You've Only Just Arrived (a Tom Hiddleston fan fiction)

Part 70

Previously in YOJA: This holiday with Tom, Thanksgiving at your mother's, wasn't supposed to go down in the records as the worst holiday you've ever experienced. That's what keeping secrets has won you. Worse, even, than the year of the charcoal turkey - though much like that one, this one has gone down in flames.

The dark sedan that carried him away is not going to reappear in front of your mother's house. You're not standing in the front yard waiting for that. You're not that disillusioned with life, no matter what your step-siblings say. Standing, shivering, in the front yard enables you to stare off into the middle distance and internally scream without being in anyone's way. What else is there to do? If you go inside you'll be tempted to go up to the guest room, curl up into a ball in the middle of the bed, and sob.

Even from your position on the front lawn you can hear something going down in your mother's kitchen. Occasionally their raised voices reach you, along with the bang of pots and pans. They're either cleaning up all that had previously been prepared for Thanksgiving, or they're continuing with their plans for the day while holding a very loud debate.

You don't care to find out which.

The sound of the front door opening and closing precedes footfall. Someone is venturing out to try to lure you inside, or at least lure you out of this fractured moment in time. You will not tell them to fuck off. You will not tell them to fuck off. You will not....

"What are you doing out here, child?"

Aunt Abby – pretty much the one person present for the events of the past 48 hours that you don't hate at the moment, yourself included. You shrug your shoulders, shaking your head in a way that gently turns your torso along with the action. The cold is making you stiff. Or maybe that's the fact that you didn't get a bit of sleep last night on the sofa. "Lowering my body temperature to match my heart...."

You lick your lips and realize they taste a little salty. It catches you off guard, and you lift your hand up to press your chilled fingertips to your cheeks. You've been leaking tears, blinking them from your eyes, without even noticing.

How dramatic. How perfectly — thank God neither of your stepbrothers have returned to the house to witness this. They would have a field day.

"I—I'm not waiting for him to come back. I know that's not going to happen." You turn to look at her, convinced that she's going to have this sympathetic look on her face that will only further your misery. "I don't deserve it." You swallow a gulp of air to brace yourself for the impact of her pity.

"Damn right."

You blink at your great aunt, at the hard lines of her expression. "W-what?"

She wags her finger at you. "You let Beau fight your brothers. Fight your family. And then told him they meant more. He was right to leave."

"But, Abby."

"Child, this isn't the home you knew. Your mother will understand. Or she won't. But she's the only person in that house," Aunt Abby motions with a roll of her shoulder to the house behind the pair of you, "who matters."

"And Katie?"

For a moment there is a gentle smile on your great aunt's face, replaced quickly with a frown. "That child is a blessing, but don't you use her like that. Don't you dare."

You shake your head, fighting for composure. "But you just said I don't deserve him."

She presses her lips into a thin line, the condensation caused by her breath minimal as she breathes out through her nose. "If you don't go after Beau, if you break his heart the way you're breaking yours, just to be stubborn – just to win a fight? You don't."