Page 33 of Finding Him
She would’ve found out anyway, I reason. But I know in my gut that I wanted to tell her. For some reason.
“This is you?” I ask plainly, killing the engine as I pull into the drive. It’s a bit of a scary, gothic revival looking place, and had a good reason for garnering the reputation it did.
Maybe Molly Lockhart is like, the ghost of football’s past here to haunt me or something?
It would explain the odd coincidence of her being everywhere I look, but not much else.
Molly’s looking through the windshield at the front door. There aren’t any lights on in the windows, but a tiny, yellow glow comes from just above the front stoop. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t look like a ghost. In fact, she looks like a very young, and very lonely girl right now.
“It’s... something.” I’m not quite sure what else to say.
Molly just hums in response, making me turn to look at her. She’s still wearing that green dress she borrowed from Claire, though it’s wrinkled and riding up on her thighs. Her lips are still stained a soft pink, her hair slightly mussed up. But even looking a little post-party messy, she still looks... pretty.
Pretty. As superficial as it sounds, that’s the first thing I ever noticed about her—that Friday we ran into her in the store. She’s pretty with her brow furrowed in anger and confusion; she’s pretty when she’s in her zone during practice; and she’s pretty even after throwing up at my birthday party.
I’m convinced this girl can’t be anything but pretty.
Should I be thinking that? She’s my teammate, I’m the captain. There’s a line there—and I’ve spent my whole life drawing lines and making sure I don’t cross them.
But god, crossing this one would bepretty.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Humor me,” I cut her off, already getting out.
The driveway’s a soundless stone that conceals the sound of my footsteps as I round the bonnet, opening her door before she can protest again. She keeps looking at me the whole while she gets out, finding her footing on the stone. She wobbles slightly as she stands, and I quickly catch onto her elbow to steady her.
“Told you I’d be fine,” she mumbles, shaking me off with little vigor.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England,” I roll my eyes, keeping a light grip on her arm as we move up the path. I help her up the steps and to the door, which I follow her inside of without asking.
I’m not sure why, but I’m not ready to let her go into that dark house alone. I think it was that lonely look in her eyes, seeing her stare up at the house.
The entryway’s massive, with a high ceiling and a chandelier that looks like it’s been pulled from the set of a Disney movie. Molly flips on a switch, exploding the space into light. Somehow it looks emptier with the lights on—imagine that.
“Where’s your family then?”
She shrugs, kicking off her heels. “My dad’s still in the States. My parents are divorced. My little sister and my mom are probably already in bed.”
I follow her into the kitchen, which is all stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. There’s a note on the island, written in looping cursive. Molly picks it up, scans it, then tosses it back down with more force than necessary. The paper doesn’t seem to mind, floating back down onto the marble with grace.
“Nevermind, my Mom’s out,” she mumbles.
“You want me to stay for a bit?”
Sometimes my mouth just moves all on its own, saying shit before I can filter the thought. I’m not like JJ, where I can just let whatever fly out without a care in the world—I do care. And I most especially care about what Molly Lockhart thinks of me.
“What?” She looks equal parts stunned and curious.
“Just—” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m not trying to—I just mean, if you didn’t want to be alone—”
“I’m not alone,” she says coldly. “My sister’s upstairs.”
Silence stretches out between us, vast and unforgiving as the ocean.
