Page 89 of Moth
“When you don’t have to hide it,” he replies.
But that’s not what he really means.
When you can stop hiding from him.
“I can’t go back.” It sounds so desperate when said out loud. So final. “I can’t.”
He nods as if unsurprised. “You got a place lined up?”
I shake my head. “There’s nowhere to go.”
He doesn’t challenge that. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t taunt. He lets me lie beside him, still stroking through my tangled hair. Then he stands, drawing the sheets over me before he heads for the door.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
Which leaves an unspoken invitation in the air.Stay.
I don’t move, listening to him exit through the door and descend the steps. I sense rather than hear him leave the building entirely a moment later, but it feels so surreal. So strange to be here without him.
I can observe this room, invading his sacred spaces the way he’s already invaded mine. For all his taunts about my décor, his is relatively just as plain. No posters on the walls. No drawings. No hanging photos.
The only picture I find sits framed in black wood on his nightstand. A smiling little boy with beautiful almond eyes and his arms wrapped around a dark-skinned woman who looks at him as though he’s the only thing in the world that matters. Her sun. Her reason for living.
His mother? He has her mouth and her beautiful bone structure.
The mocking glare and cold eyes he must get from his father, but I don’t find any pictures of anyone else, at least in here.
He keeps his room clean, much like his shop. It betrays a level of perfectionism I suspect he hides behind the gruff attitude and swagger. He likes things orderly. Neat.
He likes his sheets to smell faintly of fabric softener, devoid of any other scents that might intrude into his thoughts while he’s lying here.
He likes to keep his private world empty, choosing not to display even his art. I can’t resist wondering why. Does it make it easier for him to come here at night after everything he’s done?
Or does the stark utilitarianism just betray how little he must stay here?
I can’t decide by the time I hear steps ascending in the stairwell. By the time he enters the apartment, I’ve hobbled from his room, creeping to the mouth of the living room.
A peculiar smell reaches my nose first.Food?Almost in slow motion, I spot the brown bag clutched in one of his hands. The other is supporting a cardboard box propped against his hip. He sets it down, and it’s already open, giving me a glimpse of the items inside.
“The rest of your stuff is in my car,” he says.
Stuff. The yellow bedsheets folded with care. The random assortment of clothing. The shoebox. The camera…
“This is mine,” I blurt out, sinking into a crouch to better peer through the items. “You got them from my apartment.”
He turns away to set the food onto the counter. “Were you lying when you said you couldn’t go back?” His wary tone deepens.
“N-No.” I can barely speak. “Thank you…”
I run my fingers over the rest of my things, overwhelmed by the emotion swelling in my chest. Terror? Gratitude?
But my hand keeps going back to one item in particular. Puzzled, I lift it, observing it in full. It’s the same model of camera that Branden kept above my TV, only…it’s unbroken. Newer, lacking any scratches or dents.
“Where did you find this?” Had Branden replaced his old one already?
“In your room,” Rafe says. “You take your security fucking serious, bunny—what’s wrong?”
I can’t breathe. Can’t speak.
