Page 4 of Like A Moth To A Flame

I took a left this time, and I pulled down the driveway, slowing to a crawl. The driveway had always been pitted and broken with huge, water-holding potholes, and who knew what they’d do to my car? I didn’t need a flat tire or broken something or other out here in the boonies. I passed beneath the shadow of the old elm, and my childhood home came into view.

The minute I saw it, I wanted to cry. It was over a hundred years old, and it showed. It needed a lot of work. I couldn’t imagine that much had been done to it since I left for college six years ago. My dad wasn’t in the best shape, and without Mom, I don’t suppose he cared all that much. The red brick had faded to dark russet and autumnal orange, and I could see the dirt and grime on the windows from the driveway. The front porch sagged, the wooden floorboards sticking up here and there. The stained glass over the front door was so dusty and dirty that I wouldn’t have been able to see through it even if it wasn’t ten feet off the ground.

Even if I hadn’t been here in a long time, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to have it as a place to run to if I needed it. It was like my safety net was falling out from under me, and there was nothing I could do about it. Sighing, I threw my car into park and yanked out the key, stuffing it into the front pocket of my cut-offjean shorts. I reached into the back seat to grab my duffel bag. I had another two suitcases in the trunk, but those could wait.

Parked off to the side, close to the old, broken-down horse barn, an old red Chevy stood among the weeds. A tall, rugged country boy leaned against the tailgate, his hat pulled down over his eyes to protect them from the sun. He was your quintessential cowboy—flannel, big belt buckle, hat and all.

I rolled my eyes.

“I didn’t know I was pulling up to a new season of Yellowstone,” I called out, flashing him a smile.

“Oh hardy har,” he called back, stepping through the weeds as he made his way over. “So funny, Nessie.”

I stuck out my tongue and kicked the door open, stepping out onto the gravel. Stepping up to me, he handed me a pair of house keys on a rusted ring.

“Got these from the coroner,” he said. “You okay?”

I shrugged.

I could feel the emotions rolling around in my throat, like a prickly ball.

“I mean, I guess,” I said. “As good as I can be.”

He shrugged.

“Dad would want you to be okay,” he said. “He never liked to see you sad.”

Barrett had been my friend since high school, when he moved here from out of town. Why his mom had chosen to bring him to a hick ass town like this one, I’d never know, but I was grateful just the same. He had been the new kid, and I had been the populargirl. We weren’t your typical friendship, but something about it just stuck.

Now, all these years later, we still talked almost every day.

“I know I shouldn’t be sad,” I said, squinting up at him. “He isn’t in pain anymore.”

“That’s true,” Barrett said, flashing me a warm smile that lit up his green eyes. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not, ya know?”

I shrugged, and we moved towards the front porch. My flip-flops slapped over the rotting boards as I moved up to the door and slid the key into the lock. I jiggled the knob, and in a couple of seconds, it popped open and the scent of nostalgia wafted out, hitting me in the face with memories. Damn it.

Tears were slipping from my eyes when I stepped over the threshold. I couldn’t sniffle them back, even if I tried.

It was exactly how I remembered, down to the lamp on the end table, and the coffee table strewn with empty beer bottles, bottle caps, newspapers, and medication bottles. The couch was the same worn floral that was older than I was, and the curtains were the same warm orange. The rug in front of the old analog TV was worn and moth-eaten in places, but it was yet another memory to suffocate me.

“What time’s the service?”

“9 A.M,” I said with a sigh, dropping my bag near the bottom of the stairs. “Bright and early. Only dad would do some shit like that.”

“Well, he was a cop,” Barrett said. “They’re hard-wired to be hard asses.” Reaching up, he pulled the Stetson off his head. Whenhe tossed it down onto the coffee table, his tawny hair had taken on the dictionary definition of hat head, and I couldn’t help but snort.

“I wonder if he’s got some whiskey in the freezer,” I asked, turning towards the kitchen.

“I’m sure he does,” Barrett called after me, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “He’s a cop.”

When my eyes cracked open the next morning, my head was pounding. My phone, in its glittery teal and purple case, vibrated and buzzed on the coffee table, screaming at me to get up. I wanted to chuck it across the room. Instead, I picked it up by its purple rhinestone strap and silenced it.

Groaning, I forced myself to sit up.

Too much whiskey, too many memories. We’d stayed up way too late, telling stories and talking about old times, and fuck, I was regretting it now.

I’d fallen asleep on one end of my dad’s couch, and when I looked up, Barrett had fallen asleep on the other end, sitting up, with a beer bottle clutched in his hand and tilted dangerously into his lap.

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