A week later

I shuffled the papers together, leaning over the desk in Tom’s study. I heard his footsteps and felt his warmth before I saw one arm appear on either side of me. The desk creaked a bit as he pushed his weight onto it and pressed his body against my back, leaning over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, "Keep bending over like that and—"

"Thomas, I'm trying to focus,” I snapped.

He pushed away from the desk, leaving a ghost of his warmth whispering in the air like smoke. I expected him to walk away to go pleasure himself since I declined to do it for him, but instead, he leaned back in, wrapped his arms around my waist, and buried his face into my back. I heard him inhale deeply before letting out a sigh.

I loved it when he did that. He did it a lot too which was nice. I loved the feeling of his strong arms encircling my more effeminately curved waist, which is not to say I wasn’t equally as muscular, me being a farm-hand and all, but I just was shaped differently. Nevertheless, he was just as strong as me. I never could understand why either since, unlike me, he’d never done a day’s worth of hard labor in his life. Anyway, it felt nice though, his arms framing my body like that. 

"Okay.” I felt his lips move against my back as he spoke. 

I was truly surprised by his response. It wasn't like him to surrender so easily. Usually, he would have kept persisting until I gave in, and then, we’d fuck. (I should clarify that I’m not complaining at all.)

I glanced over my shoulder to see his beautiful eyes hidden behind his eyelids, garnished by his impossibly long lashes. His pointed nose made his slender features and high cheekbones stand out. I swear sometimes that he’s not even human.

I sighed and turned back towards my work, rolling my eyes at his sudden submission. "Okay? That's all I get? No 'but, darling, I want sex like the bitch I am'?"

"Do you want me to be like that?" Tom asked, provoking a long, lingering silence.

Finally, I answered, "I- I don't know." 

He tightened his arms and squeezed me lovingly. I resisted his hold a little until he loosened his grip enough for me to turn to face him. He stared at me for a second before leaning down and kissing me tenderly. Then, when he pulled back, I was left gazing into his deep and passionate eyes that complimented his heartening smile.

"Do you need help with anything? I know doing this can be hard," he offered as he started rubbing his hand over my shoulder and bicep.

"Actually, yes," I replied with a sigh, patting his chest and turning back towards the papers. "Maple wood or cherry?"

I shuffled through the papers, looking for the ones from the funeral director that Tom had helped me hire. I say that Tom helped me because as it had turned out, my mother had spent all of my father’s money. My total inheritance was quite literally six dollars, which was, at the time, quite a large sum for finding on the ground, but it was not of much value aside from that. It irritated me especially because I knew she had had much more than that at some point, and I knew that my father—that Alice and I—needed that money way more than her. Had we known that, in New York, she was not financially struggling in the slightest, that money never would have gone to her. It would have stayed where it was really needed.

I finally found the list of types of coffin woods and skimmed through it another time. I had already underlined the few that I was particularly interested in, and I just needed some help deciding on which would be best. I turned back to Tom and handed him the paper.

"For the casket?" Tom inquired, taking the papers from me and turning them around to read them. He made a face and straightened his posture as he tried to read the document. Then, he began to squint as if that would have made the English writing any clearer to him.

To put it simply, he wasn’t very good at reading English unlike speaking it. He was practically illiterate actually, and I did not know that when I first handed him a book. He got all poked up about it too, and he kept trying to convince me that he would in fact read it. Though, I knew well that he couldn’t; he was just ashamed to admit it.

"Yeah, it’s for the casket,” I answered him.

"Cherry. It's nicer." He thrust the papers back to me suddenly, crinkling them slightly in his irritation of not being able to read them.

I took them and tossed them behind me mindlessly, not wanting to look at them any longer. I crossed my arms as I contemplated his decision. Then, I came to one of my own; "Maple it is."

I dropped my arms and pushed off the desk, and Tom stepped back as I moved around him into the open space of the room.

"What? That is not what I said," Tom protested in exasperation as he turned his body to follow my movements.

"Yes, I know. You said cherry is nicer, but I hated the witch," I jokingly exulted.

He gave me a look of concern as a reply.

"What? Why are you giving me that look? Don’t try to guilt-trip me here; I’ve already got the morbs,” I retorted.

"Do you?” he scoffed.

I was taken aback by his remark, so I watched as he walked aimlessly to the other side of the room, rubbing the back of his neck.

He continued, “Because you don’t seem to actually care at all. You refused to speak to me—no, even look at me—for seven months because of her, and now you’re telling me that she never mattered?”

“Tom, do not bring us into this,” I hissed.

“I’m not! I just mean to say that this—how you’re acting—is completely unreasonable. Are you just in denial, or …? I don’t know. You made it seem like you cared an unbelievable amount, but you know, even if you actually never did, she was still your mother. "

"And a terrible one at that,” I noted.

"Nonetheless, she deserves respect," he defended her, turning to look at me.  

