I like Ohio. I liked my life. I want it back.
I’m done with rolling with the punches.
Finished.
Despite all the credit that you get for rolling.
How resilient you are.
How you land on your feet.
How you’re slightly screwed up and require counseling and have no judgment whatsoever, but you’re rolling with those punches. Good girl. Steal nail polish and roll, roll, roll.
I’m tired of going along with every damn thing with slight, girly rebellion that doesn’t actually change anything. Just reminds you that you’re a private with no say in Fate’s army.
So, Nicky, we’re moving to Ohio where I’m marrying this man you’ve never even met named Steeeeve, and we’re going to be soooo happy. Fine.
So, Nicky, she’s gone, she’s looking down on you from heaven, and here’s this tooootally nice guy you’ve known for six months, Steve, and he’s going to be your dad. Don’t look back. Look forward. Fine.
So, Nicky, smile or nobody will like you. Be fun, only not so fun you’re reckless, not so reckless you worry your nice dad, and if he’s going to be that worried, sneak out. Fine.
So, Nicky, you need a 3.3 or Steve will be pissed and you won’t get into college with Olivia and everyone will think you’re an idiot and you won’t get a smart boyfriend. Fine.
Only don’t get too upset when your smart boyfriend, Connor, that you love and adore, is sleeping with every other cute girl with a 3.3 in Cotter’s Mill because, hey, you’re only kids.
Don’t be so upset you decide to get even with him with the next guy.
Only the next random guy you think is your new boyfriend is so not your boyfriend. Big U of M college guy and his stupid muscle car and his stupid SOG SEAL knife he shows off all the time. You think the sun rises over his left shoulder, but he’s only standing there to eclipse the light. You’re the idiot who doesn’t get that hooking up with the devil is bad news. Until it’s too late.
So, Nicky, the people you love and adore want to kill you. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
You should have, but you didn’t.
You’d better hit the road and turn into someone who won’t even need that 3.3 to go to college on the Internet because she has to hide for the rest of her life. Fine.
So, Nicky, you can’t go back to looking like yourself or being yourself, and you can’t get your life back. Ever. Fine.
So, Nicky, this J, who acts like he loves and adores you even though you’re not petite and cute and the purest, funnest girl on the cheerleading squad anymore, well, he’s actually planning to kill you.
Not freaking fine.
I am so tired of rolling.
I am so punching.
I liked you, Jack. I really liked you, and I get what happened to you. Plus, it’s slightly a relief that even Boy Scouts with excellent judgment can screw up this royally. I kind of believe you weren’t going to off me because even a total incompetent already would have.
So I mostly forgive you.
But really?
None of this is fine. I’m Nicolette Holland, not Bean, not Cat Davis, Kelly Hill, Kaylie Mills, Cathy, Cath, Catherine—I’m Nick.
I’m punching and not rolling.
And as for anyone who’s coming after me?
Watch out.
64
Jack
I keep driving.
I want to talk to her more than I’ve ever wanted to talk to anyone, but she’s got Don’s Glock. It would be stupid to get her riled.
Whatever she does to me, I have it coming.
It’s good the car’s a five-speed, and I have to pay enough attention to shift.
I say, “Nicolette, listen, we should go to the police. You can tell them whatever you want. No one’s going to think you hurt Connie. Just tell them what happened. I don’t know how else to keep you safe.”
“You thought I hurt Connie, and you were into me. You were into me right?”
“Yes!”
“Fine, so now you’re going to keep me safe. You and your brother’s gun.”
For a second, this gun feels like the hard metal center of the universe. This gun—which I should have left in my mother’s garage, in its box on a shelf behind a bunch of engine parts for Don’s shitmobile—is what defines me and Nicolette and danger and safety.
I want to grab it from her and throw it out the window; unload it, wipe it clean, and drop it through the grate on a storm drain; chuck it into a Dumpster with the chamois it was wrapped in.
I say, “How am I going to do that? I’m the dupe who let Yeager’s guys follow me to El Molino. I mean, your dad’s guys. Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing. I don’t think waving a gun at them is going to get them to stop.”
“Just drive.” Then she says, “Plus, you evaded them. You grabbed me, and we got away. You didn’t totally blow this.”
Without thinking, when we finally get to a town with a couple of gas stations and a traffic light, I pull onto the interstate, driving in the opposite direction of El Molino.
She says, “If you think you’re taking me someplace, don’t.”