Chapter Text
I down the glass of lukewarm water until it runs from the corners of my mouth.
It never rains in Southern California.
I wipe my mouth and chin with the back of my hand, my skin pulling with the tug.
It’s a warm rain, fat beads bursting against my terracotta rooftop, knocking at my windows, flooding my senses. I draw my legs up against my chest, my heels digging into the old wooden chair I sit on. My toes curl. In the week's worth of days I have been home, I have yet to achieve a full night’s sleep.
My sleep-shirt would cling to my sweat-drenched body and as I am now, I would walk to the kitchen and pull a glass of water from the tap. I’d sit in this chair in the dark of night.
Every sound I hear is one connected to a memory. The clang of dishes is the sound of a window breaking. A car passing my house is an unexpected plane overhead. The laughter of the neighbors' children are cries of pain, the sounds of death.
I tilt my eyes around my kitchen: long tan cabinets, a fridge that has existed longer than I have, matte black tiling on the floors, antique furniture and glassware. It’s me. It’s so undoubtedly me. It’s so unlike the bland and fluorescent bunk room I knew for months. But it wasn’t so bad. My home here isn’t either. However, my home is big.
This house, old, sturdy, and generational, is too big for a twenty-four year old girl. Three massive bedrooms, multiple family spaces, a big kitchen and dining room, a pool, my gardens. Sometimes I turn all of the lights on in every room to feel less alone.
I rise to my feet and put my glass away. Exhaustion is heavy in my limbs, the past three months catching up to me. I didn’t realize the condition of my body and my mental state until I collapsed on my couch within the first few minutes home.
I cross the kitchen and my living room, gazing into my backyard as I pass, and into my bedroom. I crawl over my comforter duvet and let sleep take me in its weighted arms.
~
I rub sleep out of my eyes, my empty tote bags pooling in my lap. I look down at the text from Price for the third time this morning. My car buzzes as it pumps cool air around me, tossing my baby hairs around.
Get out of the house. Go to that grocery
store you live by. 7am-8am shopping hours
for the elderly, dis-abled, and military. Go.
I gnaw at my bottom lip and look up at the market in front of me. A small old woman with a walker makes her way to the double sliding doors. My fingers creep back into my mouth, teething at my fake nails. Elderly, dis-abled, and military.
Just get out of the car.
I sigh, wondering if anyone else in the 141 has to go to these stupid “sensitive shopping hours.” Soap probably doesn’t, I can’t imagine him being timid around a crowd. My eyes catch the time. 7:18.
Get out of the car. Your fridge is empty anyways.
I pinch my bottom lip, taking in a big sigh before finally stepping out of my car and approaching the store. My list is clutched in my left hand, my phone and totes in my right. The only other souls in the store belong to two acne ridden teenage boys at the registers and a handful of elderly people, poking slowly over produce and other aisles. The lights inside are dimmed, there is no music playing, it’s erie. Anywhere would be at this time of morning.
I white knuckle one of the red carts and dash through the aisles, grabbing boxes and jars, each item getting crossed off my list as I go. I avoid the aisles that have more than one person in them, avoid eye contact with the other people here. I hate that I have to be here. I place a few boxes of pasta in my cart, suddenly wishing I would have asked Price to come. It’s like flipping a light switch for him. It’s more like watching a candle with a short wick burn for me.
I open my phone, snapping a photo of my cart and sending it to Price.
Attachment: 1 image.
Proud?
I quickly finish the rest of my shopping, cringing at the rise in grocery costs as I add a jar of peanut butter to my cart. I check out quickly, one of the pimply, hormonal teenage boys watching me scan each item. I arrange the items in each of my tote bags, hoping he doesn’t walk up to me or offer to help me to my car.
In my peripheral, I see his black-soled boot take a step in my direction. I quickly take my receipt, grab my bags, and go. I book it to my car, tossing my bags into the passenger seat of my car, then leaning against the wheel.
