Best Thing In Town

In my head I am repeating "this is the last time" over and over again—assuring myself that I will cut ties and forget everything because that pain would be better than crying in bathroom stalls during school. And that pain would be better than denial.

Before ending up in front of his house, like the note had asked, I learn that I am exceptionally great at stalling, anticipating, and boderline torturing myself due to the anxiety ridden situations I throw myself into.

"This is the last time."

I haven't unbuckled my seat belt because half of my brain is still convinced that I am going to turn around and drive home, lay in my bed and play all the possible scenarios in my head and imagine all the possible feelings I would have felt. Despite that I am unable to see two inches in front of my face due to the unwavering rain and I would be at a high risk of wrecking my car and injuring myself, I am confident in thinking that that anxiety would be less than seeing Billie Joe.

In my head I am compromising. I know I can't drive home yet and I am not entirely certain that I want to do this after all, even though it is the last time. My eyes are filling up with water, and if I blink, I am going to cry. I come to the conclusion that I can come to a conclusion in a few minutes; I still have time. If he were to walk out, he wouldn't be able to see me anyway. I can hardly see the hood of my car.

During the time I am supposed to be coming to my conclusion of whether to leave or stay, all I think about is Billie. His laugh lines, the dark circles around his eyes, the few and far between tattoos covering his body, his ever changing hair. When I reach down to unbuckle my seat belt, I realize I had already made my decision an hour ago.

The rain lets up and I take advantage of it, not giving myself the time to think. Although the rain is lighter, it is far from sprinkling and my clothes and me are drenched as I stand on his front porch.

Before knocking on his door, my last self conscious thought is "stop thinking."

I blink and he is already standing in the threshold. Amusement behind his lips and concern in his eyes.

"Logan."

"Billie."

He smiles. "Hey."

"Hey." I smile.

He leads me in and tells me to wait. I watch as he jogs upstairs and returns with towels craddled in his arms and a clothes slung over his shoulder.

"Let me throw those in the dryer for a few minutes for you," he suggests and places the clothes in my hands. "I don't want to be responsible for giving you a cold." He goes on to explain to me where the bathroom is so I can change out of my wet clothes. I hear as little as possible because I am just watching his eyes, the way they light up when he says certain words. The way he smiles in the middle of his sentences to let me know there's more to what he says than just words.

When I am changing, I make a point to not glance in the mirror. I'm afraid if I do I will start thinking, and stop acting. I'm afraid I'll end up convincing myself that Billie only smiles at me because he feels obligated, that there was nothing special to the invitation I found on my car earlier, that there is nothing really special about me.

His clothes are comfortable, slinking over me effortlessly. After a few tugs on my hair to ring out the rain water, I leave the bathroom, turning the light off behind me. From the upstairs, I get a full view of his home. It looks different than when I was here before. But that was also a long time ago. His house is empty, but not cold and I begin to wonder if anyone else is showing up to this party he decided to have, the party he wrote about on the note I found between my windshield wipers earlier today.

"I'm in the basement, Logan!" His shout brings me back out of my mind—where I prefered to be, especially with him.

Walking down my second set of stairs that lead to the basement, I find him sitting on top of the dryer. His legs are hanging over the sides and his hands are resting between them, his feet sway slightly.

I smile when I see him. When he greets me with "Hey, beauty queen" I smile even bigger.

In one clean motion, he bounces off of the dryer machine and swiftly takes the damp clothes from my arms. And even manages to brush his arm against my side in the mix.

I sneak a glance over at him while he is messing with the buttons on the dryer. I am just watching the way he moves. The way he reaches his arm over the to adjust the settings. The way he blinks more slowly when he is focusing. The way his chest rises and falls with such a grace that when he looks over at me, I feel exposed and turn away.

There is a window, and I look through it desperately, needing time to get my nerves together before looking to him again. The rain outside comes down steadily lacking mercy. The tall pines in his backyard sway slightly with the wind; much like his feet when he was sitting on top of the dryer, looking at me. And although I am looking at the storm, in my head I see him.