Once, while she changed, she’d studied his turned back. He was broad in his winter jacket. Much taller than she was, with large hands. Yes, she’d seen his hands ungloved. Seen his dirtied fingernails. Did she recognize them? She wasn’t sure. But she knew if she got out of here, she’d memorize every part of every person who ever crossed her path again.
When she got out of here.
Not if.
When Blue didn’t respond, she swallowed and said, “I’d like to sing a song.”
She could almost hear him sit up straighter.
“It’s called Alice Blue Gown. Have you heard it?”
He didn’t respond.
“If you don’t want me to sing—”
He hit the door.
She smiled triumphantly. “Okay, then.”
Molly planted her feet firmly on the floor and stood. She faced the window in the bathroom, opened her mouth, and began to sing the lyrics.
I once had a gown, it was almost new,
Oh, the daintiest thing, it was sweet Alice blue,
With little forget-me-nots placed here and there,
When I had it on, oh, I walked on the air!
And it wore, and it wore, and it wore,
’Til it went, and it wasn’t no more.
She sang on, repeating the words to the old songs her mom used to play, back when they were a different family. When people said, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “Right away, ma’am.” Now, they said, “When will you pay us? Where is our money?” and “Who do you think you are?”
Molly lost herself to the lyrics. No, she pretended to lose herself to the lyrics. She raised her head and sent her words dancing in the moonlight, and when she heard him rise from the floor and peek through the door, she forced two tears to squeeze from her eyes and spill down her cheeks.
He watched her.
And she became someone worth watching because his eyes were on her.
When she finished, she turned toward the door. He dashed out of sight, and she heard the sound of stairs as he started to take them.
“I miss the sun,” she said, quickly. “I miss the warmth.”
He didn’t respond, but she knew that he’d stopped.
Her eyes darted to the window, and because she didn’t want him to simply open it for an hour or two, she said, “I want to feel it on my skin.”
When he still didn’t reply, Molly added, “I feel alone with the door between us.”
He didn’t move, but she knew he was contemplating what she’d said. She knew because she was her father’s daughter.
People don’t enjoy being asked to do things, Mockingbird, he’d said. But if you tell them what you want and allow them the pleasure of making you happy… Well, therein lies the easiest path to getting your way.
Molly could have said, Would you please open the door?
But she didn’t. And so, after several strained moments, she heard the sound of the key slipping into the lock.
Blue pushed the door open and stood staring at her. Molly strained to make out the color of his hair, to see anything, but the mask wrapped entirely around his head.
“You know I’m afraid of you,” Molly said, sitting on the floor. “But I’m more afraid of being alone.”
It was an invitation. One she desperately needed him to accept.
The more time someone spends with you, the more unlikely they are to do you harm. Her father’s words in her head. How she hated them. And yet… Imagine holding a gun to a stranger’s head. Now imagine doing the same to your neighbor.
Blue took a small step backward so that his mask and body were shrouded in shadows. And then he sat.
Molly smiled and sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
Blue nodded.
Molly thought about what to ask him. But no matter what popped into her head, she knew it would lead to his discomfort. It would feel forced. If she were to escape, she needed to gain his trust. And his affection. But how could she grow close to him when even his voice wasn’t his own?
It hit her.
“Let’s play a game!”
He cocked his head.
She looked around the room, searching for an easy one. Then she laid her hand in her lap. Made a fist with it, and put an open palm beneath it.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” she said.
He stared at her.
“Best three out of five,” she went on. “If you win, I’ll make dinner tomorrow night. If I win, you let me go outside for ten minutes.”
Blue stared at her.
Unmoving.
Then he bolted to his feet. Turned to power toward the door.
“No,” Molly yelled. “Wait. Please!”
She hesitated only a second before jumping up and throwing herself at him. Even with her restraints, she was able to reach him. She grabbed his arm. She touched him!
He tore around, his concealed eyes landing on her hand.
She gripped him hard.
Her breathing scarcely left her lungs.
He shook his arm. Let go, the movement said, or else.
As a terrified sound escaped her, she threw her arms around him.
It was the opposite of what she wanted to do.
It was exactly what she needed to do.
She hoped, hoped, hoped.
She held him close. Heaved for oxygen. Her eyes were wide, wide as she listened to his heart beating. Her head fit snugly against his chest made wider inside a thick winter jacket. His chin was more than a few inches above her head. Did she recognize his height, his build, his smell?
She breathed in and caught only the scent of soap, as if he’d just showered.
He didn’t touch her.
His arms hung stiff at his sides.
But, was it her imagination, or did he lower his head to lie on top of hers?
Molly thought of hitting him. Of tearing the mask from his face and screaming, I will kill you. I will burn you alive!
If she’d had an ax, she’d have buried it in his back. But she only had this. She only had her mind and two arms gripping his back.
She raised her mouth to his ear.
Said, “I know you aren’t bad.”
He grabbed her arms and shoved her backward. Not hard enough for her to fall, but hard enough so that he could get to the door. Could lock it behind him and march up the stairs, leaving her alone with the spiders.
Leaving her alone with the aching familiarity of that hug.
Or was it that she hoped it was familiar?
THEN
I saw you before you saw me.
I loved it when that happened. When I had a rare moment of seeing you in your natural state, before you became the girl who slipped into roles like an actress beneath stage lights.
You were different with me than you were with everyone else, but I often wondered—which was the real Molly?
