29. I can wait for you at the bottom. I can stay away if you want me to
29
I can wait for you at the bottom. I can stay away if you want me to
Moth
A melia went home the night after I confronted Tommy. For the next three days, I didn’t give myself time to think. I cleaned my dad’s entire bedroom by myself, breaking his old, rickety bed frame into pieces with a sledgehammer I found in the barn. With every slam of the hammer, I felt the anger drain out of me, and by the time it was in easily moved pieces, I was out of breath and empty. I carried the pieces to the trash by myself, focusing on my scraped knuckles and the ache in my lower back. It was a nice outlet, but sadly it only stayed gone for a couple of hours. Then it returned, and I dissolved into a fit of tears on my dad’s bedroom floor.
I couldn’t give my mind any downtime, in fear that it would take me back to the jail and every little thing he’d said to me. I didn’t want to think about it, because I was afraid of what I would feel if I did. I had a swirling, painful conflict in the pit of my stomach, and I was afraid it would swallow me whole if I let it .
I did the right thing. Didn’t I?
I protected myself by keeping him away from me.
I did the right thing.
When I woke up the morning of the fourth day, I bought paint and painted the entire living room a bright eggshell white. Twice, I spilled paint all over the hardwood floor, but I ignored it, stepping over it as I continued my work.
I couldn’t look at my mistakes, because they would remind me of the others. I couldn’t think about Tommy. It made my stomach hurt.
It was my stomach, right?
Except my pain was a little higher up and nestled behind my sternum.
No. Nope. Don’t think of that.
I cleaned off the coffee table, tossing Dad’s old medication, the bottle caps, the empty beer bottles, and anything else I could get my hands on. I found a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer and tightened all the legs before stepping back and surveying the work I’d done.
I could sand it down and stain it the same color I planned for the floor, and they would look good together. Maybe I could get a nice rug, deep red with gold trim, and change the curtains to the same red. I could buy a couch, and—
I shook my head, hard, and tossed the screwdriver onto the couch, trying to force my mind to think of something else.
Nope. I wasn’t staying here. I couldn’t stay here.
I moved out of the room, throwing myself into painting the hallway instead .
If I painted and cleaned and broke enough furniture, maybe I could forget. Maybe I wouldn’t be angry anymore.
Maybe I wouldn’t be sad.
Sad? Why was I sad?
I shouldn’t be sad.
I had stuck up for myself.
I did the right thing, didn’t I?
Then why did it fucking hurt ?
Too caught up in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice when paint dropped from the brush in my fingers and splattered across the hardwood floor.
“Damn it,” I grumbled, dropping the paintbrush into the bucket and grabbing the rag I used to clean up spills—except it didn’t come off. I scrubbed and wiped, but it left a long white smear.
I’d have to sand and stain in here now, too.
“God damn it,” I grunted, tossing the rag onto the stairs with an annoyed grunt.
I couldn’t do anything right. All I did was fuck up.
Everything was wrong.
All of this was wrong .
“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 the right thing 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.
I didn’t know what to say. Seeing him this way made me want to climb into his lap like an obedient puppy. Why did he affect me like this?
I forced myself to look away and shrugged.
“Felt like I had to.”
“Why?”
I shrugged again. I didn’t have an answer to that question, because I didn’t know myself.
“Because,” I said, forcing myself to look back at him. The defeat in his eyes was heartbreaking. “Maybe I’m a little crazy too?”
I could hear songbirds singing merrily outside the window and a lawnmower rumbling in the distance. I looked down at him, my eyes catching on the moth tattoo across the back of his hand.
“So how’d you do that?” I asked, nodding towards his hand.
He looked confused when he met my eyes.
“Do what?”
“Cover your tattoo. ”
He snorted a laugh, shaking his head. I watched him pull a hand through his mess of dark brown hair, and then drag the same hand down his face .
“Uh, makeup,” he said, looking up at me with confusion in his eyes.
“Why? You ashamed of me?”
His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows knit together as his lips creased into a frown.
“No,” he said finally, shaking his head. “More like ashamed of me .”
I paused, watching him. Somehow, like this, I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t scared of what he could do to me. Without the mask, he had lost all the power he had. Or maybe it was because I knew who he was.
I wasn’t scared anymore.
I felt an odd sort of safety that I couldn’t remember feeling since the last time I’d been with my dad. It was a protection that I missed—I craved.
“Come on,” I said, turning out of the room. “Get dressed.”
“What?”
