To The Moon and Back

𝟐𝟗 | 𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥

Rory shivers next to me and I wish I had a sweatshirt or something to offer her, but I don't, so I offer her the last of my warmth instead, stepping behind her as I wrap my arms around her front and she sighs, lifting her hands to hold my arms.

"She liked you, you know?" Rory speaks up, tilting her head back as she looks up at me with a blank expression.

My eyebrows furrow. "Who did?"

"Opal." she answers, then she laughs, turning her attention back toward the midnight-blue sky. "Loved you, actually. She had the biggest crush on you despite never knowing you—another reason why I hated you was because I loved her and she loved you."

I try to process what she had just said but I find it difficult. I never knew Opal. I had never heard of her once nor noticed her. How could she love me when we never met? It sounds absurd—borderline insane, actually.

"That's. . ." I search for the correct word. "Weird." is the best I come up with.

Rory snorts, nodding in agreement. "It is." she agrees. "I think she mostly just liked you because everyone else did. She was always one to follow, then one day she became the one who leads and then. . .and then, she died."

"Rory," I say softly, using my chin which rests on her head to nudge her back. She looks back up at me. "It's okay." I reassure her and she forces a tight smile in response.

I'm not sure why she wanted to come here, with me especially, but I don't ask her questions. I just let her stand here, in my arms for as long as she needs—which ends up being a while, actually. We watch the stars, listening to the flow of the river beneath us, until she tells me she's ready to leave.

I think she needs closure. But unfortunately, I, nor no one else, can offer that to her. It's a process—one I know very little about—but she needs to let go. Fortunately, I am skilled with the talent of letting go. Nothing bothers me anymore because I suppress it with recreational substances, but I would rather she takes a different route.

We walk alongside back to the car and she doesn't say a word. Neither do I.

Veering away from where we just were on the bridge I proceed at the permitted speed and even then, my hand stays tied with hers until I make a turn onto her street. She tells me to park a few houses down just because of her father and I don't object.

We exit the car and I press the lock on my keys. We walk side-by-side down the footpath, stopping when we reach the front of her house. Her dad's car is parked in the driveway and she curses, grabbing my hand as she strings me along to the front door.

Her hand darts out, twisting the doorknob silently, before shoving the door open and stepping inside. She tells me to not make a sound and I listen. I then follow in step, entering her house, and I close the door just as quietly as she had.

Whilst she analyzes our surroundings, in search of her father's unwanted presence in his own home, I manage to get a proper look at the photographs near the door this time. The third picture I never got to look at the first and last time that I was here because Rory stole me away before I could.

When I see her in the picture, I see now why she didn't want me to look. Because that person in the image is nothing like the person she is now—physically. And that is neither a good nor a bad thing. It's just. . .she's different. Her hair is so long and wavy and her facial features more soft and less sharp, her eyes look happier—healthier.

And I realize, this is the person I knew but didn't remember from secondary school. That is Aurora Kingsley. And then she pulls on my hand and I remove my attention from the picture and stare at her instead—Rory Kingsley, that is.