Would the real Molly Bates please stand up?
You spotted me through the car windshield and raised your middle finger. I raised mine back and yelled to Duane that I was out. Took my name tag off and tossed it in the drawer.
Duane leaned across the counter and looked at you, too. I rounded the counter and slammed my hand down in front of him, hard enough to get him to take his fucking eyes off of you.
“See you Sunday,” I said.
“Cool,” Duane replied, already turning around.
I kissed you when I got in the car, and you arched your back. I wondered if I was kissing you more because I wanted to, or in case Duane was watching. I worried about losing you in those days. Every hour I spent with you pushed me a little further into an ocean of us. I was drowning in me with you, you with me. And I didn’t want saving. But I worried, incessantly, that someone would save you and leave me to disappear beneath that black tide.
/>
I didn’t want to drown without you, Molly.
“I have a surprise,” you said.
“Okay,” I answered, and eyed your legs in those navy tights with white cat faces on the knees.
“Stop looking at my legs,” you said.
I smiled and said, “I will not.”
But I did.
Sort of.
…
You took me to the woods, where gnarled trees stretched toward the sky. They arched over us as we left your mom’s car behind, getting lost in the shadows.
The snow was falling, but you were bundled against the cold. Is it bad that I wanted you to be a bit colder than you were? I wanted to be the thing to give you warmth, Molly. I wanted to be the thing that gave you everything you needed.
We spilled into a clearing, and I decided you must have been here before. I wondered if you’d ever brought another guy here. No, I decided. You hadn’t lived here that long. You’d just moved here from California. Or was it Colorado?
I think you’d told me both.
You held more lies than you did truths, you wicked girl, but I knew you wanted me. And, well, my intentions for you weren’t completely pure.
So maybe I was wicked, too.
There was a rotted log, but you chose to sit on the ground. The snow seemed to pull back to make space for you. I sat next to you and put my forearms on my knees.
“This place is cool,” I said. “I’ve never been here.”
“Me, either,” you said, but we both knew it was another lie.
You picked at the hem of your jacket. “I thought I should tell you about my dad.”
The way you said it, sadly, I knew you were going to tell the real story, and I found myself leaning closer.
“He was a preacher,” you started, just like that. Because when you were intent on doing something, you dove in. “And he wanted Mom and me to be just like him, perfect in our faith. Perfect in our walk with Christ.”
I studied your face as you spoke. Your lips were red like they always were, but the rest of you was white as the snow falling over your shoulders. Your hair, your skin, even your light green eyes—they were like camouflage in this forest. But you wouldn’t have been the prey out here. You were the girl so strange that snakes slithered backward when they saw you walk by.
“I tried everything I could to make Daddy happy. But I—” You pointed to your chest. “I wasn’t enough. So I became someone else. I learned to do what I needed to do so that he could stand at that podium and be so damn proud of his pure family.”
You shook your head. “He left us anyway. Isn’t that funny? After I’d learned to be a chameleon. After I’d learned how to be exactly what he and everyone else needed, he took off with some woman he met on a retreat, and they had a kid together.”
I put my hand on your knee.
“He still writes to us, and I see him once or twice a year. But that’s it. He’s happier with his new family, and Mom is… Well, she’s the way she is.”
“And what about you?” I asked.
You shrugged and gave a halfhearted smile. “I have you.”
I nodded. “Yeah, you do.”
You started to lean toward me, and I wanted nothing more than to lean, too. But I stopped myself to ask a question I’d harbored since that night in the alleyway. “Molly, was that guy in the restaurant your dad?”
You flinched then forced yourself to nod. “Yeah. I think…I think he’s finally going to ask for partial custody. Out of guilt, maybe.”
I could hear the lie on your lips. Knew you didn’t believe what you’d said any more than I did. Your father had left you and never looked back. But what was I supposed to do, Molly? What could I do besides pull you to me, palm the back of your head, and keep it against my chest?
I held you there for a long time. Finally, slowly, you leaned back until you were flat on your back, tugging me along with you. You guided my hips until I was almost on top of you, one of my legs between yours.
You put your hands on either side of my face, your hair white against the ground. Whiter than the snow. Whiter than the explosion that made you and me and this entire universe.
“I can’t go back to living with him,” you said.
I shook my head. “You won’t.”
“I have to get out of here.”
“I’m working on that.”
The truth was, I hadn’t been certain you were serious. Not before. But right then, as I looked into your green eyes, so wide I thought I might fall inside of them…right then I knew this was one thing you meant.
I wondered how long it would take me to save enough money to get us far away from here.
I wondered what would happen if I just took it.
You seemed to read my thoughts. Seemed to measure just how committed I was to getting you anywhere you wanted to be.
“Touch me, Cobain,” you whispered.
I studied your face for only a moment, and then lowered my mouth to yours. I kissed you, my tongue slowly tracing the softness of you. My hand slid up the side of your body until I reached your jacket, your sweater, your T-shirt. I moved my fingers beneath it all and kissed the gasp that rushed from your mouth.
My hand must have been cold, but your skin was warm, and I felt myself react as I inched farther upward. I touched the lace edge of your bra, and I pulled my head back, watched as your breathing quickened. Slowly, I ran my thumb beneath that lace, feeling the slight rise of your breast. I pushed my thumb higher, and when you closed your eyes, I slipped my entire hand beneath the fabric, drawing soft circles over your nipple.
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.
We Told Six Lies Page 11
