02 | Home Sweet Home
?? ?????????? ??
Two days after I officially moved back to this town and spent an unpleasant amount of time at that Christmas market I walk into the kitchen of my childhood home.
It's even worse than that sad excuse for a market.
My brain is bombarded with memories, none of them positive in the slightest (granted, I have myself to blame for that.)
Riley looks up at me, smiling, "I didn't know you'd been home yet."
I give her a weak nod, "I'm here, unfortunately."
"Thanks for coming the other day," She says, voice softer, "It was nice for you to see my friends again, I think they'd all forgotten I even had a brother."
I just nod again. I'm sure they hadn't forgotten, it's much stranger to have a sibling vanish off the face of the earth and suddenly appear for his first family Christmas in six years. It's weird for me too, everyone acting so normal.
"Oh, also, can you keep an eye on Cole for me?" Her eyes dampen a little, "You saw him at the market he was..."
"Fucked?" I offer, tilting my head
She scowls, "No...not himself."
If not himself is drunk as shit then I guess so.
"With his parents' divorce he's struggling, a bit all over the place. We've noticed his drinking getting worse and Alex has tried to say something but I thought maybe it would be better with you? You know, as an older guy or whatever?"
As an older guy? There's a two year difference between us, I'm not a fucking wise old man full of wisdom. I'm also definitely not the one for advice on how to handle substances. I push a hand through my hair, strands against my fingers as my lips pull into a tighter frown.
"Look, I get that he's in a rough place but I didn't come back to babysit your friends," My tone is a little colder than I intended it to be, "The hanging out was a one time thing."
And that's true. I get that Riley wants us to play happy families but I'm really struggling to bridge the gap between our parents right now, let alone her high school friends that I only recall glimpses of.
I'd like to say I remember them fondly but I've blocked out a lot more shit than I'd realised.
I'm here to do my job and stop my family from resenting me. Fixing a past I fucked up to the extreme is already enough work.
"Right, because you've got sooo many friends to come back to, Nolan," She mumbles sarcastically.
"I know people," I shoot back, a little offended.
"And how many of them are locked up in a prison cell?"
Two. It's only Two. But those people aren't in my life anymore - Riley's just touchy because she thinks I can't control myself and I'll somehow end up slipping back down that path I've worked so hard to get away from.
As much as she wants to believe I'm a better person I can see that she doesn't always think that, there's always a flash of doubt in her eyes.
Her chair scrapes against the floor as she gets up from the table, flashing an annoyed look my way.
I've pissed her off by not agreeing to give a guy I barely know a counselling session.
I feel slightly bad, I do try with Riley, to give us some sort of stable relationship after our turbulent childhood one.
But it's hard for me to care about things as much as she does.
As she goes to leave the room she turns sharply at the door, "If Ava stops by tell her I left that book she leant me in the living room."
I blink. Ava.
"And please don't be weird with her."
I stop a smile from pushing its way onto my face, "Why would I be weird with her?"
She pulls an expression that saysdon't be an idiot before leaving the room.
I haven't been weird with her... I think.
I don't know how to be normal with her. I don't know how to function around a lot of people from my past and for some reason that's intensified around Ava.
I get the urge to tease her smile and look at her like I used to, she used to get so nervous around me even when I barely did anything.
I thought about seeing her again more than I should.
But what even is she to me? A friend?
An acquaintance? She can't be nothing, she's one of the only things I remember clearly from my time spent in this house.
It still feels wrong to have too many thoughts about her though, like she's an old memory I should leave behind.
Suddenly, I hear the handle of the backdoor click down behind me, eyes following the noise.
Ava stands at the doorway, blonde hair tied in a ponytail, a few loose strands dangling beside her face.
Her cheeks are flushed a little pink, heavy breath leaving those lips as sweat gathers at the top of her forehead.
I trace her blue eyes and long lashes down to the grey fabric of her sports top.
My eyes catch a thin stripe of pale skin that's visible just above the hem of her leggings before meeting her face again.
Her reaction to me is delayed and I catch her pupils widening before her lips fall flat.
"You still use that door?" I question.
She doesn't say anything, her chest rising gently.
She's been on a run - she used to do that a lot.
She still does it, clearly. It was her release, a way to stop her mind from spinning out.
At least that's what I always thought, it's not like she told me that herself.
I used to catch glimpses of her through my window sometimes.
"It's just like old times," I speak again.
I'm anticipating what she's going to say, scrambling to figure out howshe'll respond. She never used to play into anything I did, she'd just stare like she's doing now. I think I like the new her, the not knowing what words are about to fall from her lips.
