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Misty doesn’t understand how Walter never gets the hint. Never lets up, never leaves her alone or never seems to grasp that the passing of days is becoming harder, and longer. There is no version of herself that exists anymore for him, and she’s tired of pretending there is, because there is no other version of herself other than the one Natalie knew.
She doesn’t get how he isn’t screaming all the time, like she is; how if you kill your best friend there will be something inside you never to be filled again or touched again or consumed again like it used to be and Misty isn’t feeling like she needs to explain herself to anyone, least of all him, so she doesn’t.
Now, it’s almost been two weeks. Now, she should be in the first stage of denial. Natalie isn’t dead . She isn’t gone. She should laugh at the mere idea; but Misty is stuck somewhere between the sixth unknown stage that no one seems to want to talk about, all the hatred and a gut churning self-loathing that sticks behind her teeth – all sticky and rough.
Now, there are sheets and towels covering every reflective surface of Misty's home, every single mirror in every bathroom, because yesterday she almost threw up when she saw herself.
There is a book that sits on one of her bookshelves titled On Grief and Grieving that Walter sent her that Misty took down last night and set on fire in her basement.
And five days after Natalie died Misty searched up: “How to not kill yourself because you murdered the only person you’ve ever truly loved trying to save her.”
And the only thing that Google said back to her was: “Did you mean: how to forgive yourself?” and Misty slammed her laptop shut so hard the screen broke.
Misty does not understand how anyone never gets the hint. Misty does not understand how when Caligula hops onto her finger he doesn’t just wither away and die – she does not get how the sword she held for her antler queen, for Natalie, when she was seventeen years old is now buried inside of Nat's chest, up to the hilt – she does not get how she went from kneeling and saving and protecting, to loving to the point of violence.
Natalie didn’t have a will, (well, she did, but all it said was Everything of mine is there's. They’ll know what I mean.) so Misty took her leather jacket and her rifle and Nat’s safety pin necklace and she wears the necklace every day but it’s a little longer around her own neck, and none of the others said a word when they saw her wearing it at the funeral.
If Misty thinks about it all too hard, she’ll want to cry. And not leave her house for days. She’ll want to take Nat’s rifle to her own mouth too.
She goes for a walk instead.
-
“Oh,” Shauna says, when her front door opens and warm light spills out. It’s cold. Really fucking cold. Misty shivers and shifts on her feet, fixes her glasses; wonders why her legs took her here.
She doesn’t remember putting on her orange jacket. Doesn’t remember ringing the doorbell. How long has she been walking, minutes? Hours?
“Misty?” Shauna breathes out in surprise. She frowns a little to her, and Misty wonders what she must look like to her. She hasn’t eaten in days, the hunger is a familiar and rotten thing – but it’s a sensation that’s a little damaging and freeing to feel again. It’s exactly what Misty needs. People who kill their best friend don’t deserve to eat.
As if realising where she is, Misty blinks beneath her glasses and parts her lips; when she takes a step back to leave, she fumbles a bit on Shauna’s front door step and loses her footing.
Shauna widens her eyes, darts a little forward and catches her by elbow.
“Sorry,” Misty says, and fixes her glasses when she rights herself. Shauna sends her this concerned look, releases her arm almost immediately and Misty is so much more unsteady when it’s gone.
Static fades in and out, Misty hears the sound of clattering cutlery and Callie and Jeff’s voices from inside.
Then Natalie is behind Shauna in her hallway, blonde hair with dark roots and that wolfish smile– the flash is so instant it punches Misty in the stomach, enough that she flinches and shuts her eyes briefly as tears burn and burn behind her eyelids.
Her throat bobs with the effort of not falling apart. She hasn’t seen Natalie since last Tuesday, when Misty stared at the knife in her drawer a little too long and saw her behind her shoulder in the reflection of the steel.
“Are you...?”
“I don’t-” Misty swallows thickly, shaking her head to rid the apparition. There is a ghost in Shauna’s hallway and it makes her want to cry.
