Bestie

“Can I ask you something?”

He nods.

“What, exactly, did you love so much about her? Honestly, I don’t understand. Everything you’ve told me, even from the second you met, has made me think she’s nothing but a cruel, heartless person. So what made you fall so hard?”

He studies me for a moment. “I don’t honestly know. I can’t really list the good qualities in her, and that’s the worst part. I’ve always known, deep down, that she wasn’t a good person.”

Then why?

I just don’t understand. Is it that his self esteem isn’t where it should be, and he thinks that’s the best he can do? Is it purely because she’s attractive, and he thought that was a score? How can you honestly love someone, with every piece of your heart, when they’re such a terrible person? How does one’s heart even open enough to let that kind of ugliness inside?

“You think I’m crazy,” he says.

“No,” I shake my head. “I just ... I just don’t get it, I guess.”

He sighs. “Sometimes I don’t, either, but I just couldn’t stop how I felt.”

“No, I understand that.”

“I’m not always the easiest person either,” he admits.

I turn towards him some more. “How do you mean?”

“I’m just ... not always nice.”

“You can’t say that and not explain, so come on, spill. I’m your Bestie, you have to tell me.”

He smiles, weakly. “Sometimes, I could just be a jerk. I get like that. Sometimes I need space and alone time, there are times I’m not affectionate, and I can be, cold, I guess.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes flash to me. “I’m not always nice, that’s not fair.”

“So, those things you listed, you think that means you deserved the things she did to you? You think that because sometimes you’re a jerk, and sometimes you want to be alone, that you deserved that?”

He stares at me, like he’s shocked. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

“There’s no guessing. You didn’t. We all have personality flaws, Roman. Some of us are too emotional, too angry, too mean, too clingy, too needy, too hard, too soft, but what she did, those weren’t personality flaws, that was just an ugly heart that cared only for itself. There is a big difference.”

“If only everyone looked at the world the way you do. You’re a good person, Molly. Don’t change that.”

“Well, I think you’re a good person, too.”

“I am now, I wasn’t always.”

“Maybe,” I say, shuffling closer so he can wrap an arm around my shoulder. “But you are now, and that takes some guts, Roman. It takes strength to be able to admit you were wrong and become a better person. Not everyone has what it takes to do that.”

“Mmmm,” he murmurs into my hair.

I tilt my head back up and look up at him, our eyes holding. His eyes. I’ve met so many people in my life, but none have ever spoken so deeply through their eyes. The kindness and passion that lies beyond those brown depths, it runs deep. He runs deep. More so than I think he knows sometimes.

He drops his head and kisses me.

It’s slow, soft and long. Our fingers tangle with each others and our mouths press together, lips moving, tongues dancing. It’s an incredible moment. It feels good. Real even. I pull back first, lips swollen in the best possible way. Roman cups my jaw and tilts my head back, looking into my eyes again. “I’m going to go home,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay, beautiful.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, then gets up and leaves.

My heart expands.

And it’s starting to scare me.

~*~*~*~

I walk up to my front steps, exhausted.

I’ve been at work all night, and honestly, I’m tired and more than ready for bed. I reach for my door when a voice comes from the dark. “Molly.”

It’s Michael.

And I can already tell by his voice that he’s drunk.

I squint, and he slowly emerges from the shadows, bottle of beer in his hand, swaying slightly. Just great. This is the last thing I need.

“What are you doing here, Michael?” I say carefully, not wanting to make him angry.

“I wanted to see you,” he slurs, putting a hand on the porch railing to stop himself falling over it.

“Yeah, well, you’re drunk. You should call a cab and go home.”

“We need to talk.”

“No,” I say, turning and pulling my keys from my purse. “We don’t.”

I put the key to the lock to open the front door, but his hand curls around my bicep and he pulls me back. My keys drop the ground with a loud clinging sound. I look up, trying to jerk my arm from his grips, but he’s got a tight hold on me.

“Let me go,” I say, my voice stern, but inside, fear is creeping up into my chest.

“We need to talk. You won’t talk to me.”

“Let me go, Michael.”

He sways a little, but he doesn’t pull his hand from my arm. “If you won’t talk to me, I’ll make you.”

I shiver all over and try to pull my arm back again. “I said no, Michael. Let me go.”

“Come on, Molly.”

“Let me go!” I demand.

“No,” he barks, jerking me so I stumble forward. He takes a staggering step back and wraps an arm around my waist. “I love you. I want to talk. Why won’t you listen to me?”

Fear lodges itself deep in my throat, and for a second, I feel like I can’t breathe. I try to squirm free, but he’s holding me so tightly, his fingers wrapped about my bicep, his arm around my waist.

“Michael, I’m asking you to let me go, please.”

“I just want to talk,” he says, turning his head to the side and breathing in my hair.

I want to vomit.

“Let me go, right now!” I screech, using all my strength to jerk backwards.

He stumbles enough that he has to release me to try and catch his balance. I reach for my phone, frantic. He takes a step forward, yelling, “Just listen to me!”

“No,” I cry, holding my phone out. “Don’t come near me.”

“Who are you calling?” he asks, eyes wide. “If you’re calling your father ...”