She folds her arms over her chest, "I'm just here to pick up a book I lent Riley."
My eyes follow the movement of her arms, watching them cross and naturally, I linger on her chest for a small second, the outline of her curves pressing through the fabric. It's an accidental glance, not purposeful.
But it still feels immediatelywrong.
I manage to flick my eyes back up to her face in a timely manner but the realisation of what I just did hits me. I've never looked at her like that before, at least I tried not to.
She's always been pretty, objectively pretty.
She has a nice smile and shiny, round eyes.
Her long blonde hair falls just above her waist and shines in the light.
It seems like those features have only grown stronger in the time I haven't seen her, maturity filling out her pink lips and fair face.
She really looks like a woman now, the fragile awkwardness of her teenage years fading.
But those looks were never something that distracted me before.
Sure, there were times I lingered on her face too long or smiled at the way she looked in the lens of my camera but I never even entertained the idea of seeing her in that way.
She was Riley's best friend who was scared of me, who would stare at my black eyes and go speechless if I spoke to her.
She was pretty and quiet and that was it.
I can't just let my eyes wander.
"Have you thought about my offer?" I ask, ignoring her statement.
She frowns, eyebrows dipping inwards, "I still don't get why you want me to do it."
I know she hates being in front of the camera.
I also know that some of my favourite photos I've ever taken are of her.
Even after all the weddings and events I've been to those hazy, candid shots whisper to me, echo in the background of every photo I've ever taken.
I don't really know why, maybe a part of me is attached to how clear they are in my tangled mess of teenage memories.
Perhaps it's that objective beauty or the way her face goes so still, lips stuck together in silence, but the camera consumes her. I've never really stopped thinking about it.
"You remember what I told you the day I left, Birdie?" My voice goes a little softer, that nickname familiar on my tongue "If I ever made a film...you'd be the star of it."
I wonder if she remembers that day as clearly as I do.
I stood on the front porch, a box in my hand and a sort of wistful look flashed through her eyes.
It was the first time she didn't seem scared of me, more intrigued, maybe pleased I was finally out of her life.
You finally gonna make that film? She'd asked, a strange confidence in her quiet voice.
And I meant what I said, that she was made to be in front of a camera. That's exactly why I had to ask her to do these portraits. And maybe if I did ever make a film she would, still, be the star of it.
"You do know how long ago you said that, right?"She blinks, "You're still thinking about it?"
She does remember.
"You might just be my muse, Birdie."
Her face breaks into an immediate smile before spilling over into a laugh. Her eyes seem to sparkle as she does, face lighting up.
"You've got really good at bullshitting."
It's funny because I'm not even really sure if what I said is a lie. She was my favourite focus back then, her face trickled back to me during various shoots over the years and now that I'm home she's the first person I thought to ask, the only person.
I don't know if we'd even count as friends but artistically, she's my only option.
Is that what a muse is?
"Can you just tell me where the book is?" She sighs, moving further inside the room, "I can just come back later if you're going to be a dick about it."
She swears more now, has a confrontational streak about her. I'm starting to realise that what she said at the market is probably true, I don't know her. At least, this version of her.
Again, I ignore her words in favour of my own.
"Do you remember when you were sleeping over and walked into my room in the middle of the night?" I say, eyes grazing over hers, "You were trying to go to the bathroom but opened the wrong door because you were too polite to turn the light on."
She stares at me, at first like she wants to call me a dick again, then softened like she's recalling the memory. I can see her gently biting the inside of her cheek.
"I remember...what about it?"
"I had a cut across my knuckles, it was still bleeding," I stretch out my hand as if the injury is still there, glancing at her, "I should've been tying a bandage around it but I didn't... what did I do, Birdie?"
She's silent and I feel a smile curving at the ends of my lips. There's something about making her go quiet that my brain has always revelled in, it gives me a tiny ounce of control over her. It's even more satisfying now I know she can talk back to me.
She clears her throat gently.
"You asked me to hand you your camera."
I nod, "Then what?"
She hesitates, air still around us for a moment.
"Then you tried to take a photo of me."
"That's right," I tilt my head to the side a little bit, "I did it because the camera loved you in that light, because there's no laws to photography and when something is right in that lens, it just is."
"No, you did it because you were high," She shoots back, centering her strong gaze on me, "You're also a psychopath who knows how much I hate being on camera."
I laugh at her now, a low chuckle leaving my lips. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and I remember how she used to have her hair tied up like this every time she went running.
"I'm leaving now," She states, unamused at my laughter.
Before she can turn around I speak, "Living room."
She pauses, squinting at me, but saying nothing.
