doors, and I can still smell the fumes from the freshly painted brick. This complex is a mirage, two stories of outdated living arrangements neatly orchestrated to appear trendy. But it’s as fake as the people living in it.

I knock once on Duane’s door and wait, recalling the time Molly and I came here for a party—her idea, not mine—and how we both left early, smelling like weed and Funyuns and laughing so hard we nearly rolled down the stairs.

When no one opens up, I glance around and knock harder. I’m peeking through the blinds when the door swings open. A deeply tanned guy steps out, pulling a T-shirt down over impressive abs. I kind of want to ask him where he works out.

“What’s up?” he says.

Behind him, another guy asks who it is. The voice doesn’t belong to Duane.

The guy at the door evaluates me. “No one,” he says over his shoulder.

“I’m looking for Duane,” I say. “He home?”

Confusion knits his brows together, and he shakes his head. “There’s no Duane here, but I get some of his mail sometimes. I think he moved.”

“When?”

The guy frowns. “I don’t know, man. Can I help you?”

“Charlie?” the guy inside says.

“No, I’m cool,” I respond.

“If you say so.” He closes the door.

I walk the two and a half miles to Steel, unsure what I’m planning to do when I arrive, since Chad told me that if I stepped foot on his property again, he’d sue me. But I have to know. If Duane is gone, and Molly is gone…

My vision blurs with fury just imagining it.

I wait along the street, hidden by a row of cars, and glance over as gym patrons come and go. I find myself evaluating their physiques. Coming up with workout plans for their body types. I decide I should focus on myself, and I start going through what I need to do next time I find myself at the school gym. Can I chance going in there again after everything with Nixon and Jet and Coach?

I run my hands through my hair and tug. I’m slowly losing everything I care about, and I didn’t have that much to begin with.

After an hour of pacing, the sun begins to set, and I finally see what I’m looking for. A girl walks out wearing a maroon collared shirt and khaki shorts. She’s removing her name tag and striding toward her car. She’s got her keys jammed between her fingers the way Molly used to do. The girl looks to her left and her right, just waiting to use those keys as a weapon if she must.

I step out in front of her. “Hey.”

She brings her hand up a fraction of an inch.

I raise my own hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s young, but older than me. Of course, I’m bigger.

Why does that matter?

“I was wondering if Duane still works here?”

The girl unlocks her car. A lock of dark hair falls along her cheek. She’s got big eyes. Nice big eyes. “Not sure. You can go and talk to Chad inside. He’s the manager.”

She’s nervous around me, and I wonder why. Am I really so threatening? Everyone seems to think I am lately.

“I used to work here,” I offer.

This seems to settle her nerves. She smiles. I like her smile. But it isn’t Molly’s smile. “Oh, really?” she says. “I just started. It’s pretty cool. I get to work out for free, and Chad lets me take as long as I want for lunch.”