The Best of Us

twenty seven

NOTE
no pressure to read this in one sitting. working on making them more digestible, I promise. next chapter offers a lot more breathing room. thank you to anyone who reads. all my love and appreciation.

DECEMBER 2014

WHEN MY SOBBING subsided into broken, hitched hiccups of breath, Thomas guided me to the back of the parking lot and opened the passenger door of his car for me. I clambered in, sunk into my seat and tried to disappear into his jacket, hiding my hands inside the sleeves and crossing my arms over my chest.

He disappeared to the trunk, opened it, slammed it and returned to me with a beige, woollen blanket— Kayla's— that he tried to cover me with as much as he could. With a sigh and a weak smile, he left my side and got into the driver's seat; sent some texts, threw his phone down and started the car.

I rested my cheek against my seat and strained to keep my eyes open, widening them and blinking rapidly; staring into the brick, graffitied walls and the blurring, artificial lights and the dark, starless space that always seemed thinner in the city.

"Don't fall asleep on me," he warned, grasping my shoulder, shaking it.

"I won't," I mumbled, but my bones were fatigue-flooded, the anchors of my body, and my feet were both numb and blisteringly sore, somehow frozen and burning at the same time. Still, the relief of the car, of warmth and the promise of home, cleansed me; a warm, damp sponge to dried blood.

Had I not been so violently exhausted, my red-raw sensitivity might've brought me to tears again, but the river inside of me had stopped running and all I could do was try to stay awake, cocooned in his jacket and her blanket; his cologne, cardamom and amber and sandalwood, and the vague, floral scent of her perfume.

Despite my efforts, everything was lulling me, luring me into sleep; the glide of his car, my cushioned seat, the heaters turned on low, the space that he took up beside me, his hand occasionally shaking my shoulder, ruffling my hair, tapping my cheek.

I did not remember falling asleep or even letting my eyes close, but, what felt like seconds after he'd started driving, I was woken up by his hand roughly shaking my shoulder.

The blanket fell into my lap as I pushed myself up. Yawning, I rubbed my eyes until I saw stars and, when I blinked my eyes open, found that we were in our driveway, a realisation that came in a surreal daze.

It was like looking at a memory, like imitating my childhood self in a space that belonged to him. The feeling of the air, sweet and cold, overwhelmed me, a rush of childhood sprinting through me, fleeting as a spring butterfly; the feeling of being small enough for my father to carry me out of the car while I pretended to stay asleep.

Thomas stared at me, his hand still on my shoulder and, trying to shake off my sleep, all I did was frown and blink at him, stupid and hazy.

"Come on, sunshine," he said, glancing towards the house. The side of his thumb was pushing hard into my collarbone. "Bedtime."

As I inhaled, slow and deep, I felt my ribs expanding, tightening beneath my flesh, and relaxed, sleepy and softened. My body flooded back to me and I threw the blanket aside, unbuckled my seatbelt, yawned again and, clumsy with sleep, got out of the car.

A shadow of amusement passed through his face, a slight curve of the mouth and a faint glint in the eyes, when he closed the door behind me and pressed his hand into my back, pushing me towards the house.

On the porch, I fumbled in the pockets of his jacket for his keys and dropped them in his open hand, thinking only of my head on my pillow, my bed covers and warm pyjamas and the stillness of my room.