When she finally moves, she brushes beside me.
The faint bit of contact comes and goes, my eyes attached to the back of her head.
It's funny that that singular moment, and perhaps the five minutes we spent on the ferris wheel, is the closest I've ever been to her.
She used to get weird if I got too close, like I was a scary violent criminal or something.
.. maybe she was slightly justified in thinking that.
Ava, like most people, doesn't know anything about that past. That past that I've shut out and shoved down into my gut so deeply so it can't work its way back up.
I still see glimpses occasionally, of the really bad shit, but when I clear my head and focus on real life they don't bother me.
Maybe it's not the best approach but hey, it's cheaper than therapy.
I don't see Ava leave because I spot a notification, reminding me I'm supposed to be having lunch with my dad in twenty minutes.
I'm not sure whether I'd forgotten or have been purposefully avoiding it.
My relationship with my dad is worse than with mom, which is pretty amazing when you consider how much my mom still acts like a stranger around me.
It's hard. I know that it seems strange to other people. Why would I be having lunch with my dad like a sterile business meeting instead of just magically fixing everything with a perfect hug and apology? Why does my mom look through me all the time, like I'm some sort of ghost and not her son?
Because I'm not really her son, I don't think I have been for a long time. And I can't blame her for that because I acted like such a fucking idiot for way toolong.
Ivefield is a bigger town, only an hour away from a large city and immense enough that it loses a bit of its town charm.
Among locals it's definitely tight knit, and there are corners where everyone knows everyone, but it's changed quite a bit since I left, greedy developers getting their hands on more plots of land.
I almost can't find the restaurant I'm supposed to meet my dad at because the once old-looking laundromat opposite has been turned into a new set of apartments. I frown at it, its tall, ugly shadow shrouding the tiny bit of sunlight. Fucking developers.
I snake through the door, catching my old man sitting by himself in the corner. He's wearing a navy quarter zip, reading glasses covering his face as he glares at his phone. He's taken time out of a work day to see me - that's definitely an improvement.
"Hey, dad," I smile, sliding down into the chair opposite.
"Nolan," He nods, face not quite twitching into a smile.
"How are you, how's work?"
I've seen my parents a few times in the last six years, Riley's dragged them to see me at any point she possibly could too.
We reconciled quicker, and although she doesn't fully trust me, I know she cares, that she wants me to be a better person.
I wouldn't say the same for my parents and now I have to get used to seeing them a whole lot more.
"I'm fine, work could be better," He grumbles, "McPherson screwed up a whole load of reports, been complaining about the digital system for fifteen years and thinks that's an excuse for his screw up."
I nod gently. I don't know the first thing about my dad's work. It's one of those nondescript office jobs that ties into investments, managing money,something like that. He's a manager though, of one the regional branches.
"Maybe it's time for you to start thinking about retirement," I joke gently. He's a good ten years off retirement age.
His eyes narrow, "I think it's timeMcPherson retires, he's daft as a bat."
I find myself nodding again, a little aimlessly. Dad gives me nothing, no smiles, no reactions to anything I say. He speaks to me like I'm a colleague or acquaintance, his gaze just bounces from his phone to his plate. It's like speaking to a brick wall.
"I've settled into the new place," I mutter, knowing he won't ask me any questions himself, "It's a two bedroom, south of town. Not too far from home."
"Good."
Good? Is that all he really has to say?
I watch his dark hair, slightly greying and a bit spiky. I got mom's softer hair, slightly curly and a richer, brown colour. His gaze flashes back to the phone in his hand but I keep speaking into the awkwardness.
"I have a gig on the weekend too, in the city, a wedding."
He looks up, "A wedding? There even that many of those nowadays?"
I pause, catching the slight confrontation in his tone.
He doesn't like my job, doesn'tbelieve my job.
He thinks it's unsustainable and freelancing is a death wish.
The worst part is he'll never admit it, he just makes snide comments like this one knowing I won't say anything back because I don't want to make our relationship even worse.
"They're my best events," I clear my throat a little, "I get paid by the hour and with weddings I'm usually hired for the entire day."
His face is still flat, lips in a thin line. I can't tell what's going through his head, whether he believes a single thing leaving my lips. I wish I could properly prove to him that I'm doing better, that he'd open up enough for me to show him my work.
I look down, eyes on the menu, "You thought about what you wanna eat?"
"Well, I-" He pauses, greying eyes glancing away from the phone in his lap and towards me, "Hold on, I gotta take this."
Before I can even process his words he's stood up, pushing the glass door open to take his stupid business call outside. I watch him through the glass, my thoughts static.
?? ??