My breath leaves me in a massive sigh, shoulders heaving, back caving.
I doze the rest of the day.
~
John Price
Come for coffee tomorrow. Feel
like you haven’t left that
mansion of yours.
It’s not a mansion.
Too big for a thing like you. Coffee?
Of course, nine?
Yes. Little place on Raymond.
Not too far from your place.
I’ll be there, thanks Cap!
~
I smooth down my dress as I round the corner, clutching a tupperware full of homemade cranberry scones with my other hand. As I approach the cafe, I see Price’s familiar face approaching from the other side of the street.
“Price!” I wave my hand.
“Kid,” he replies, a small smile on his shadowed face. He looks like he’s been getting just as much sleep as I have, hence the freshly baked scones in my hand.
We share a quick embrace before heading into the shop and placing our orders. A cappuccino for me and an americano for him. We take a seat at one of the small wooden tables towards the front of the cafe with our drinks. It’s strange. To be out with him like this. No tactical gear, no dirty hair and dirt under our nails. If anything, we look nice. Kind, even.
“These are for you and Meredith,” I say, sliding the tupperware towards him.
He looks at it for a moment, then to me with a questioning look on his face.
“Didn't know you were much of a baker.”
“Might as well do something when you can’t sleep,” I add with a shrug, thinking about the mess of bowls and trays in my kitchen right now.
Price shrugs, popping the plastic top open and taking one.
“How have you been holding up?” He asks before taking a bite. Crumbs gather in his mustache.
I shrug, the question making a strange entity in my chest curl. I think about lying to him, saying I’ve been fine and that it’s nice to be home. That I love being in public places and don’t have an irrational fear that everyone around me will die.
“Not well,” I sigh, crossing my legs, “I can’t sleep, I’m scared of the grocery store, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Price snickers, putting the scone down and rubbing his hands together.
“No hobbies?”
I shrug.
“No boyfriend?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Girlfriend?”
I roll my eyes.
“You sound like my dad, Price! I would have called him if I wanted to be asked about my love life.”
Price laughs, sipping his americano. “Well, I didn’t know, kid.”
“Well, I don’t. It’s just me in that house. I see my neighbors sometimes.”
“You sound like you need a hobby.”
“Well, what have you been doing?” I retort.
Price crosses his arms, eyes following a small group of people who just walked in to the cafe.
“Spending time with my wife.”
“Do you have kids?”
I only realize that might have been a sensitive question after it leaves my mouth.
Price grins.
“Tryin’.”
My nose slightly wrinkles, and Price laughs once again, our gap in age couldn’t be more obvious, our different stages in life.
I take another sip of my cappuccino and Price, his americano.
“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to call one of ‘em.”
I set my mug down and take one of the scones for myself.
“Call who?”
Price shrugs, downing the rest of his drink. With his head drawn back like this, I can see the beginnings of a couple scars creep from his neckline.
“Soap, Gaz, Ghost-”
I scoff. “Ghost doesn’t-”
“Just see how they’re all doin’. Any of them would be happy to hear from you.”
I laugh, taking a corner off of one of the scones, “Soap might care to talk for a bit. Gaz would for a couple minutes. I don’t know about Ghost or Alejandro or Laswell…”
I watch Price’s lip curl with unspoken words, his eyes looking around the room to avoid mine. I scoff, crossing my arms now too.
“Something you want to say, Captain?”
“Nothing at all. Just give your team a call is all.”
~
My empty dinner plate sits alone on the table next to an empty glass of wine. My stomach is warm and full and feels like home. I bring my knees to my chest and look down at my phone.
The contact is there, pulled up, a button away.
I think of a hundred reasons not to call: sleeping, busy, in the shower, doesn’t want to talk. What time is it there anyways?
I think of how we left, my arms around his torso, squeezing tight. He touched the back of my head, slightly pulling me into him. The touch burned my entire flight home.
I tap the button on my phone screen.
Calling: Simon Riley, Ghost