I heard him get up and follow me out of the room, and when I turned back, he was right behind me. He towered over me, and I had to crane my neck to look into his eyes.
Without the mystery, he wasn’t scary.
“We’re gonna walk to the diner and get lunch,” I said, my arms crossed as I turned down the hallway and into the living room. “You smell like vodka, and I’m hungry.”
He followed me into the mouth of the hallway, looking over at me with a confused expression as I flopped down onto the couch.
“You want to… have lunch with me?” he asked .
I snorted a laugh. He looked thoroughly confused, and it was adorable.
Adorable? Adorable?
My stalker was… cute? Was I fuckin’ touched?
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I shrugged. “Everything has been your way up until now. So it’s my turn, and I choose lunch.”
Still, he stood there, staring at me, disbelief narrowing his eyes.
“You don’t wanna go?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
I waited for him as he retreated into the bathroom. I heard the shower come on, and ten minutes later, he walked out of the hallway, wearing his usual blue jeans, plain black t-shirt, and heavy boots. I stood up, looking him up and down. Still, he had the same confused look on his face.
Reaching onto the couch, I snatched up his jacket and shoved it into his chest.
“Let’s go,” I said, stepping past him and out the door. He followed along behind me like a puppy, and I laughed at the thought as he pulled the door closed behind him and shrugged on his jacket.
“You sure you wanna…?” he trailed off, looking up and down the sidewalk.
“Ashamed to be seen with me?” I asked, my eyebrows lifting.
“ No ,” he spat.
I turned without a word, moving off the porch and down the sidewalk, and he hurried after me, his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets. We walked in relative silence for a few minutes before I turned to him.
“What happened to your voice?” I asked. It had been bothering me ever since last night. “It’s deeper than I remembered.”
“Uh, structure fire,” he said, looking over at me. “I got trapped and inhaled some smoke. Scarred up my vocal cords.”
“Interesting,” I said. That explained so much. His voice was so different from what it had been like when I was younger. It was yet another reason why I hadn’t realized it was him.
We turned onto Main Street, and Mae’s diner came into view. Every time a car drove by, I watched him get more and more tense.
“What are you scared of?” I asked, and he looked up at me.
There was something unreadable behind his eyes.
“Just… weird,” he said, shrugging. “Everyone can see us, and it feels wrong, somehow.”
“You’re hilarious, Tommy.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Why?”
“You ripped out my IUD, fucked me, and possibly got me pregnant, and this is what’s weird to you?” I asked, crossing my arms again. I tried my best to give him the saddest pout I could muster and judging by the shocked look in his eyes, I had won.
I left him speechless on the sidewalk as I crossed the road, and he had to hurry to catch up to me. When he finally jogged up beside me, I reached over, pulled his hand out of his pocket, and interlaced his fingers with mine as he walked up to the diner. I felt him stiffen against me, but he didn’t protest .
Pulling the door open, I walked in, dragging him along behind me, and walked to one of the booths in the corner. I sat closest to the wall and pulled him down into the seat, still clutching his hand. He didn’t try to pull away, but he was nowhere near relaxed.
Peaking around him, I looked around the diner. Mae stood behind the counter, talking to Mrs. Rhodes, the kindergarten teacher. Sheriff Banner sat in a nearby booth, occupied with his newspaper. He didn’t even seem to notice we were there.
I pulled my hand out of his, and he looked over at me as I picked up his arm and threaded it over my shoulders. I leaned into him, running my hand along the taut muscles under his t-shirt. The warmth of his body washed me in comfort I hadn’t felt for so long, and I was happier than I remembered being in a long time.
I knew, at that moment, that as long as he was near me, no one would ever hurt me again.
Except for him, and maybe I liked that.
“Tommy,” I whispered, looking up at him.
He looked down at me, and there was something different in the depths of his brown eyes—something lighter, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing before.
“Yeah?”
“Is this okay?” I asked.
He seemed confused.
“Is what okay?”
“Going out with me like this.”
He studied my face, his lips lifting in the corners, if only just a little.
“Does it make you happy?” he asked .
“Yes,” I said.
I was happy, really, for the first time in longer than I cared to remember.
“If it makes you happy, then I’m happy.”
Reaching up, I threaded my hand behind his neck and pulled him down until his lips pressed against mine, and I felt him stiffen again.
He was worried, I knew he was.
Someone could see us, and as he’d said before, people would talk.
Let them talk. I didn’t care.
I kissed him, hard, feeling the flutter of butterflies dancing in my chest, rather than the stiffening of fear that I had felt before.