Page 145 of Like A Moth To A Flame

The moment I crossed into the treeline, the uncertainty fell away. With every step, my path grew stronger, and before I knew it, I was dragging her along behind me, practically sprinting as we made our way through the woods.

I had to do this now.

Ithadto be now.

“Where are we going?” she asked, panting. The sound of her struggling made me stop—to pause, looking back at her in the shadows, beneath the swaying branches of the canopy overhead, among the sounds of the insects screaming and the birds singing their final songs before winter.

“I’m gonna do things the right way,” I said, watching as confusion shadowed her face. “I didn’t know I wanted it until I saw you and he was already gone.”

“W-wait,” she said, blinking at me. I saw her eyes begin to swim once again, and I forced myself to look away. “Where are we going?”

Grabbing her hand, I continued my walk, if not a bit slower. I couldn’t answer that question right now. I couldn’t listen to her beg me not to do it—I needed to. Maybe we both needed it, more than either of us knew.

“It’s a surprise,” I told her simply and left it at that.

Thankfully, she stayed silent after that, and we walked through the swaying shadows, moving past the shadow of an old willow that bowed over the clearing that had, at one time, been a beautiful pond. Maybe she’d restore it. After all, this land and the pastures on three sides of the house were hers. She just didn’t know it yet.

Maybe she did? Maybe I wasn’t giving my Little Moth enough credit.

Finally, I could see the beams of sunlight breaking through the trees up ahead, leading us into the waving tawny flags of tufted grass that would lead us to our final destination.

When we made it to the edge of the forest and she first placed a booted heel onto the path through the grass, she stopped, pulling me to a halt. I looked back at her, and her eyes were huge, disbelieving disks that stopped me in my tracks.

“Wait, are we going—”

“Just come with me,” I urged her gently. “I’m right here.”

“I haven’t been—” she stopped, swallowing thickly as she looked from me, off into the distance. “I haven’t been to the cemetery since we…”

She trailed off, shaking her head.

Even if I could sense her hesitation, she allowed me to pull her along, practically dragging her through the grass as we closed in, closer and closer.

Birds swam through the air over our heads, looping in lazy circles through the cloudless blue sky.

After a moment, we arrived at the broken and unkempt fence, and I peeled back the chain link to give us a path between the headstones. Most of them had a layer of grime and moss, but one among them gleamed in the sunlight. When she stepped in behind me, I weaved with her through the stones, listening to the sound of her breathing shifting from shallow and steady to wavering sniffles.

I had expected this. I knew this was coming.

How could I not?

After all, if she hadn’t been here since the funeral, then she hadn’t properly grieved. When we made it to the graveside of the late Don Harper, I pulled her down to the short tufts of green that had just started to sprout between the lines of straw they had sprinkled over the dirt. I sat cross-legged, facing the headstone, and pulled her down into my lap. She was stiff, her limbs contorted against her body and her muscles taut and anxious. When she settled against me, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pinned her against me.

“What are you feeling?” I asked her, and she stiffened all over again.

“W-why are w-we here?” She choked on the words, and a pile of guilt landed on top of me like a ton of bricks, squeezing the air from my lungs in a shaking exhale.

At that moment, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Was this too much? Was I pushing her too far?

Sighing, I rested my chin on her shoulder, and with that one simple gesture, I felt her melt into me.

“Well,” I began, and I paused. How much should I tell her? “Ever since the day at the funeral, and everything that’s happened since, I’ve wondered what your dad would say about all of this. Would he tell me I was a sick son of a bitch? Hell, maybe he’d shoot me himself.” I chuckled, and I felt Vanessa pull in a deep, shaking breath. “But part of me knows that ultimately, he would just want you to be happy.”

She stayed silent for a long time, and just as I opened my mouth to speak, she interrupted me.

“No, he wouldn’t,” she whispered. “I wish. I wish, but he never cared. He never cared if I was happy.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, genuinely at a loss for what to say. I hadn’t expected this.

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