Molotov Cocktails

Havermouth, Present Time

Aislen rested her forehead in the hollow of Heath's throat. “I know,” she confessed shakily on the verge of tears. “You said it before. I know.” It was not what he wanted to hear, not the answer he had hoped for in saying the words to her again. He wanted her to say them back.

He sighed into the embrace, and they stood wrapped in each other’s arms, neither speaking, both of their minds twisted and convoluted with frustration, pain, and a fragile hope.

“Hello?” A man called from the open front door.

“Ah, Tyler,” Talen called out. “Come around the back. I’ll go get him,” he said walking to the back door. “He will help paint in exchange for a share of pizza and beer.”

“Not pizza,” Heath murmured. “Cameron doesn’t eat it.” (Not since Aislen predicted that his mother would die whilst he was eating it.)

“Oh god,” she sobbed in a breath wetly. “I am so sorry for that.”

He sighed again heavily and shook his head. “You were right. And wrong. He wasn’t eating pizza that