I thought I was being smart, sneaking into town late that afternoon on New Year's Eve. At first, I kept to the back roads, passing few vehicles. It wasn't long before I reached the spot where my father had wrapped his car around a large oak tree ten years before.

I pulled over and took a few deep breaths. All the while, my hands gripped the wheel. The scene betrayed no hint of the accident, or the man who had died there. And the tree itself was gone. Last time I'd been out here, the oak was damaged but alive. 

Once I was certain I wouldn't throw up, I got out of my car and walked to the place where the tree had once stood. The air was so cold that it stung my sinuses with every breath I drew into my lungs. The wind momentarily stilled, allowing me to hear distant birdsong.

I was grateful there were no houses on this desolate stretch of road. Not sure what to do, I clasped my hands behind my back and bowed my head. I did this out of respect for the tree as much as my father, for it, too, was a victim of wounds he'd inflicted.

Just minutes later, I was back in the car, with the door locked. The seat belt's restraint felt comforting. I made my way into town, stopping at a drugstore. The teenager behind the counter didn't recognize me. Another thing I was grateful for.

By that point, it was almost dark. I could have driven an hour east and spent the night at a four-star hotel. Hell, my apartment was just a couple hundred miles from here. I could have easily made it back home that night.

But the thought of returning to that city, that apartment, where I did so much pretending... it brought the nausea spilling over me again. I couldn't bear to spend the holiday with friends who had no idea who I really was.

Tonight, I'd hole up in a corner of my hometown. And all those memories I was used to chasing from my mind? Well, this New Year's Eve, I'd open the door and welcome them in.

The motel room was cheap, just like the two bottles of Merlot I'd bought at the store. Skipping dinner, I fed the vending machine several dollar bills. I chose potato chips and a Snickers bar for dinner. 

I didn't bother with the television. Instead, I sat in a chair by the room's window, with just a single lamp glowing. The curtains remained closed, and though the heat seemed to run almost constantly, the room never got very warm. 

The building around me was silent; I practically had the entire motel to myself. The guy who had checked me in didn't try to conceal his curiosity. I probably looked shady as hell, ducking my head to hide behind my long brown hair. The last thing I wanted to hear was, "Wait a minute, are you...?"

Now, huddled beneath a scratchy blanket, I listened to the wind pick up outside. Leaning forward, I parted the curtains just a couple of inches. Across the street, a small shop, already closed, had a string of lights blinking in its storefront window. 

I twisted the cap off the Merlot and drank straight from the bottle. My face involuntarily twisted into a grimace. The acrid taste did nothing to dampen my longing for oblivion. I took several more large swallows, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

In fifteen minutes, I'd downed nearly half of the bottle. My stomach roiled in protest; I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I was opening the bag of chips when I heard a soft knock on the door.

In the chair, I froze. Only one person would bother showing up here on this night of all nights. The one person I'd tried to avoid seeing.

I held my breath until my lungs screamed. 

"Agnes?" Clay called softly. 

He didn't have to say anything else.

Climbing to my feet, I let the blanket fall away. The room's chill immediately enveloped me. I was in jeans and a sweater, my feet covered in thick socks. Dropping the bag of chips onto the table, I started toward the door. 

I told myself the wine gave me courage to move with such purpose. I wasn't drunk, but I was relaxed, more than I'd been for weeks. Maybe for months. My hand instinctively went to my hair, smoothing down the flyaway strands. 

I fumbled with the door's lock. The heat spreading over my cheeks wasn't just because of the alcohol. It had taken my former stepbrother little effort to track me down. I hadn't been clever, after all.

Finally, I pulled open the door. Clay's face immediately lit up in a smile. He had a pizza box tucked under one arm, and in his other hand was a six-pack of beer. His outfit consisted of faded jeans and a T-shirt beneath a flannel.

"I heard you were in town," he said. 

Stepping aside, I gestured him into the room. "News travels fast around here."

"That it does." Clay looked around, his stare lingering on the open bottle of wine, and the full one beside it. "I waited an hour or so, thinking you'd call," he went on. "But you didn't, so I figured if you decided to stick around for the night, there was only one place you could be."

After setting down the pizza and beer, he turned to me. His arms opened, but I hesitated, just beyond his reach. It destroyed me, the way his smile faded.

Still, he nodded at the food. "I got your favorite: extra cheese with mushrooms."

I stared down at the floor. Clay didn't realize I was on the verge of tears, because he kept talking.

"And I bought beer, but it looks like you've gotten a head start."

I forced myself to meet his gaze. His expression morphed into one of alarm. 

"Hey, Agnes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Do you want me to go?"