“I was just walking, and um-” Misty chuckles a little awkwardly, such an empty sound that it pierces the silence like a knife. Shauna presses her lips together in a polite, strained smile.
A moment passes, then the front door sensor light turns off, and Shauna waves her hand around to turn it back on.
When light comes on again, Natalie’s gone and Misty wants to cry again.
Instead, she shoves her hands into her jacket pockets and snorts, waving it away with a shrug. “I just thought I’d see how you’re doing! I know Callie’s going to college soon, I actually have some old text books of mine she could probably use. Oh! And I know since the charges were dropped that-”
“Misty?” Shauna interrupts gently, clearing her throat. “We’re kinda just, in the middle of dinner.”
“Oh,” Misty frowns briefly, but the hurt brushes off her skin like second nature. She doesn’t blame Shauna, not really, Misty hasn’t tried to call them all either. There’s been nothing but silence on both ends and she wondered who was going to break it first; Misty should not be surprised it was inevitably her.
In answer, Misty immediately shakes her head and holds up her hands. “No, no. Of course. Sorry, I’ll just-” She smiles too wide and gestures behind herself and turns – hopping down the two steps of Shauna’s home and wonders if her feet will take her somewhere different this time.
Please not Nat’s grave, she thinks. She doesn’t have flowers, or anything new to say that doesn’t end in; ‘I love you, I’m sorry.’
“Wait,” Shauna calls out, and Misty stops, turns a little; genuinely surprised at her voice. Shauna sighs, looks back into the house over her shoulder, and gestures to the hallway. If her voice sounds reluctant and like she’s going to regret this in two hours, Misty ignores it.
“Do you wanna...” Shauna shifts on her feet. “Come in?”
“Oh, no. It’s okay! Shauna, I wouldn’t want to impose on-”
“Misty.” Shauna says impatiently, rolling her eyes.
Misty shuts her mouth with a click and nods, jogging back up the steps.
“Okay.”
-
Callie stares at her the entire dinner.
Misty doesn’t really have much of an appetite anyways, and Jeff is really polite given the circumstances and asks about work and how nursing is going (Misty has taken almost all of her annual leave since Natalie, but she doesn’t mention that, and instead lies about how easy it’s been) and most of the dinner is spent with Misty being a silent observer of the Sadecki household.
If you stare long enough at this family, Misty realises, you can almost see this invisible red string that ties them all together. Shauna’s is a little frayed on her end, taunt and withered, if you squint a little the red hue is just blood. But it’s inexplicably tied to Callie in a way Misty envies. Jeff’s is almost a rope on his end, so thick and tight around Shauna and Callie it looks like it could be hard to breathe being that close.
She should feel uncomfortable and out of place here in between them, and should focus more on why the fuck she walked all those miles to here , but Misty’s never been the one to second guess her intention or feel outcast in a social situation, even when she is.
So, she pretends she’s meant to be here, and pretends Callie isn’t looking at her with a growing unease and vitriol from across from her.
Misty smiles back, purses her lips and kicks her legs back and forth from how high their dining table chairs are and pushes some peas around her plate then somewhere between Jeff asking Misty how Caligula is when Callie finally just erupts; a teenage girls rage and sarcasm, so familiar and scornful that Misty looks up immediately at the sound.
“Okay,” Callie says, throwing her fork down with a clatter. “Seriously? You’re both just, okay with her being here?”
“Callie.” Jeff says, but it’s ignored as if he never spoke.
“She killed your friend, Mom!” Callie says, scoffing. “She was going to kill you !”
Misty stops moving all at once, flinches at the words. Her fingers tighten around her fork, when she swallows it’s thick and full of a sudden ache that builds and builds and builds.
I’m sorry , echoes in her mind. Misty feels Nat’s weight in her arms, the cool earth beneath their bodies Oh god. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Shauna looks at Misty briefly, and what she sees has her quickly looking back to her daughter.
