Nothing More (Landon Gibson 1)

She seemed like she was in a trance when she ignored my hand and spoke.

“I could kill him. You know? I would get away with it, I think.”

My heart sank with my body and I leaned against the tree and wrapped my fingers through hers.

“I’ve been watching a lot of crime shows, and with the way he drinks and the trouble he causes . . . I could get away with it. I could take whatever money the house is worth and get out of this shitty town. Me, you, Carter. We can go, Landon. We can.”

Her voice was full of a painful urgency and it killed me to realize she was borderline-serious about this plan.

“No one would miss him . . .”

A small part of me wished I could go along with it, to ease her pain, even for a few moments, but I knew if I did, reality would sink in for both of us sooner or later anyway, and life would be harder than it already was.

I decided to distract her instead of outright telling her that of course she couldn’t murder somebody. But she did need to get away from here, even if only by distraction.

“Where would we go?” I asked, knowing how much she loved to daydream.

“We could go to New York City. I could dance there and you could teach. We would be far away from here, but still have the snow.”

Throughout our adolescence, each time I asked Dakota this question, she always had a different answer. Sometimes she would even suggest that we leave the country. Of all the cities in the world, Paris was her favorite; she had fantasies of dancing at the famous opera house there. But living in Saginaw was reality and anywhere else just a silly dream.

“We could live in a high-rise above the city even. Anywhere but here, Landon, anywhere but here.” Her voice was distant, as if she was already living in a place far, far away.

When I looked over at her, her eyes were closed. She had a streak of dirt on her cheek and her knee was scuffed up. She must have fallen, I thought to myself.

“I would go anywhere with you. You know that, don’t you?” I asked her.

She opened her eyes and the corner of her lips turned into a smile. “Anywhere?” she asked.

“Everywhere,” I promised.

“I love you,” she claimed.

“I’ve always loved you,” I confessed.

Her hand squeezed mine and she leaned her head on my shoulder and we sat there until the sun came up, bringing silence to her haunted house.

And now, here, in the kitchen of my Brooklyn apartment, remembering our dreams and the roots of our love, Dakota says with a low voice, “You said you’ve always loved me.”

“I have,” is all I can say back.

Because it’s the truth.