Though a couple of tears spilled over my cheeks, I managed to smile. "Of course not. Let's eat."

As we sat at the small table, I reeled from Clay's nearness. I hadn't seen him since my father's funeral a decade ago. Now, I was twenty-eight and Clay was twenty-nine, but my God, he still had that same kind face. He still wore his dark blond hair a little long, and I knew if I leaned forward and stared into his eyes, I'd see the familiar flashes of green in his hazel irises. 

The years hadn't changed him at all.

"It's good to see you, Agnes," he told me as we ate straight from the pizza box. "It's been way too long. I couldn't believe it when a buddy called me up and swore he'd seen you leaving the drugstore earlier today."

The bite of pizza congealed in my mouth. "I'm sorry I didn't get in touch." My voice broke, and I cleared my throat to try again. "I didn't expect to stay overnight. I just went out to... to where Dad..."

"I understand," Clay quickly said. "I should have considered that you might want to be alone. Seeing me probably brings a lot of stuff back."

Carefully, I set the pizza slice down and wiped my hands with a napkin Clay offered. "It's not that," I said, though it was. At least, I told myself that was the reason I didn't reach out to him. "But this is a holiday. Don't you have friends, or a girlfriend, to spend it with?"

Clay shook his head before taking another bite. "I mean, a friend invited me to a get-together at his house, but I declined when I found out you were here. And I live alone," he added. 

He opened a can of beer, which prompted me to grab my wine. We drank for several seconds, then returned to our meal.

"I'm surprised you moved back to this town," I managed to say.

Clay didn't share much online, but I'd stalked his social media accounts enough to know he'd bought a small, one-story dwelling not far from our old house. I also knew he worked in a machine shop.

"It surprised me, too," Clay admitted. "But after growing up here, I guess I'm attached to the place. And besides, the town itself ain't bad. Our parents, on the other hand..."

His mom had married my dad when I was sixteen and Clay was seventeen. He'd been a grade ahead of me in school, and I'd been mercilessly teased by my friends about him being my new stepbrother. Clay was good-looking back then, just as he was now. Not only that, he was kind to everyone. He could have been an asshole, seeing as how he was so popular and I was something of an outcast. But he'd merely shrugged off the weirdness of us becoming step-siblings practically overnight.

I smiled at the memory of the two of us sitting at the kitchen table while he helped me with my Algebra homework. I would have failed that class if not for him. 

My dad was jealous. Jealous that Clay and I quickly grew close, and jealous that Clay's mom adored her son. Right after Clay turned eighteen, my father issued an ultimatum: Clay had to leave the house, or the marriage was over.

And Clay's mom, in all her stupidity, chose my dad. I was devastated when my stepbrother left town to move in with his grandparents several hours away.

More than that, I was ashamed of the man who called himself my father. He was like a cancer, infiltrating every aspect of Clay's life. 

And during sleepless nights in the old house, when I lay in bed and listened to Dad and my stepmother arguing, I feared I'd turn out just like my father. I'd destroy anyone good, anyone foolish enough to love me.

The fights grew worse during my senior year of high school. I often stayed with friends in order to avoid the shouting, and the constant accusations. Clay's mom was eaten up with guilt for having sent her son away. She quickly grew to hate the narcissist she'd married. 

For his part, Clay didn't try to visit. He cut off all contact with his mom, and with me. I didn't blame him.

Finally, my stepmother announced she was leaving Dad. And on that very night, my father stormed out of the house, keys in hand. Hours later, we got a call notifying us of the accident.

Clay attended the funeral, but the hug he gave me was formal, nothing like those we'd shared before. He told me how sorry he was, and he left town that same afternoon. He refused to speak to his mom.

My stepmother stayed around long enough to sell the house. By that point, I was just weeks away from heading off to college. There was no place to return to during fall break of my freshman year, since the house belonged to strangers and Clay's mom had left without telling me where she was headed.

Though the student loans would follow me around like a pack of starving dogs for years to come, I was glad for college. There, I could disown my entire past. When I told people my father was dead and I was estranged from my mom, they didn't pry. I didn't have to confess my shame, or my fear. I didn't have to admit the fact that I missed Clay far more than my father.

And now Clay was here, sitting next to me in a chilly, worn-out motel room. He was choosing to spend his New Year's Eve eating lukewarm pizza and drinking tepid beer, just so we could be together.

"Tell me how you've been," he urged while I gave him half the Snickers bar for dessert.

He listened intently as I chatted about my job in marketing. By that point, I'd put away the wine, but Clay was working on his third beer.

"Are you seeing anyone?" he asked, glancing at my bare left ring finger.

