Darling (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

6: 327 messages, an apology, THE girl

Early Friday morning, after a meandering walk on the beach at a little past seven, when it was still cool enough out and not crowded with tourists, I settled back into the small guest room at Rachel and Sam’s house.  They had moved into this house after they’d been married, and after they had, mostly by luck, found it was for sale and at a price that was surprisingly within their reach.

Rachel and I hadn’t always lived life on the Delaware beach front.  We started out in the trailer park, much farther inland near the farms.  We bounced around, from home to home for awhile, but the beachfront had always been out of our reach.  It was a place reserved for our wealthier friends at school (like Becca), and where all the nicer houses in town resided. 

I’d offered to help Rachel when she told me her and Sam were looking at the home.  Honestly, I’d offered to buy it for her, but she’d declined.  I’d just released my second album, and the digital single had been on the top of the charts for weeks.  I wasn’t hurting for money, and had just bought my own house in Los Angeles.  I’d paid for it in cash.

She said that Sam made decent money now that he had tenure, and her pottery business was picking up.  I believed her, and didn’t push the issue.  We’d always taken care of each other, and I knew she would come to me if she ever truly needed help.  But she wasn’t one to take handouts.  And I wasn’t surprised that her pottery business was booming—she’d always been the visual artist in the family.  Music makes sense to me, but visual art is something that eludes me. 

Still, when I deposited a chunk of money into her bank account right before she closed on the house, she didn’t reject it.  We had relied on each other our entire lives.  She knew I had to give her something, it was impossible for me not to.  She’s my only family, my best friend.  If I can’t share what I’ve got with her—then what’s the point of it all?  We don’t ever really discuss the money, but she sent me a card a week later.  It was something simple and straight to the point, like my sister.  But I knew she appreciated it. 

I can see why they love this house.  Apart from being steps away from the beach, it has an expansive deck (aka my second bedroom, apparently), and a fantastic loft that Rachel uses for her art studio.  The natural light abounds, and it’s also a good place to put her kiln.  It’s still relatively small, as far as beach houses go, and boasts only two bedrooms.  The guest room faces the back of the house, on the second floor, so while there isn’t a direct ocean view, I can step out onto the small deck on the side and see the ocean from there.  As far as places to go when you’re in hiding, this isn’t too shabby.

I park myself in the wicker chair on the tiny deck, propping my feet up on the weather worn wooden railing, mug of coffee resting on my knee.  I’ve made it black, which is how I had to get used to it in LA.  Can’t afford the extra calories of cream and sugar.

I stare down at my phone, which has been turned off since I arrived.  Over a week now.  No contact with the real world.  I stare at the blank, black screen, feeling anxiety kick in as I try to guess what will be waiting for me.  Shorty knew I was going off the grid, but that won’t keep him from trying to contact me.

“No time like the present.” I whisper softly.  I hit the power button, and wait for the phone to cycle on.  It takes a moment, and as it connects to internet and service, various alarms and alerts start going off.  It’s like a terrible, gut wrenching song that signifies the beginning of the end.

“Hey.” A voice over my shoulder, soft and hesitant.  I look up and see Rachel, her head poked out the French door.  She looks like she’s just woken.

“Hi.” I take a sip of my coffee, and nod toward the other wicker chair, inviting her out.

“What are you doing? I heard you leave earlier.”