Page 57 of Where's Molly

“You did, though, didn’t you?”

Slowly, she turns her head just enough to peer at me over her shoulder.

“If anyone deserved to be the one to escape, it would’ve been her.” She turns away, but not before I see the sadness pollutingher eyes. “Turns out, I wasn't important enough to deserve it. I thought Layla needed me, but I think I only delayed her happiness. My father was being investigated, and eventually, CPS would’ve found him unfit anyway. I was convinced she’d just go to another unfit home, but what if she didn’t? What if she found a good home, rather than me taking her away to live four miserable years with me? No stability. Being hungry all the time—” Her voice cracks, and she cuts herself off abruptly.

“You’re wrong, ya know,” I tell her, fire building in my chest. “Or, at least, there’s a good chance you are. She would’ve gone into the system, and there’s no guarantee she would’ve ended up with a good family. She could’ve gone from one abuser to the next.”

Molly nods, the movement choppy, but she doesn’t appear convinced.

I’m furious that she could think so little of herself. Even more furious at the people who made her feel as though she’s not a goddamn goddess walking this earth that we don’t deserve.

“You are the most important person I've ever met, Molly,” I whisper. “And while I will always be devastated that my sister didn't survive, I'm so fucking happy that you did.”

Though her back is facing me, I hear a soft sniffle. She doesn't respond. Instead, she stares at Olivia, that smile on her face forever frozen in time.

“For years, I couldn't step foot in this room. Anytime I saw those pictures with her smiling face, it would slowly morph into a dramatic frown, her mouth opening on a wail. It looked fucking demonic, and I had all but convinced myself that was the real expression frozen on her face when she died. Her cries of terror outlived her heartbeat.”

“Do you want to talk about her?” Molly asks quietly, voice clogged with tears. “I'd like to get to know her.”

My chest tightens, and I can't tell if I want to wrap her in my arms because she cares, or because I need something to hold on to while I tell her about my sister.

“She loved 80s music. ‘Sunglasses at Night’ by Corey Hart was her favorite song, and she insisted on constantly wearing these neon pink sunglasses for three months after she heard it for the first time. Mom thought she was the cutest thing, and I made it a point to tell her how ridiculous she looked.”

Molly's head swivels to find the picture of Olivia wearing them, a bright smile pasted on her face as she sits beside me in our mom's car, my face slackened in a dry, unamused expression. She’d just gotten her driver's license that day and, of course, blasted that Corey Hart song all the way home.

“She wore pink lipstick every day, even when she was sick. She always said the version of her without it was her evil alter ego. She hated tomatoes but put ketchup on everything, even her mashed potatoes. Which I still find very fucking gross, by the way.”

“I would have to agree with that,” Molly chuckles softly.

Her stare slides to a picture of Olivia sitting beside a bald little boy in a hospital bed, with birthday hats atop their heads.

“When she turned sixteen, she spent her birthday at the children's hospital in the cancer unit because she felt guilty that they may never see that age.”

My heart aches, and for a moment, it feels impossible to continue.

“She never knew she wouldn't see past that age, either.”

Molly turns to me, sadness swirling in her gaze.

“She soundslike she was an incredible kid,” she whispers. “Amazing, really.”

I nod, working to swallow past the rock in my throat.

Almost shyly, she grabs my hand and walks me over to Olivia's bed. I'm not sure what she intends, but my head is too fuzzy to ask.

With a slight smile on her face, she lies down on one side of the bed and pats the empty spot next to her. Confused, I follow suit, the both of us staring up at the ceiling silently. Right as I begin to ask her what she's doing, a burst of music fills the room.

My eyes flick to where she holds her phone up, “Sunglasses at Night”playing from the speakers.

“Mol—”

“Shh,” she hushes, laying her hand over mine. “Don’t be rude. Olivia might be trying to listen, too.”

I can't breathe.

A fire explodes in my chest, burning a path down to our entwined hands.

I hope to God that it burns her, too.

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