Page 121 of Like A Moth To A Flame

Everything was wrong.

All of this waswrong.

“Fuck it,” I sighed, standing up and wiping my forearm across my sweaty forehead. I stomped past the hall table, grabbing my purse and my keys as I huffed by, making my way to the front door and slamming it closed behind me. I was in my car and speeding down the gravel road towards town before my brain had even caught up with me.

I was tired of being miserable, and why? Because I should be? So I could stand on principle?

Because it was therightthing to do?

Was it, even?

Was it right if it made me feel so horribly wrong?

I whipped my convertible past the jail, turned down 5th Street, and I was halfway down Oak Street, parked in front of his house before common sense had even crossed my mind. The house was small—a run-down cottage with peeling green paint and cobwebs framing every window. The white picket fence had broken in several places and weeds had overgrown the lawn.

The familiar sight made my heart ache and my hands tremble on the steering wheel.

I shouldn’t be here. I told myself I wouldn’t come back here. I had made my stand and asserted my boundaries. This was a bad idea.

But you run on bad ideas and iced coffee,my dad reminded me in the back of my mind.

Before I knew it, I was out of the car and walking up to his front door.

My worn sneakers crunched over the gravel walkway as I let myself through the gate, knees trembling as I moved up the front porch steps, the concrete well-worn from years of use.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorbell. What was I doing here? What did I hope to achieve?

The wooden front door felt smooth and cool under my fingertips as I placed my palm against it. Why bother knocking? Tommy never had.

The handle was worn and tarnished, and the door creaked as I pushed it open.

The minute the door opened, I could smell the familiar citrus, smoke, and musk, but there was something else—sadness and regret. I stood in the living room, looking over the couch, draped with his brown leather jacket, his heavy steel-toe boots untied and laying haphazardly thrown in a far-away corner.

What if he wasn’t here?

I moved through the house and down the hallway, looking in every room. There was a weight room across from the bathroom, and both were silent and dark. At the end of the hall, I saw the bedroom door cracked open, with a beam of broken sunlight reaching from inside and laying across the threadbare carpet, beckoning to me.

Stepping up to the door, I laid a hand across this one and pressed it open.

Tommy lay on his back on the bed, wearing only a pair of worn blue jeans. On the mattress, an empty bottle of alcohol had come to rest against his thigh. Another one sat half-empty on the dresser beside him. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and even closed, I could see the dark circles lying thick under his eyes.

I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning against the doorframe as I watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Why was I here? What was I expecting out of this?

I’d told him to stay away from me, and then I waltzed right in and delivered myself to him.

I knew what it meant to come here and to give in to him.

Could I be happy with him?

His darkness called for mine. Maybe I was a little more twisted than I wanted to believe.

“Have to be honest,” he said, his voice breaking through the quiet. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed him sitting up, looking at me. “I wasn’t expecting you to come here.”

I could smell the vodka from here, barely covering the shame and loneliness.

I felt a bit of guilt, looking at him now.

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