Junior Prom night, the night Tom and I met in the parking lot—what was it that made me take him? I guess that was the night. The first night we truly saw each other. Life’s funny like that.

I’d just finished pissing on his car. Still standing on the hood, my worn-out sneakers grinding against the paint, it was a miracle I didn’t leave scratches or dents when I jumped down. The metal was warm beneath me, radiating heat from the day. The air smelled like asphalt and cheap beer. Before I could even zip up my pants, Tom came lunging out of the shadows.

He tried to fight. Tried with everything in him. And it was pitiful.

I could’ve walked away. Dodged him without breaking a sweat. None of his punches landed. Maybe once or twice he grazed my cheek, but he stumbled so much there was no follow-through. For a few minutes, we danced around his Mustang like idiots—me laughing, him fuming—until I decided to leave. Playing with him got old quick, but then he fell.

Tom had suddenly dropped to his knees like the fight was sucked out of him. And then, out of nowhere, he started crying.

Not just a few tears. He sobbed. Loud, messy, broken.

I didn’t know if his frustration was aimed at me or something deeper. But watching him like that, with his shoulders shaking, was painful. worse were the sounds he made. My boyfriend was always an ugly cryer. I had every reason to walk away. Every reason to leave him there.

But I didn’t.

Meathead was drunk. I could smell it on him—sharp and sour, whiskey was soaked into his skin all the way through his suit. Or was it Vodka? Whatever it was, his breath was heavy with it, toxic even. His clothes clung to him, damp and reeking. Tom swayed when he stood, like gravity was his enemy.

I couldn’t let him drive. Looking back, it was an excuse, a good one though. something about him was magnetic in a tragic way. Like watching a car crash in real time, I didn’t want to pull my eyes away, even if I knew I should have. But I wasn’t about to get behind the wheel of his Mustang. 

So I walked him home. Not out of love. Not out of lust. Maybe out of pity. And how ironic was that?

The simple truth: I didn’t want him to hurt himself further, but a part of me was fascinated with seeing my bully in turmoil. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted him to actually get better, but the opportunity was too perfect to just leave him alone. His house was too far anyway. Mine was only a few streets down.

Step by step, I kept him upright. His arm slung over my shoulder, his weight dragging me sideways. The night was quiet, the streetlights buzzing overhead. I remember the way his shoes scraped the pavement, the way he muttered nonsense under his breath about some girl. He wouldn’t shut up about her. After half an hour, the name Cindy Hail had been seared into my brain. Nothing about it felt romantic. Nothing felt like fate.

When we got to my grandmother’s house, I led him inside. The living room smelled like mothballs and lemon cleaner. The carpet was stiff underfoot, and the air conditioner rattled like it was trying to escape the wall.

I cant exaggerate it enough, Tom was soaked in alcohol. Not just drunk—drenched. His shirt clung to him, his pants sagged. By then, I was sure whatever he’d been drinking, it wasn’t beer. Whiskey mixed with lighter fluid? Maybe something stronger. I didn’t plan for anything to happen between us, but I told him to take off his clothes so he wouldn’t ruin my bed sheets.

And he did. No hesitation.

My former bully wasn’t himself that night. And yet, maybe he was more himself than I’d ever seen.

I let him use my bed. I took the couch and tried to sleep.

An hour later, I heard him throwing up. That's when I decided the novelty had worn off. Watching his misery wasn’t fun anymore, and I began to feel like the bully. 

Then he came stumbling through the house in the dark, knocking into furniture. I got up and guided him back to bed. An hour after that, he woke me up again and I had to put him back to sleep. it kept happening. Meathead didn’t want to be alone, and he wouldn’t stop bothering me until I stayed with him.

It must’ve been close to daylight by then. I hadn’t slept more than a few minutes.

We shared my bed. I had to. It was the only way either of us would rest. We slept close—body to body. What happened that night wasn’t planned. We didn’t have sex. But somehow, by morning, our underwear was gone. Maybe Tom thought I was a girl. Maybe I was too exhausted to notice him undressing me.

When we woke up late in the afternoon, I felt nothing but guilt.

Tom was a mess. But lying next to him, he was warm. He was warm to me.

I could’ve told him we didn’t have sex. Could’ve cleared it up. But when he got up and started yelling...

I don’t know.

I was annoyed. Upset that he ruined a moment that felt—if not perfect—then at least real. So I let him believe the worst. Not to humiliate him. Not the way he thought. But as revenge. A petty, bitter victory. He had sobered up, so it was time to go back to being enemies.

He assumed I wanted to hurt him. And maybe I did. Maybe I needed to remind him who he used to be. That no matter how much I’d helped him, we were still playing the same roles. He’d go back to being my bully. I’d go back to being his Loser. His lousy memory gave me something to hold over his head—a win he’d never forget, even if it wasn’t real.

I never expected it to lead to anything more.

How could I have known he’d come back?

Why was I willing to let him in again?

Were we really that desperate?

I never believed in God. Never believed in fate. But I thanked something—whatever it was—that we shared that terrible night together.