Best Served Fake

fifty-three // we're even

I never thought I'd return to Tommy Aster's house, except maybe after a drunken night out with the express purpose of flinging a bag of shit at the front door. Or throwing toilet paper over the carefully trimmed hedges.

Or maybe with a match.

"Valerie," Tommy said on an exhale when he opened the door, and he said my name with reverence, as if it were a prayer. Fucking hell. He looked better than he had in weeks; hair freshly cut, the curls falling into his eyes in a way that was more artful than messy, and those eyes were no longer bloodshot or underlined with dark circles. His lips were curved into a pleased smile when he took me in, but it quickly dropped. At my unimpressed countenance—folded arms, impatient frown, raised eyebrow—he cleared his throat. "Uh, come in."

I stepped past him without a word. I wasn't here to exchange pleasantries. If that was what Tommy had expected, well, more fool him.

Tommy's house was familiar to me after so many years. It was nicer than Kai's, and homier than Jameson's, and I'd always loved the oak panels and stone pillars and the fountain in the garden. The Aster's were wealthy, astronomically, but the house still felt lived in, worn in like an old glove that moulded comfortably to an acquainted hand.

Some of the charm had worn off in the last few months. Because the Aster house wasn't just cosy; it was a shrine to their only son. Old footy trophies lined the cabinets, certificates for the paltriest achievements hung from the walls and photographs of Tommy progressively aging were crammed onto almost all the available surfaces. I used to find it cute. Maybe because I was charmed by him, and enjoyed seeing a record of his life up to the point he met me. Now, I didn't particularly care about the life story of Tommy Aster, as long as it never again bisected mine.

Tommy followed me to the kitchen. I could navigate the veritable mansion with ease, and Tommy seemed pleased by my familiarity.

"It's nice seeing you here again," said Tommy, offering me the smile I used to find irresistible; shy and sheepish, self-conscious of his own happiness. The only smile I wanted now was cocky and unreserved, from a different boy entirely. "We had some good times here, hey?"

"Sure," I said, as if they all weren't tainted by what he'd done.

We did have fun, though, once. As much as I didn't want it to, seeing the house again was a reminder that I'd once considered this boy the love of my life. And we had been happy, for a time.

Curled up on the couch watching Criminal Minds, his fingers through my hair and mine reaching for his heartbeat, enjoying the thrum of its pulse beneath his skin. Dancing around the kitchen with a hairbrush to old Taylor Swift hits, and laughing when the chorus to You Belong With Me kicked in and the previously reluctant Tommy jumped onto the counter to serenade me, spatula in hand and moonwalking prepared, until the final notes sounded and he would jump down to spin me and place a gentle kiss on my forehead. The first time I'd been drunk, Sydney and Tommy and Jack and Rebecca, all passing around a bottle of vodka that tasted like poison, but made my head spin pleasantly, until the nausea kicked in. Tommy held my hair while I puked into the rosebushes, and I'd cried because I was confused and anxious about what his parents would say about the roses. He'd just kissed the nape of my neck and said don't worry, love, I'll just tell them it was me. The first time we slept together, when I was sixteen and nervous, and he'd been careful and considerate, and I'd thought I would never be this in love ever again.

It didn't make me want to go back. Tommy was vain and vengeful and had the capacity to hurt me in irrevocable, painful ways. He was insecure and prone to streaks of jealousy. But it made me feel less stupid, at least. It reminded me that I didn't date him in spite of a dozen red flags, blindly walking into a relationship that refused to give anything back.