“Callie,” She hisses. “Not the time.”
“Oh, not the fucking time?” Misty frowns and looks to the table, releases her death grip on the fork in favour of curling her hands into fists in her lap, focusing on her nails piercing the skin of her palms.
“What are you even saying Mom?” Callie says. “We just buried Natalie and you want to invite the friend who killed her for dinner? What are we gonna do next, sing fucking kumbaya?”
“Hey, hey, Misty?” Taissa says, hand to her shoulder. Misty sobs harder at the touch. “Misty, they need to take Natalie now, okay? They need to-”
“No,” She whines, shaking her head; she feels small and exposed and little – she clutches tighter to Nat’s jacket when the EMT’s break through the forest trees. “No, I need to-” Misty wipes her sleeve against her nose and hikes Natalie’s body closer to her own.
“I need to say goodbye. I didn’t get to say goodbye, Tai. She needs me, she-”
“Callie,” Shauna’s voice again. Misty is sucked from the memory; she looks up from the crescent shaped indents of blood on her palms and feels tears blur her vision.
“You can’t just-you saw what happened. Misty didn’t-” Shauna sighs, at a loss for what to say. She tries to catch Misty’s eyes but Misty’s gaze is downcast again, frowning softly to her hands, willing her throat not to choke.
Shauna’s voice croaks when she speaks again. “It was an awful, terrible accident, okay? She-”
Misty doesn’t hear the rest, because she’s getting up from the dining table chair as it scrapes against the floor. She grabs her jacket on the way and rips open the front door, only distantly does she hear Shauna calling for her but Misty doesn’t get far down the walkway because she’s pressing her lips together and choking on a sob.
“Misty! Misty, wait, I-” Shauna stops at the steps as Misty turns.
“She’s right,” Misty breathes out, twisting her lips and looking to her feet. She screws her eyes shut just before Shauna’s expression softens. “I-I did. I killed her. And I-”
“No, hey, stop. Shit, Misty, you didn’t-”
“It’s my fault,” Misty says, bottom lip quivering. She clenches her jaw to stop it but the damage is done, it’s unwavering and impossible to stop. “Don’t... lie to me Shauna, okay?” She huffs out humourlessly, folding her arms tight against her chest.
“Don’t-it won’t make me feel better, because it isn’t true. N-Natalie's-” Saying her name feels like dying and coming back wrong. “God, she’s dead because of me.” Misty stresses, and the silence that falls is too heavy for Misty to breathe in.
She starts to hyperventilate, breathing picking up, the grief is thick and stuck to the fabric of her bones and this tiny, wounded noise that crawls up the back of her throat escapes, makes Misty feel small again.
Misty turns to leave, presses her glasses up her nose nervously because if she doesn’t leave now she might beg Shauna to kill her – she wants to be split open and bled out like a stag so she can see Natalie again. And the frequency in which she thinks that is worrying.
“I don’t...I don’t know why I came here, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. I need to-”
“When Jackie died,” Shauna suddenly says, her voice wobbling on the name. Actually, it tears itself by speaking it. Misty’s lips part in shock at the words, and she watches Shauna breathe deep, gathering the courage to even say the words.
“Was it my fault, Misty?”
“Wh-No,” Misty immediately answers, frowning softly and shaking her head as she steps closer again. “I mean, yes. No. ” Misty shakes her head again and corrects herself immediately, she’s confused, there’s too much in her head and heart right now. “No, no, Shauna you...”
“Then don’t... fuck!” Shauna exclaims, eyes stinging with tears and making Misty step back and blink in shock. “Don’t do this Misty, all this-” Shauna gestures vaguely to Misty’s figure, making Misty tilt her head in question. “Self-loathing bullshit.”
Misty scrunches up her face, scoffing as it all finally hits her. “You’re really using your fucking guilt over Jackie to make me feel better?”