"Nope." The alcohol was humming though my system, chasing away my inhibitions. "After everything that's happened, I try to avoid serious relationships."

Clay frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

I was tempted to reach for the bottle again. Instead, I drew in a shaky breath. "Well, my dad destroyed your life. He ruined your relationship with your mom by making her choose." I swallowed hard, my fingers grasping at empty air. "I'm afraid if anyone gets too close to me, I'll turn out just as toxic."

Clay sat up in his chair so fast that the movement startled me. "That's not true, Agnes. How could you think that?"

I only shook my head, my lips quivering in an attempt to hold back a flood of misery. Leaning forward, Clay took my hand.

"None of that was your fault," he told me. "I should have made that clear before, but I was so young, and I never knew you were carrying all this guilt."

I tried and failed to hold back a sob. For over ten years, I'd longed for someone to tell me I wasn't doomed to be a destructive person like my father. Maybe I wouldn't have believed it, but simply to hear the words Clay was now speaking... 

I started to weep, my features contorted and ugly. 

"Hey, it's alright, honey." Clay stood and gathered me in his arms. I let him lead me to the bed, where we both sank down upon its edge. Turning toward him, I buried my face in his neck. His scent was still the same; as I breathed it in, my mind sparked with so many memories. Wonderful memories of him and me, in the chaos of that small house we briefly shared. 

"Shh." Clay left me long enough to grab a few tissues. I had to laugh when he wiped the tears from my cheeks. 

"You're still just as gorgeous as I remember," he said, "even when you're crying. But I hate to see you cry."

Later, I would tell myself it was the wine, mingled with sheer relief. It was the joy of having Clay beside me again. All that blended into an intoxication far more potent than alcohol. It stripped me of doubt while filling me with need.

I pressed my lips, warm and damp, to his. He jolted from the contact but didn't immediately pull away. Even now, this felt forbidden to me, and I was sure it did to him as well. 

Yet I wanted it, more than I'd ever wanted anything.

Maybe that was the real reason I'd kept my distance from Clay.

Finally, he broke the kiss. When our eyes met, he appeared stunned.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. "That was totally inappropriate. I just..." I laughed in an attempt to hide my mortification. Clay and I hadn't seen each other in a decade, and the moment he showed up, I threw myself at him!

"It's okay," Clay said quietly. "I'm glad we're able to put the past behind us." 

I started trembling. I kept thinking of how his mouth felt on mine. 

"You're shaking." Clay put an arm around me, as if to ward off the cold. "The room's a little chilly."

"I don't think the heat's working well." I spoke through chattering teeth. It was fucking ridiculous, to be reacting to him this way, but I couldn't control my nervous system's haywire response.

"Maybe you should get under the covers." Clay glanced over his shoulder at the neatly made bed. "And I can mention to my friend in the office that the room isn't warming up."

My shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his words. "You're leaving." 

"No, I can stay," Clay rushed to tell me. "I want to. I'll sit in that chair, and we can keep talking."

I shook my head. "Get into bed with me. It'll be warmer that way." I averted my eyes, unable to face him. I knew what I was doing, inviting him to join me under those covers. But I couldn't stop myself. I was desperate for us to be close, and the chair next to the window might as well have been on the other side of the building.

"Uh... okay, sure." Clay's surprise was obvious, and I feared I'd made him uncomfortable. But then he laughed. "It's as good a way to spend New Year's Eve as any, right?"

I grinned and nodded. While Clay leaned forward to take off his boots, I darted into the bathroom. I was quick to relieve myself and wash my hands. Studying my reflection, I thought I could recognize traces of the girl I'd been when Clay and I last saw each other. There was something like wild hope in my eyes.

When I stepped back into the room, I found that Clay had drawn back the covers. The alarm clock on the nightstand revealed it was a little before ten. 

Clay made a brief trip to the bathroom as well, and I seized the opportunity to strip out of my jeans. The room was too cold for me to take off my sweater. My panties were plain cotton, practical and boring. I quickly slipped beneath the covers so Clay didn't have a chance to see them.

He emerged from the bathroom, a smile on his face. I noticed him lift his eyebrows when he spotted my jeans on the floor. 

"Just trying to get more comfortable," I said. "I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, it's fine," he replied, a little too quickly. "I should probably leave mine on."

"You can take them off." I did my best to sound casual. We were just going to lie down together for a little while, I told myself. 

So why was the crotch of my panties already wet?

Clay hesitated a moment, then unbuckled his belt. I turned on my side, facing away from him and toward the window. An unexpected thrill went through me at the sound of his zipper lowering. 

When he approached the bed, I made another suggestion. "Maybe we should open the curtains and then turn off the lamp....