My Heart Is The Worst Kind Of Weapon

1 month earlier.

I stood in the airport of Odessa, wondering for about the hundredth time that day if I should do what I was about to do. I heard the loudspeaker come on and a voice say my flight was leaving. I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on my purse, then began walking down the terminal.

The whole flight there I sat in complete silence, thinking about what I was going to do, and if it was right. But how could it be wrong? I couldn't stop thinking about him, and I needed to figure out what I needed to do to make it stop.

My hand dug into my purse and pulled out a worn piece of paper that I had rescued from my garbage can two days ago. Scrawled onto into were only a couple of words, slightly faded because of time. I stared at the paper, then crumpled it into my hand and threw it back into my purse. I had looked at this scrawny little piece of paper so many times that I had memorized what was written on it.

I knew what I was doing was reckless and probably really stupid. I should have at least called and told him I was coming. But if I had, I wasn't even sure that he would have agreed. He would have told me to not bother, or to get lost, or to get out of his life forever. So maybe it was better that I hadn't told anyone what I was going to do.

My plane landed three and a half hours later and I got off of it, heading quickly to where the taxis were. I found one quite easily, and told the guy behind the wheel the address of the place I was going.

The driver tried to make polite conversation the whole ride there, but I was too caught up in my own world of anxiety to bother with proper responses. My heart was leaping with nerves at the thought of seeing him again, and my stomach couldn't stop performing back-flips. My hands were so sweaty that it took me a good minute to fumble for the money to pay the taxi driver once we arrived at my destination.

As the yellow car drove away I turned and stared at the house in front of me. It was average looking, almost identical to the houses on either side of it. It was a motley gray color with blue trimming. The grass was slightly unkempt, and I could tell the flowers lining the front of the house had seen better days.

I took a couple steps up the pathway that led to the front door, my heart racing as I did so. As I neared the entrance I noticed that the door was open, but the screen door was shut. Inside, I could hear laughter.

I approached the door and peered in through the mesh of the screen. I couldn't see anyone, and my voice had suddenly stopped working. I tried to move my hand to knock on the door frame, but it was like my brain had shut off.

And then I heard his voice, calling out to someone else in the house. The other person responded that they were in the living room. With a pang, I saw the profile of Frank as he crossed from one room to the other.

I stepped back and walked through the grass to look through the big window at the front of the house. It framed the living room, and I saw Frank walk into the room and smile at someone sitting on the couch. The person stood up and suddenly I realized who it was.

Jamia skipped towards Frank and engulfed him in a hug, planting her lips on his. I watched as they kissed and felt my stomach fall, my heart tear, my vision go fuzzy. I took a step back, horrified, wanting to leave but for some reason not having the strength too.

Just then Frank looked up. During the one second that our eyes connected, I stood there long enough for him to recognize me, and for me to realize that he was with Jamia again, and for him to realize that I knew this.

Then I turned around and walked away.