Shauna folds her arms, shrugging uselessly as she groans. “I don’t know! Jesus, Misty. I’m trying.”
And Misty’s shoulders lose some of their tension. The flush of resentment and grief on Shauna’s cheeks feels too intimate to witness, and Misty looks away, avoiding eye contact.
“I know what it feels like, okay? I spend every fucking day thinking about her, and how it’s my fault. Don’t you think I get it?” Shauna says, and Misty purses her lips; feels her heart thump a little out of time when she hears that.
But in her head no one knows what it feels like. How do you explain to someone there’s something inside of you that destroys everything it loves, how do you speak about that? Where do you start?
Shauna Shipman feels like a good place to begin, Misty thinks.
Misty swallows, and they stare at each other for a moment as crickets ring out into the night, as a cloud passes over the moon.
“What do I do?” Misty says helplessly, a tear falling to her chin. And Shauna looks back, sympathetic yet tragic all the same.
Shauna parts her lips, at a loss for what to say. Nothing she could say would help regardless, Misty thinks. “I don’t know,” She softly says under the porch light, still haunted. And Misty shuts her eyes from the grief of it all.
“I’ll uh,” Shauna tries for a smile, but it's more of a wince. She looks briefly back into the warm light of her family waiting for her, then back to Misty. “I’ll call you when I figure it out, okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Misty says back, nods quickly and frowns to her feet. And Misty can be slow to queues sometimes, but it’s as clear of a dismissal as anything. “Okay.”
The walk home is long.
-
Natalie used to do this thing in the morning, if she stayed the night the sheets were always kicked off and untucked from Misty’s bed because she hates feeling constricted and Misty always complained because it got cold but every time Natalie would smirk and roll on top of Misty to shut her up. And she’d laugh and roll her eyes, she’d say: “Yeah, whatever.” and kiss Misty lazily without prompt or warning.
And it would make Misty squeak indignantly but she liked it, being held by Nat’s bony elbows and strong hands and her angles that felt like they fit against Misty a little too perfectly to be coincidence.
And maybe on some level too Nat always liked Misty's softness, the press of her hipbones against her stomach when Misty flipped their position and sunk her teeth into her neck tendon, her tongue soft inside Natalie’s mouth and glasses falling down the bridge of her nose.
Sometimes Nat would reach up and fix them for her, and no one's ever gotten that close to loving Misty like that before. No one.
And it would turn into Nat sighing into Misty's mouth and pretending that Misty didn’t make her smile; and sometimes when Misty worshipped her like this in the morning with Natalie’s thighs pressed against either side of her face and her chin covered in Natalie it felt like being her knight again.
Well, she still is. Isn’t she?
Was.
Fuck.
Misty stands in the middle of her bedroom with fresh sheets, doesn’t move as she remembers this feeling.
She does not change the sheets like she planned; the doorbell rings and she leaves them like they were, untucked and messy and smelling like Nat.
Misty jogs down her stairs, and like she expected Taissa and Van are on the other side. Misty is still getting used to the Taissa she has now, because she got too familiar with the one who wore Van’s clothes for four days straight and never tied her hair back. Now Taissa’s in a tan leather coat and tight jeans, but Misty clocks Van’s flannel underneath it and adjusts her glasses, hides her smile.
Misty hopes the divorce has been light on her. Hopes Simone got the flowers she sent to the hospital last week. (Tai said she needs to stop doing that, but she feels bad for some reason. Like Misty’s somehow responsible not just for Nat, but for everyone else, too.)
Van rocks on her heels, holds out one of the takeout coffees she’s nursing. “You set?”
Misty tilts her head at the offer as she takes her checkered coat from the entry way hook, shutting the door behind her with a click. “Who’s that for?”
Taissa snorts at that while Van raises an eyebrow. “Uh, you?”
Misty scrunches up her nose, frowning. “But you don’t know how I like my coffee.”