Our eyes played out a war for us. It was an argument in silence, back and forth between us, and I found myself losing as he chipped away at the walls of my heart before driving a pike through it. I turned my gaze to my shoes in defeat.

"Cherry it will be." 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

We had to keep the body on ice for a total of almost two weeks to give the family time to travel to New York. My sister came as well with Mr. Miller. I told Tom that there should be no foolery in their presence, and he reluctantly agreed. It always seemed like he was just constantly waiting for an opportunity to put his hands on me, but I didn’t mind.

On the day of the funeral, I wore the coat that Tom had bought me. Compliments flooded my presence, except for when some of my uncles were nearby. It was obvious that my mother had taken it upon herself to inform them of some of my nightly activities. Though, I firmly believe that it was none of their business in the first place.

The service was beautiful, I think. I’m not sure, to be honest. I wasn’t always paying the most attention. It was hard when Tom was wearing a suit that only brought out his sharp features and handsome physique. I felt like a horrible person for thinking about things like that as they laid my mother to rest, but what could I have done? Those thoughts aren’t exactly the most controllable. No, that sounds wrong. They weren’t perverted thoughts. It’s just that I should have been focusing on my mother and not on how beautiful Tom was.  

And how beautiful he was. He was not human, I tell you.

But no matter how beautiful Tom was, it came around the time that I had to leave, and I hated myself for it, so I put it off for as long as possible. Before my sister traveled back home, I told her I would stay for a while to deal with the apartment and belongings, which wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the reason that I was actually staying for.

March became May, and May became July. Somehow, I still couldn't find a soul to sell the apartment to. It didn’t help that most of my mother's possessions had grown quite out of fashion. Nobody wanted them. Why would they?

Thankfully, in late December, the apartment finally sold to a wealthy Swedish couple, who were absolutely lovely people. This did mean, however, that the time I had been dreading had arrived.

I had been staying with Tom in the months that the apartment had been on the market, and I still hadn't told him that I was leaving. I didn't plan to either. I loved him so much, and I just didn’t want to hurt him. I had to though. He needed to know, so in January of 1861, I just got out with it.

"I'm leaving, Tom. I have to."

A long silence ensued.  

Tom looked down and off to the side, and I saw him lick his lips then transition into biting down on his bottom lip. He brought his hand up to his hip and then to his neck. Then, he started pacing in front of me. It was like I had induced every one of his nervous mannerisms at once. He just couldn’t stay still.

But finally, he spoke, "When?"

"A month from now."

"Okay... okay."

I reached out to touch his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't wa—"

He jerked away from my touch suddenly, making me retract my hand.

I continued quietly, "—nt to hurt … you..."

"Well, I don't think that would have been possible,” he threw out absentmindedly, but then he looked up at me with this fire in his eyes that I had never seen before. I couldn’t tell whether it was angry or passionate or something else. It was like I had overwhelmed his system with emotions. He was jumpy and nervous but determined and strong. 

"I love you, goddamn it. I love you, and you are just going to leave me behind,” he shouted. 

It was my turn to look at my shoes. "I'm sorry, but Mississippi succeeded a month ago. If I don’t go back now, I might never be able to go back."

He scoffed, "Then don’t go back! You aren’t sorry, or else you would want to stay with me."

"Believe me; I do, bu—"

"Then stay. If you truly want to stay, stay."

"I can't. I have family still. I have a family that needs me." 

"I need you.” 

There was so much pain in his tone, but he was still stronger than I have ever been. Unlike me, Tom wasn’t a coward and had been watching my expression this entire time, but I couldn’t even stand to look at him. As soon as I did, I regretted it. I saw the way the tears brimmed his eyes, threatening to spill over and drown me. I would have let them too.  

I felt tears of my own rise to the surface of my waterline. I tried to hold them back, but a tear still rolled down my face. I never could control myself around Tom.

"I need you, John,” he whispered, his dismay cracking his voice.

I brought my gaze back down to the floor, not having the heart to watch me break his. Without a glance at him, I walked into our bedroom, laid on the bed, and cried myself to sleep.

I loved him so much. I needed him too, but it hurt too much. I didn't want to leave, and he didn't want me to leave. I wished to stay, and he was willing to do anything in his power to make me. But that was the problem. That was the entire problem: he was willing to do anything.

About 10:00, Tom came into the room. He walked over to his side of the bed and got in, curling up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He whispered against my neck, “I'm sorry, John. I love you, but I need you to be happy. So, if going to Mississippi makes you happy, then you have to go. I know I can’t go with you. People would get suspicious. It wouldn’t be long before people caught on. Nobody’s that stupid, but can you at least promise me something?"

"I would promise you anything and everything.”

"Stay for Valentine's Day at the least. Then you can leave without my objection."

"Okay," I agreed, turning around to bury my nose into his collar.

I took in a deep breath, and the smells of smoke and wind filled my senses. Then, I felt him kiss the top of my head softly.

"I'm so tired, Tom.”

"Then sleep, love."