60. Willow
WILLOW
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even bat an eye.
His hand is still resting on my thigh, and I swear I can feel his excitement flowing through his body.
“Noah, say something,” I finally pleaded.
“What? There’s nothing to say. I already told you I’m coming, so what else is there? Do you want me to strike the match, or did you want the honors, Little Rabbit?”
I’m worried he thinks this is a joke. That I’m just talking out my ass about burning down a house. Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me? I’m a lawyer. He’s a lawyer. And yet we’re about to burn a house to the ground that belongs to someone else.
I cut the lights as we slowly coast down the road until I pull us into the driveway and park in the back, as I did before.
The house is still just as I left it. The shattered windows.
The peeling paint on the siding. The tattered curtains flowing out of the broken windows.
The way the roof sags on one side of the house. It’s all still here.
“Are you sure about this, Noah?”
“Willow, if you ask me one more time, I’m going to make a Molotov cocktail and burn it to the ground myself.”
Fuck. I think I’m in love with this man.
Love? Jesus, Willow. We’ll circle back to that one when we aren’t about to commit multiple felonies together.
“Is there anything you want to get out of the house before it goes up in flames?” he asks, and it’s then that I realized there might still be photos or family heirlooms I should take.
“Uh…maybe.”
“Why don’t you go in and start looking? I’m going to just check in with Jeremy and let him know we went out, just in case he goes back to the house. I’ll be inside in a few minutes,” he says as he pulls out his cell phone.
“Don’t text him where we are,” I say quickly.
“I know. No documented evidence of where we are. I swear it’s like you don’t think I went to law school or something,” he teases before he grabs me by the chin and kisses me roughly. “I’ll meet you in there.”
I make my way back in through the kitchen, trying my best not to look at the stain and the small handprint in blood on the floor. My stomach rolls just thinking about those photos again, but after tonight, hopefully I’ll be able to move on.
I climb the steps and use my phone's flashlight to light my path as I walk down the hall to my parents’ old bedroom.
I pause, letting my hand linger on the doorknob for a few seconds before opening it.
The room is caked in dust and evidence of animals.
It smells rancid in here, stale and disgusting. I hate it.
I drag my finger along the different bottles of perfume that sit on top of the dresser.
They all belonged to my mother. There’s one in particular that catches my eye.
It’s the same one I’ve worn for years. I always loved the smell as a kid, and even as an adult, I’d always spray just a little on me so that I could smell it. It was a scent that calmed me.
Vanilla body spray from Body Fantasies. It’s cheap as hell, but it’s my favorite scent in the world.
I glance around the room, shining the light over every hidden memory.
It’s barely been touched other than the signs of animals making this room their main home.
I open each drawer searching for something, but I don’t know what.
Maybe something of my mother’s that I can take with me.
I don’t want anything of my father’s. All of his shit can burn in the flames.
I finally see something that sparks a memory.
A hairpin is sitting on my mother’s vanity.
It’s gold with a row of once shiny pearls on it.
I can close my eyes and remember sitting in front of the vanity on her lap.
She’d brush my hair and then pin it back with the hairpin before we went to church on Sundays.
Tears sting my eyes as I remember the happiness on her face as she did this. I need more memories of her so that I don’t forget her again. That’s when I remember the photos I dropped the last time I was in my room.
I quickly pocket the hairpin into my jacket and make my way to my old bedroom. Downstairs the back door opens noisily then slams shut, followed by a soft curse from Noah.
“I’m upstairs,” I call out before entering my old room.
The old wooden box is still in the corner where I dropped it.
It’s on its side and the photos are spilling out .
I kneel next to the pile and set my phone on the desk where the flashlight is illuminating the floor then turn the wooden box back upright.
I grab all the photos, stacking them neatly before looking at the box.
Inside is a small ballerina. It’s an old music box, not just for storing photos.
I twist the crank and wait. Holding my breath, begging for even a single note when it finally starts to play. The ballerina doesn’t turn smoothly, more like it ticks like the hands on a clock. Oh well, at least the music still plays.
I can feel Noah’s presence as he steps into the room. It’s both overwhelming and calming at the same time. A feeling of déjà vu washes over me as I begin to pick up the photos while the music box continues to play.
There are so many, all with different ages of my childhood, long forgotten.
I was worried that looking at these photos might cause bad memories to resurface, but so far it’s like just looking through someone else’s photo album.
No one in the photos looks familiar except my mom and dad.
That is until I get to the last chunk of photos in the stack.
The photos are of my birthday party. There are tons of kids running around the backyard. I don’t remember any of them. Not a single face stands out. I flip through photo after photo until I get to the last three.
The first one is of me opening a box with a big, bright blue bow tied around it. The paper is a shiny, glittery, bright blue. My favorite color.
The second photo is of me holding up a stuffed rabbit. One with a bright blue ribbon tied in a bow around his neck. His fur is bright white, and his marble eyes are colored the same shade of green as my eyes.
I stare at the photo for a long time. There’s a boy sitting next to me but from the angle it’s taken at, his back is to the camera.
My chest begins to ache as I look at the photo and remember the gift.
It was Mr. Snuggles, my favorite stuffed animal.
The one I lost that night when my whole world was destroyed.
My eyes burn as the tears fall onto the photo. The dust on the photo begins to wash off from my tears as I wipe my thumb across it. He’s the one that got me that rabbit. But who was he? Why can’t I remember him?
I flip to the last photo and my heart stops beating.
In the photo is me and the boy. He’s standing next to me in front of the big bay window in the front room. He’s got his arm around my shoulder and we’re both smiling. Another tear falls onto the photo, and as I wipe it off, the dust clears away from our faces. It’s then that I see those dark eyes.
His eyes.
Deep and endless like a starless sky.
Those eyes that, for the last five days, were the only thing I could see when I closed my eyes.
“Noah?” My voice cracks, and I can hear him shift, but he doesn’t move toward me.
You could use the phantom knife currently stabbing into my heart to cut the tension in the room. Everything is still.
It’s not real. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
But it is.
I know it is.
It’s the reason I’ve felt a connection to him since the very beginning. He knew my favorite flowers were ditch lilies, not tiger lilies. He got fifteen bouquets, one for each year we were apart.
He said we were always meant to be together and told me he had just gotten me back and was never letting me go.
He called me little rabbit because that’s what he always called me back then…
My little rabbit.
“Noah…”
I can hear the stuttered inhale he takes before letting it out slowly.
“Yes, Little Rabbit?”