Van rolls her eyes. “Taissa does.” Then she pulls a face when Misty just blinks to her. “Just, whatever, take it.”
Misty manages to balance it against her chest just in time as Van shoves it in her grip. Misty watches the other woman turn and walk to her car as her and Taissa follow suit. When she takes a tentative sip, Misty hums in pleasant surprise when it’s not as bad as she thought. She thinks about Taissa remembering that about her from the funeral, and tries not to internalise the love that bleeds from the action. Misty left half way through the sermon because she couldn’t breathe and Taissa found her by this fountain – she had coffee in a shitty take-out cup and said “Sorry if it’s awful, don’t know how you take it.” Then Misty told her. And Tai remembered.
Misty finds it a little bit easier to breathe at the thought.
“Is Van okay?” Misty says, directing the question to Taissa as she notices Van's obvious short temper. Misty gets it, she understands, but she selfishly thinks I’m the one who should be upset about today .
Taissa sighs, goes to answer, but they’ve already made it to the car, so Misty shrugs and opens the back door sliding in, and instead chirps to Van:
“Are you okay?”
Van starts her car, sends her a classic Van Look over her shoulder to Misty (half bewildered and half put off by her clear misuse of boundaries) and scoffs. Here Misty notices how red Van’s scars are and stares a little too long.
“What? No, I’m not. Isn’t it obvious?” She answers sarcastically.
Misty buckles herself into the middle seat, leans on her knees between Taissa and Van and hums. She ignores the look they both send to her at her choice of seat.
“Well, yes. That’s why I asked.” Misty says obviously, pushing her glasses up her face and taking a sip of her coffee. “You don’t have to come. Either of you. I can do this by myself.”
Taissa and Van share a look, that really annoying thing they do that Misty gets frustrated at, like they shared the same thoughts.
Nat said she used to hate it too; “Lesbians and their weird fucking telepathic shit.”
“Nat? I’m a lesbian too.”
“And? Then don’t go reading my mind.”
“Maybe,” Taissa hums, shrugging, and it brings Misty back to the present. “But you don’t have to. You...” Tai shifts in her seat a little, searching for the right words, she waves her hand around like she could pluck them from the air in front of her. “You need someone. One of us.”
Misty sits in those words and knocks her knees together, feels a little put off balance at receiving it. What do you call what they all have? Do you call it friendship? Even when it feels like something different? Van and Taissa don’t like her but they love her because of what they’ve been through. Or maybe they do like her. Maybe they don’t love her. Misty can’t tell sometimes.
Misty likes to think they all have something undiscovered, a human relationship no one's ever felt before. That’s what it felt like with Nat, something new, something old, but it was love, Misty thinks. At the end of it all.
Misty squeezes her eyes shut to stop thinking about Nat, physically jerks her head to rid of the thought.
But when she opens her eyes again to the morning light glinting through the front windscreen, Natalie is there , right there, standing in front of the road. She’s seventeen again and wearing her team jersey – she waves a little with this easy knee weakening smirk and Misty almost screams.
Widening her eyes in an ice-cold shock, Misty darts forwards without even thinking and cries out.
“Van! Stop! Watch out!”
“What the fuck-? Misty!” And coffee scalds her lap because Misty’s reaching out between the middle and jerking the steering wheel from Van’s grip, into a jarring right turn and away from Natalie who hasn’t moved , who hasn’t even flinched, like a deer caught in headlights like she’s been there before, like it’s inevitable, that there’s no other way her story ends.
And Taissa yells “Jesus, Misty! Stop!” and shoves her hard enough back that Misty slams against the back seat, stealing the breath from her lungs.
The car comes to a screeching halt as Van slams on the breaks, righting the steering wheel just in time before they fall off the side of the road and into a ditch. Van’s chest is labouring, her arm shot out and braced against Taissa’s heaving lungs.
The smell of burning rubber pierces the air, Misty doesn’t realise she’s crying until Van exclaims:
“What the fuck was that Misty?!”
