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I wasn't sure there would actually be any kind of future for me in any sort of gardening field, but I did need to at least look into that. Maybe I could arrange flowers or just work at a nursery at a local gardening supply store- get to know the ins and outs of things. Would I be rolling in the cash? No, but that was okay. Somehow, the idea of normal was much more appealing than the idea of rich. And rich was never our plan anyway. We had been living like squatters for a decade. We didn't acquire anything nice because there was always a chance of having to haul out and leave something behind. Or burn it.
It wouldn't be strange for me to live paycheck-to-paycheck. It wouldn't even be a hardship if I had peace and freedom to do all the things I had always wanted to do.
"Do you guys have any places picked out?" I asked as we kept walking.
"Yeah, we are checking out three different places today," Atlas said, shrugging. "We figure, if nothing else, we can all crash at one or two places until we have time to see more places. We can't keep doing that fucking drive from the cabin here. That shit is ridiculous."
"Yo," Nixon said, sounding serious suddenly, making my attention snap to him, finding his jaw tense, his brows furrowed.
"What?"
"Did anyone else notice that same cop car passing by twice since we've been walking?"
And right then, right that second, it was like everything within me crumbled. All the good that I had allowed to finally creep in and slowly fill up seemed to seep out through my feet, making me aware just how empty I had always been in one blinding moment of clarity.
Because I had allowed myself to live in a fantasy world where new beginnings could be fresh, where who we had been was not who we were. When, in reality, it was. We were armed robbers. We were criminals. We had been on the run from the law for a decade. No amount of wishful thinking could change that.
Normal people didn't get a knot in their stomach when they heard cops mentioned. Normal people didn't even notice that cop cars passed them, let alone took note of the number on the car so they could notice that the same cop car passed them multiple times. Normal people didn't hear that the cops were obviously trolling the area and figured they might be who they were looking for. Normal people didn't think 'they're on to us; we need to run.'
I would never be normal.
I would always be looking over my shoulder.
My eyes drifted over to my brothers.
And I saw identical looks of realization there.
Even if the cop car was just a chance thing. Even if they weren't looking for us. Even if it was perfectly innocent.
We could never feel that way.
That was why we had decided to leave, knowing even way back then that there was no way for us to ever truly be free if there was even the smallest of chances of getting locked up. And in the US, there always would be that chance.
"Scott," Kingston's voice called, sounding low, understanding, comforting. "Don't go doing..."
"That's three," Nixon cut him off, making my stomach drop seemingly to my feet.
One was chance.
Two was coincidence.
Three? Three seemed like design.
We knew the drill.
We had discussed it at length.
We knew what we had to do.
As we looked at one another, the reality of having to do it was gutting all of us simultaneously.
But there was no time for words said, no time for comforts, for possible goodbyes.
We watched until the car rounded the corner again, then we shared one last look, and we fucking booked it.
In different directions.
Because if the worst-case scenario was what might be happening, we knew that the best bet was to separate, not to allow us all to be rounded up at once.
Therein lay the gutting sensation.
Because even if you weren't caught, what if one of the others was? They wouldn't turn on the rest of us, of course, but they would possibly be offering over a decade or more of their life. There was no relief in freedom if someone you had spent every single day of your life with for the past decade was losing theirs.
But I did turn and run.
Because that was just what the plan was.
I tore down an alley then down the backs of the buildings, heading toward the closest way out of town- the train.
My heart was a slamming thing in my chest. As much as I maybe wanted to blame the run, I knew the reality had nothing to do with that. The reality was, it was hurting to run. Even as I purchased a ticket and waited for the next train out of the town, heading for NYC, I couldn't help but realize the main source of the rapid heartbeat wasn't necessarily the worry for my brothers - though that was absolutely a part of it - but it was the realization of what I was leaving behind.
