Matthew
The smell of stale tears clung to my nostrils, yanking me from a peaceful sleep. Disoriented, I blinked at the sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds. My heart hammered a frantic tattoo against my ribs, a cold sweat slicking my skin. It was just a dream. Just a memory.
The vivid scene replayed in my mind, sharp as a shard of glass. Twelve-year-old me, scrawny and furious, spitting accusations at my mother. "He was like your brother-in-law, Mom! He's Dad's good friend! Three months! How could you?" My voice, cracking with raw emotion, echoed in the emptiness of the dream.
Her face, usually etched with kindness, was a mask of steely resolve. "David is a good man, Matthew. He takes care of us. You wouldn't understand."
I wouldn't understand? The anger, a familiar friend, coiled in my gut. How could she not see what everyone else did? The pitying glances, the hushed whispers, the way Dad's friends avoided eye contact. David, the ever-present shadow, his cologne a sickeningly sweet reminder of his betrayal.
"Don't ever see him again!" I screamed, my voice hoarse. "Don't you care what people think? What about Dad?"
Her eyes, usually warm pools of brown, were cold and distant. "Your father's gone, Matthew. David is here now."
With a finality that chilled me to the bone, she turned away, leaving me drowning in a sea of unspoken grief and bitter resentment.
I woke with a gasp, the phantom sting of tears on my cheeks. The sheets tangled around me were damp with sweat, the moonlight a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside me. It had been years since that dream, a recurring nightmare from a childhood overshadowed by loss and betrayal. Yet, even now, it had the power to shake me to my core.
Reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, I took a long gulp, trying to quell the tremor in my hands. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was barely 3 AM. Sleep, it seemed, had deserted me for the night.
My gaze drifted towards the other side of the bed, where Cereus's picture lay on the bedside table. Her face, peaceful and serene, was a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil within me. The memory of her kiss from earlier that night, a stolen moment filled with unspoken desire, sent a jolt through me.
She was different. Everything about her was a breath of fresh air, a stark contrast to the darkness that had haunted my past. But the memory of my mother's choices, the weight of that betrayal, cast a long shadow. Could I ever truly let someone in, fully trust them, when the echoes of the past still reverberated so wildly within me?
A sigh escaped my lips, a heavy weight settling on my chest. Maybe, just maybe, Cereus was worth the risk. Pushing the unsettling thoughts away, I focused on the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Right now, all that mattered was the peaceful picture of her, a soothing counterpoint to the storm within me. Sleep, when it finally came, would be a welcome escape.
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Molly
A comfortable hush had settled over the living room, punctuated only by the soft murmur of the television. We were sprawled across the plush cushions, a bowl of popcorn precariously balanced on my lap. The movie, "The Idea of You," starring the ever-charming Anne Hathaway, had reached a particularly sweet scene.
"I love Anne Hathaway," I sighed contentedly, reaching for a handful of popcorn. "She's just so radiant, wouldn't you agree?"
My mom chuckled, her eyes glued to the screen. "She definitely has a way of lighting up the room, doesn't she?"
"Speaking of names," I mused, turning my head towards them, "Have you guys ever wondered why you didn't name me Anne?"My parents exchanged a playful glance. "Well, honey," my mom began, a warm smile gracing her lips, "Your grandma has always adored the name 'Molly'. Ever since she was a little girl, she dreamt of naming her granddaughter that."
"Oh," I said, surprised. It wasn't something I'd ever considered before.
"Why were you named Sarah, ma?" I further questioned my mother.
She turned her head from the television towards me, tilted her head a little towards the side, a small smile evident on her lips, as if she was thinking about someone she missed, and replied leisurely "I was named after my grandmother sweetheart. She was a lovely little woman, you see."
"Wow, I didn't know that," I said, surprised, again, for the second time, taking a mental note of that.
"What about you, Dad?" I prodded, turning to my father who was sporting a thoughtful expression. "Why were you named David?"
He shrugged, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Honestly, Mol, I have no idea. It just stuck, I guess."
We all shared a laugh, the easy camaraderie a comforting constant in our evenings. The movie continued, the characters navigating their own love story, and for a moment, the question of names faded away.
I settled back into the couch, content to be enveloped by the warmth of my family and the flickering light of the television.
My name suits me. I liked it. The name Molly might not have been a childhood dream, but it felt undeniably mine, a perfect fit for the life I was building.