“There was-there was,” Misty frowns, shaking her head as she clutches to her seat belt, tight against her straining heart. Righting her glasses, she tries to slow her breathing down.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She repeats, finally starting to feel the burn of the coffee on her thighs. Her bottom lip shakes. “I got coffee everywhere. It’s, it’s on the floor and-”
“What?” Van says in disbelief. “Fuck the coffee! You almost fucking killed us!”
Misty frowns. “But-”
Taissa swallows thickly, voice breathless as she steps in. “Everyone just, breathe . We’re fine.”
“But Natalie,” Misty stresses, throat closing around the word, it comes out a little pathetic and so earnest that Misty clenches her jaw. Taissa and Van’s faces both fall at the word, and Misty slowly shakes her head at the looks thrown to her.
“No, no. Don’t look at me like I'm fucking crazy.” Misty says, voice dipping into a desperate kind of sadness. “I saw...Natalie was right there, you almost hit her Van! If I hadn’t done something she would have-she-I saved her, I-”
“Misty,” Taissa says. She sounds like she did back when Natalie died in her arms.
“Hey,” Van says, warm and coaxing, and Misty flinches and tightens her grip around her seatbelt, frowning to herself and utterly fucking lost. “Look, we can just turn around yeah? We can do this another day.”
Misty sniffs, immediately shaking her head. “No,” And her hand finds Natalie’s necklace around her neck and curls around it. It’s grounding, cold to the touch, and Misty remembers to breathe again.
“M’okay.” Misty says, and Van chooses to believe her.
-
When Taissa urges the roller doors open, Misty is afforded a brief moment in time where Natalie isn’t dead.
Natalie's storage unit has remained shut since she took her car, so everything is just frozen in time. There are these old boxes labelled Music and Shit and on a rack are old jackets and shirts from the 90’s. Misty flexes her fingers by her side and feels her knees weaken a little, because it smells like Nat, and when Misty really takes it all in there’s barely anything to Natalie’s name. Because Natalie’s possessions never fucking mattered to her, they were just stuff; she used to say even Misty owned too many things, like it was a luxury to exists like this.
But the things Natalie did keep really fucking mattered. Mattered so much Misty feels it right in the centre of her chest as she takes it all in.
She feels Taissa and Van’s eyes on her like hawks, hesitant and apprehensive, like they were metaphorically waiting for Misty to crash the car again and break down and throw herself into a ditch.
Misty shifts uncomfortably and frowns at the unwanted attention, pushing her glasses up nervously.
“Can you both stop looking at me like I’m going to cry?”
Van raises an eyebrow and shares a look with Tai. “Well, are you?”
Misty scrunches up her nose. Nat would find it cute, flick her there to do it again. Misty always hated it, now she’d kill herself to feel it again. “No, I...I’m okay.”
Then she steps inside.
She reaches out to the coat rack as Van goes to her music boxes, and Misty furrows her brows on this tiny ache that blooms inside of her chest. Her fingers ghost over the material, pushing the shoulders of them back and looking at each one of them that reveals itself carefully. Almost all of them are from when Natalie was a teenager, all her soft grunge and rebellious persona bleeds from the clothes. Nat still dressed like that now, sort of. But there’s something about her clothes back then, something about the black miniskirts and ties that floods Misty – a fondness she can’t help but smile at. She remembers thinking she was so cool, still does, Misty remembers stealing glances at her from her locker and not understanding why her entire stomach flipped when Nat caught her eye and smirked.
Then-
Yellow and blue. The number seven. Misty’s lips part as she moves a flannel and behind it uncovered and completely untouched is Natalie’s team jersey .
“Oh.” Misty breathes out, finger and thumb catching the sleeve and rubbing softly. Misty furrows her brows and bites her lip to stop the melancholy from taking over – when she slips it off the hanger and brings it closer to her chest, it feels weightless, it feels like Natalie laughing as Misty bowed to her.
