We Told Six Lies(71)
Sure I do.
NOW
I keep running, glancing over my shoulder to ensure the police haven’t found me.
Green trees.
Blue water.
White dog.
I go to shove the gun into my jeans and feel something wedged into my pocket. My phone! I wonder if it’s still on. When was the last time I paid the bill? Two months ago? But I prepaid for a month up front.
When I reach the train tracks, I collapse and put my head between my knees. Gasp for air. Grab at my throat because this can’t be happening. All this time, I was chasing leads. Hoping it’d turn out that someone else had taken Molly, and that I could be the one to rescue her. Or that she had simply taken off on her own to start a new life with no strings.
But that was my face I saw.
Black crow.
Pressure.
My dad yelling.
Those were my arms that threw Molly into that white van. Where did I even get that van? How did I know how to find her? I have so many questions that may never be answered because there is a hole in my memory. A hole that widened as I fell deeper and deeper in love with Molly.
I reach for my phone, and as my hand shakes, I dial my brother’s number. What if he doesn’t pick up? What will I do here alone with this gun?
My brother answers on the fourth ring, and I lose my shit. I can barely respond when he asks, for the third time, if I’m there.
“I’m here,” I finally manage.
He hesitates, hearing the wobble in my voice. “Cobain, what’s wrong?”
“I did something to Molly,” I say, hardly able to choke the words out.
Holt doesn’t respond for several seconds, then he asks, “Where are you?”
I’m afraid to tell him. What if he calls the cops? I guess it doesn’t matter. I have to trust him. Besides, they’ll find me eventually.
“I’m in town,” he says. “Are you?”
His words sucker punch me. He’s here seeing his friends and didn’t bother coming by the house. I don’t blame him, but it doesn’t stop the hurt.
“Yeah,” I say in a near whisper. “I’m at the tracks.”
“Don’t move,” he orders. “I’m coming there. Cobain, don’t do anything until I get there, okay? I’m going to help you.”
I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying and shake my head.
“Ten minutes,” he says, and I can hear the keys jingle as he jumps into his truck.
I hang up and wait.
I stare at the gun.
Just to see, I lift the barrel to my lips. Open my mouth just a touch, then rip my arm back down and shake with fear.
Green trees.
Blue water.
White dog.
Black crow.
My dad yelling.
My vision blurring.
“Cobain.”
I glance up and imagine what I must look like—red eyes, red face, shock and desperation and mania twisting my face into one he doesn’t recognize.
He’s so much smaller than me.
Alarmingly thin.
How can he possibly care for us both? I’m the stronger one. I’m the one who should be helping him. Didn’t I get bigger and bigger so I could feel half as good as my older brother?
Holt sees the gun and stops.
I lay it down beside me and cover it with my hand to show him I don’t intend to use it. At least, not yet.
He swallows what must be a substantial amount of trepidation and sits down beside me.
“What happened?” he asks.
“They showed me footage of me taking Molly,” I say.
“Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. Puts his hand on my back. “Fuck. Fuck.”
His hand on my back is what does it. I drop my head and fight against the tears. Think of Molly. The way she streaked my face with pickle juice and kissed it off. Her laugh that most often sounded suppressed, and the booming, earth-shattering one she reserved for when I tickled it out of her. Her nails, always chipped. Her smile, mischievous. Her heart, only half awake.
The way her head felt on my chest.
The way she felt on the inside.
The way I felt when I was with her—worthy, seen.
What is wrong with me?
What am I forgetting?
Why is this hole only appearing now?
I haven’t had holes since I was a kid.
Or have I?
Maybe there have always been holes, and I simply filled them.
Filled them with convenient lies.
Filled them with partial truths.
Filled them, because the truth was too unbearable.
Green trees.
Blue water.
A dog barking.
My mind stutters and skips.
And then I know.
I know.
Holy shit. Oh fuck, no.
All the pieces slide into place, the holes filling with new information— Green grass.
Blue water.
A dog barking.
My father running toward me, yelling.
A gunshot.
“Holt,” I say, in a voice that isn’t my own.
He looks at me with concern for my wellbeing, and then slowly, so gut-wrenchingly slowly, his face changes into concern for himself. Maybe that’s because I’m lifting the gun from the ground and placing it on my lap.