Page 137 of Like A Moth To A Flame

Even if it had started as something else entirely, whatever I had with Tommy had transformed into something else.

He spent every waking moment doing anything and everything for me. He was here more than he was gone, and the house was finally starting to take shape—inside, anyway.

Was it a relationship?

Not really. I didn’t think, anyway.

He hadn’t asked me. But did he have to? He stalked me. Was that the same as asking me out?

Was he my boyfriend now?

I wrinkled my nose, standing beside my little red convertible and looking out over the grass that transitioned into the fenced horse pasture and beyond.

Was my stalker myboyfriend?

Again, I wrinkled my nose, and a little harder than before.

No, that was weird. I was not too fond of that.

Maybe I didn’t like the word? Was I too old for a boyfriend?

Was he too old tobea boyfriend? After all, he was, what, eleven years older than me? Or something.

This was weird. I didn’t like this.

Shaking the thought from my head, I stepped up to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Brown paper bags glared up at me, hating me as much as I hated them.

I hated grocery shopping. I hated putting it away, and I hated cooking it.

I wanted to cook dinner for Tommy.

He cooked for me. He bought groceries for me, and he bought dinner more times than I could count, and I wanted to do something for him.

Growing up, my mom made an amazing pot roast, and in one of my cleaning rages, I’d found the recipe handwritten on an index card and stuffed into one of her old, well-worn cooking books. My dad had tried and failed to make it himself. Now, I wanted to try.

It couldn’t be that hard, right? Read the writing on the paper and do that thing. That couldn’t be that bad, could it?

I guess we will find out.

Gathering the bags in my arms, I used my flip-flopped foot to slam the trunk shut and moved toward the porch when something against the dark, rusted screen door caught my eye and I stopped. A white slip of paper fluttered in the cool fall breeze, flapping against the screen and rustling gently as I moved up the steps.

A stone of dread dropped down into the pit of my stomach, and I fought to shake it away. Tommy was being funny. That’s all this was.

Then why didn’t itfeellike that?

I bent, gently depositing the rustling bags at my feet before I grabbed the paper and ripped it off, feeling goosebumps rising on my arms. This handwriting was different. It was small and neat, not the hurried, rushed spidery writing I was used to.

I’ve been waiting for you, Butterfly.

Did you miss me?

I’ll see you again real soon.

I shivered, tucking the note into the back pocket of my jeans before pulling the screen door open and unlocking the front door. I let it swing open, my movements rushed and fumbling as I grabbed the paper bags and slung them into the foyer, before jumping in behind them and locking myself in, hearing the telltale sound of the screen door slapping against the frame when the wind finally gave it up.

This didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel the same.

Something felt horribly wrong, even if I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

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