“No way,” Van’s voice rings out, huffing on this laugh as she opens another box and waves a copy of The Goonies . “Nat was into VHS? Why didn’t she tell me?”
Misty, eyes still on Nat’s jersey in her hands, hums out in answer. She twists her lips to stop a tear falling. “It wasn’t a hobby; she just collected her favourites. You should take them, Van. We’ll have a section in your store. Natalie’s corner.”
Van softens, feels her throat close up all too tightly.
Misty fixes her glasses because she can’t stop looking down to the jersey and they keep falling every time she speaks. “Oh and um, she only really liked action and science fiction, so that’s probably all that’s there.” She shrugs. “But I made her watch Footloose before the crash and she said it was okay, for a musical.”
Taissa chuckles, and it makes Misty finally look up from Nat’s yellowjackets jersey, lips tilting up slightly too.
“Yeah,” Van says, clearing her throat and nodding decisively. Her blue eyes are a little glassy. “I like it. Natalie’s corner.”
They leave with Natalie’s music and her movies and her soccer uniform – Misty goes on her tippy toes to shut the roller doors and feels heavy with something she can’t name when the last lingering scent of Natalie escapes the room, out into the morning air. When she locks it up and they walk out to leave, she clutches Nat’s jersey to her chest and notices an old telephone booth by the front entrance.
Van and Taissa give her a strange look when she bee-lines for it, but they don’t question it when Misty tucks herself into the tiny space and fishes for quarters in her pockets. It feels a little claustrophobic, but Misty suddenly craves the privacy it gives. She punches in the number she barely can recite, and when she grabs the phone to her ear, she swallows the guilt and the grief down until she chokes a little on the weight of it.
An automated voice rings out. “ You’ve reached St. Maud’s Psychiatric Centre. If you are a family member, please state your name and relation. If not, please hold.”
Misty twirls the chord of the booth’s phone and bounces on the soles of her feet. She hopes the fake name and social security number still works, she hopes she’s convincing enough, she hopes whatever representative she gets doesn’t ask too many questions on why she’s calling, she hopes Lottie wants to talk to her for longer than thirty seconds so Misty can try and name the feeling coursing through her right now.
Two minutes pass, then five; Misty tugs on Natalie’s necklace nervously then-
“Hello?”
Misty widens her eyes a little, grabs a little tighter to the phone. “Lottie?”
There’s a brief pause, and for a moment Misty fears her voice is unrecognisable to her, it stretches a little too long and before Misty can think she’s hung up, Lottie’s voice answers again.
“I’m sorry,” She says, voice still that warm cadence Misty grew familiar with. The tone aches Misty’s heart a bit. “Who is this?”
“It’s Misty,” She rushes to answer, nervously pushing her glasses up her nose and swallowing thickly, trying to remember what to say and remember why she called. She traces the brail of the phone’s numbers with her free hand, Natalie’s jersey tucked under her arm pit and safe.
“I know I haven’t visited, and I’m really sorry. I should have-” Misty twists her lips and clears her throat. “I should have come seen you after the funeral. Have Van and Tai visited? Oh, of course they have.” Misty snorts at herself. “Has Shauna? Callie keeps asking about you, but she said she’s really busy. I’m sure she will though, don’t worry! We’re all busy, um, you know, because of N-Natalie, and well. That’s not an excuse. I...” Misty trails off, because she expected to be cut off thirty seconds ago, but she hasn’t been.
Misty’s breath is a little laboured from her talking and saying Natalie’s name but most of all she’s worried Lottie won’t answer, she’s worried Lottie’s lost, and that Misty can’t reach her anymore.
“Lottie?” Misty tentatively says down the phone, and twirls the phone cord so tight around her index finger it turns a different colour.
“Hm? I’m here,” Lottie says softly, and Misty breathes out in relief.
“You sound...um, good.” Misty says, rocking on her heels.
