To The Moon and Back

𝟑𝟑 | 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥

I don't think when she meant I should follow a routine, that it should be entirely based around another human, but whatever.

"Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen." I say, noticing that there isn't much traffic on the streets. "Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?"

I hear her whisper of a response, "Yes, please."

I wouldn't hang up even if she asked me to.

I reverse out of my park, then turn, pulling out onto the street as I begin the drive to my old secondary school. 

We both don't speak as I drive—her not wanting to distract me, and me having nothing to say. My social battery has completely died and even speaking to her feels like it's killing me, though despite being overly tired, driving helps. Something about driving always calms me down.

Exactly fourteen minutes later, I pull up alongside the front of the school, and I see Rory sitting cross-legged at the bus stop out the front, her short dark hair secured to the back of her head with a claw clip, a few short pieces framing the sides of her face.

When she hears the rumble of my engine, she stands up, swinging her back over her shoulder and I eye her as she walks toward my car, her skirt short, sheer black stockings tightening with each step as her knees bend.

She tosses her bag into the back as she slides onto the seat, pulling the door closed. She looks over at me but I stare straight forward, driving off. 

"Are you okay?" she asks, her eyes narrowed as they bore into the side of my face. 

I don't answer her. Only because I don't want to lie but I also don't feel like being truthful and explaining why I feel the way I do because there is no good reason. 

She exhales, resting her head against the window, plugging the AUX cord into her phone, before turning on her playlist which is titled Rory's playlist for Atlas. I listen to it more often than I care to admit, especially now that I have the playlist on my phone.

I never listened to music before.

The drive is short and clear of any traffic. We cross the bridge and she doesn't dwell this time. She doesn't hold the necklace around her neck or ask me to stop. She doesn't tense up as she always does. She's okay.

Out of pure habit, I park three houses down. We exit my car simultaneously and she walks ahead. Her father usually doesn't arrive home from work until five-thirty, so no sneaking is necessary, but Rory still likes to be cautious. Her mother isn't a problem either, considering she's abandoned her daughter to have some space from her cunt of a husband and stay with her sister in Bristol.

When she turns around and gestures for me to come, I walk over, then enter her house, closing the door behind me. 

I must admit, though, that without her mother lingering around, the house has appeared to be significantly tidier. Rory cleaned up her mother's mess when she left weeks ago and since, there has been no beer bottles littered around nor smoked cigarettes. The house doesn't smell like tobacco and the television doesn't stay on until two AM.

She doesn't speak to her father at all since she left, though. I don't think she cares to salvage what little relationship there is left, and based on the things she has told me about him, I wouldn't want to, either.

Rory opens her bedroom door, tossing her bag on the ground, before leaving to let Archie in, I presume, meanwhile I walk over to her bed and lie down, my stomach colliding with the soft blankets, and as soon as the side of my face meets the pillow, I feel my bones beginning to ache, my eyes droopy as sleep threatens to take over.