This Is How I Disappear

“Woah!” a familiar voice yells. “Point that somewhere else, Shortie!” My vision clears and I see Gerard hopping out of the van, grinning.

“Gee!” I crow, and almost knock him over with the force of my hug.

He chuckles and musses my hair before saying, “Okay, but seriously, point that somewhere else.”

“Sorry!” I yelp, letting him go so I can set the gun down carefully on the lip of the van door. That’s when I notice the two bodies slumped in the back. The other prisoner is taking off his leg cuffs with their keys. I look questioningly at Gerard.

“They were dead before we were out the gates,” he states proudly, grin still in place.

I attempt to glare at the boyish murderer. “The loss of life isn’t a joke.”

“If life ain’t just a joke, then why am I laughing?” he asks, humor not dampened.

I mull this over. “That’s good,” I say. “Is that a quote from somewhere?”

Gerard gestures to his head. “My brain.”

I refrain from my customary response whenever someone refers to their brain as a sentient being apart from themselves—(What?! (I’m not completely crazy?))—and instead tell him, “You should write poetry. You’d be a good poet.”

Gerard shrugs, and wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather be a songwriter.”

I snort. “I can’t imagine you writing music.”

He glares. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t fit. You’re too…impatient.”

He taps his hand on my nose. “I’m gonna prove you wrong,” he declares haughtily.

The other criminal clears his throat, and we make room for him to step down. “This is Carlos,” Gerard introduces him. “Carlos, this is Frank.”

Carlos nods at me, and all he says is “I’m a thief and he’s a murderer. We make a pretty good team.”

I resist the urge to laugh, because murder isn’t funny, Frank.

It’s a little bit funny, my brain allows, and I leak a giggle.

Gerard says, “Frank is my boyfriend.” I can tell this statement is mostly a test for Carlos, but warmth spreads through me at the words. Unlike last time he claimed this, it means something more than a vain wish. I grab his hand, beaming.

Carlos, who has been expressionless up till now, grants us a small smile. “Cute couple,” he comments, then to Gerard: “I’d love to work with you again sometime.”

“Likewise,” Gerard replies, and they shake hands. The thief disappears into the shadows of alleyways as Gerard and I get into my parents’ car. I let Gerard drive.

“So where are we going?” I ask him. We’re eloping! I finally realize excitedly. I’ve never eloped before!

Well, my brain points out, I’d hope not. You should probably limit elopements to once a lifetime at most.

Must you spoil all the fun? I inquire, though I’m not bothered in the least.

Yes, my brain replies sullenly, but I ignore it.

“First, we have to stop by the original crime scene. You know”—he winks at me—”our first date.”

“Why the hell would we go there?” I cry incredulously. “And if that was a date, I’m appalled at you, trying to frame me for murder. That’s at least third date material.”

“Can’t help it,” he says cheerfully. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” He reaches over and grabs my hand as he drives. “And we’re going there to pick up something.”

My curiosity piques. “Care to tell me what?” I venture.

“What,” he tells me. We reach the scene, and he jumps out. “Stay here,” he orders before jogging over the dumpster I leant against with a gun not so many nights ago. A week or so. It’s extraordinary how so much can change in so little time.

He pulls a backpack from the dumpster—the same one he’d had false passports and money and disguises in. “How did you…?” I trail off as he throws the pack into the backseat.

“Mikey has some great hiding places in his apartment,” Gerard answers simply, looking agitated as he stands by the driver’s door.

“You okay?” I question in concern.

“Get out of the car,” he orders.

I startle. “What?” I ask stupidly.

He’s going to leave you here. He’s a psychopath after all. He used you, and now he’s done with you. What were you thinking?

Brain, shut up, I command frantically.

“Get out of the fucking car,” he repeats, more irritated by the second. I warily oblige.

“Why do I—” I begin as I shut my door behind me, but suddenly Gerard has slid across the hood to my side, and backs me against the car. What the fuck? my brain inquires. Is he gonna kill you or something?

Gerard grins wickedly at me, his arms snaking around my neck. Breathing becomes difficult. “I’ve been waiting too long for this,” he growls, pulling my head forward. Our lips are hot and wet against each other, burning lovelily in contrast with the crisp afternoon breeze. Finally. I shiver as he trails his hands down my back. There’s no air, no air I can find, just him. But I don’t care. I feel so safe with him. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can hurt us.

Gerard is a good kisser. I whisper this, and he growls. The car crushes my hips as Gerard presses against me, but I don’t care that my legs are falling asleep.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, embracing against my parents’ car like we have all the time in the world. Like we’re not wanted criminals. It is a simulacrum of eternity eclipsed by an instant before Gerard pulls his head away. I don’t feel like opening my eyes. If I just keep them closed, maybe we can stay here forever, without a care in the world. His breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “You are perfect.”

If I was butter, I would melt. As I am, I sort of jellify, knees wobbling as I struggle to remain upright. The car takes most of my weight. Thank you, car. Speech is unavailable; I have forgotten how it works. I wait. Slowly, my throat unfreezes and I breathe, barely audible, “I love you.” Love: it rolls off the tongue like liquid, elegant, fluid, not a doubt present in the utterance of it.

The perfection of this moment is shattered as Gerard promptly steps back. My eyes open to see him retreat to the driver’s side and get into the car. Dazed, I open my door and get in. Words glue to the top of my mouth like peanut butter, sticky and thick. I can’t get them to leave. Gerard doesn’t speak. He starts the car and drives. His expression is one of consternation.

‘Love’ has twenty-eight—albeit similar—definitions in the dictionary. I prefer to substitute them all for my own:

Love: it entices, it traps, and it kills.