The huff of laughter that comes down the line surprises Misty, enough that she smiles a little too.
“I’m getting there.” Is all Lottie says. And Misty can’t help but agree. She’s getting there too, but it’s slow and it fucking hurts and Misty can’t go a day without wanting to die when she thinks about what she did or thinks about Natalie’s smile or her laugh or how earnestly and close to healing she was, and how Misty took that away from her. She took it without ever asking if it was okay.
Misty suddenly starts to cry, but it’s a quiet thing, she swallows it down but it still comes out in her voice. “Lottie?”
“Hm?” She says, and her voice is still so gentle, despite it all. “Yes, Misty?”
“I k-killed Nat,” Misty says, she wipes under her glasses of tears and screws her eyes shut. Lottie’s breaths come patient and steady down the line. Lottie doesn’t correct her, and the sensation of that truth feels crippling.
“And I keep...I keep seeing her. It’s my fault she’s gone, that we lost her, and I can’t-” Misty’s voice breaks off into a heartbreaking whimper, she has to press the sleeve of her coat against her mouth to steady her unstable breaths.
She should not be calling Lottie like this, like she’s allowed to, like she has any ground to stand on to demand some sort of familiar comfort from her; to be absolved of this guilt like Lottie did for them in the woods. Misty doesn’t know if that’s the reason she called, because she still doesn’t get why her feet took her to Shauna; maybe she needs Lottie’s voice to remind Misty that Natalie was real, because if Misty thinks about it, truly thinks about it, sometimes this all has felt like a bad dream. A never-ending nightmare.
“What does she look like when you see her?”
Misty falters at that, almost startles, because it’s been silent for so long; just both women listening to each other’s breaths
“Oh, I...” Misty clears her throat, tapping to the number seven on the phone keys. She feels like crying a little bit again. “She’s sixteen, or seventeen, I think.” Misty tilts her head, furrows her brows. “Why?”
But Lottie just hums, and doesn’t answer her question. “It’s normal in grief to experience this, Misty. I don't...” Lottie pauses for a moment, like she was truly weighing the effect of her words.
“I don’t blame you, you know.” Lottie says, “For any of it. None of us do.”
Misty frowns, releases the cord in her grip because her finger turned purple. “But you should. ”
She sounds a little petulant, and annoyed, but Lottie is unfazed. “Why?”
Misty huffs. “Why do you keep answering what I say with questions?”
Lottie hums, this amused sound. Misty looks out the windows of the booth and sees Van and Taissa through the car windscreen, she looks away when they kiss.
“Nothing you could have said would have changed Natalie’s mind,” Lottie says, and her voice catches on her name. Misty’s breath picks up slightly. “She was always going to jump in front of you, Misty.”
Misty can’t say anything to that, because it confirms inside of her that if you just hadn’t acted with your heart, instead of your head, Natalie would still be here.
Misty lets the guilt settle inside of her, she allows it to become a part of her.
“Give her some flowers for me, will you?” Lottie asks kindly, and Misty nods with her lips pressed together even though she can’t see her. But somehow Lottie knows.
“I’ll visit soon, I promise.” Misty says, hand tight around the phone so her voice doesn’t shake.
“I’ll see you then.” Lottie answers gently, and the phone line clicks off.
Misty slides into the back seat of Van’s car and into the sticky wet patch of the coffee stain, into the middle seat, because she wants to be here and ready in case Natalie shows up again. Taissa sends her a look, eyebrows furrowed in worry.
“Hey,” She gently says. “You good?”
Misty clicks herself in and nods, smiles a little as she folds Natalie’s jersey on her knees. Taissa softens, gestures to the shirt as Van starts the car.
“We should frame that, or something.”
Misty scrunches up her nose in distaste, snorting as she fixes her glasses. “Are you kidding? Nat would fucking hate that.”
Van barks on a laugh, head tilted back against her head rest. “Oh my god she would.”
And Misty holds the jersey a little tighter in her lap.
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