Page 5 of Like A Moth To A Flame

I barked a laugh, and he jumped, sloshing beer across the front of his unbuttoned flannel.

“For cripes’ sake!” he muttered, leaning forward and plopping the bottle down on the table. “What fuckin’ time is it?”

“7:30. Time to get ready.”

“At dick hair in the morning?! Count me out! I ain’t no female. It doesn’t take me an hour and a half to get ready.”

He grabbed his hat and pulled it down over his eyes.

Men.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed my bag on the way up the stairs and hurried into the bathroom. This room, like all the others, hadn’t changed. The room had the same weird, pukey peach color that my mother had insisted on having in the 80s. My father had never bothered to change it. The decor was seashells and seahorses—all beige—with a shower curtain to match.

Damn, I loved that woman, but her taste was simply gaudy.

Throwing my shorts and white tank off, I slid into the shower and washed what I lovingly liked to call my important parts—the ‘its.

Tits, pits, and slits.

After I was clean, I pulled out my little black dress and threw it on. It was a simple, knee-length swing dress with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. Dad really would’ve liked it.

I blinked rapidly, fighting the tears that had sprung in my eyes, and slipped into my dress. Pulling eyeliner and mascara out of my bag, I did what I could, opting for a simple, tiny winged liner and some light mascara. I wore it because it was the right thing to do, even knowing I’d end up crying all of it off by the end of the day.

I did it for dad. He would have liked it.

By the time I exited the bathroom, it was 8:00. I made my way downstairs carrying my sleek black pumps, and when I looked into the living room, Barrett was already up, a new, cold bottle clutchedin his hand, his green eyes squinted against the early morning light.

“Barrett. It’s 8 in the morning.”

“You know what they say.” He looked over at me with a shrug. “Hair of the Dog and all that.”

“I’m pretty sure the hangover is from the entire bottle of whiskey we split, not the cheap Bud Lights my dad bought because it was ‘better for his heart’.”

Barrett grumbled a reply that I didn’t hear as I stepped into my shoes and made my way towards the mirror in the hall. I looked… nice. A far cry from my normal sneakers and scrubs, but a little change was good, right?

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the church parking lot. Barrett had insisted we take my car because he’d never been in a convertible before. We parked near the back of the lot and made our way into the building.

Inside, it was small, nearly the size of my living room back home. A small town only needed a small church, after all. There were three rows of pews, a pulpit, a confession, and the rest was fairly open. It was jam-packed with people. Most of the town had to have been here.

“Wow,” Barrett said, looking around. “He was a popular guy, huh?”

He’d changed into a simple black suit, black Stetson, and silver bolo tie. He looked handsome.

“Of course he was,” I said, and I could feel pride swelling in me. “He was the chief of police for over thirty years. Everyone loved him.”

“That they did.”

A deep baritone sounded behind me, and I turned. I’d recognize Sheriff Banner anywhere. After all, he was probably the only black man who lived in Cottonwood Falls. Small-town Kansas wasn’t exactly ripe with diversity. He was tall, with a shining bald head, a neatly trimmed goatee, and rich brown eyes that could pierce right into the soul of any criminal, and pull out the lies.

“Hi Sheriff,” I said warmly, smiling at him. “How has it been in Cottonwood Falls?”

“Good, good,” he said. “Quiet.”

“Quiet’s good.”

“That it is, that it is. Don’t be bringin’ any of those big city problems with ya, Nessa.”

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