Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

8

8

A vigorous bout of shaking wakes me up.

"You have to leave!" Anastasia whispers sharply. Her breath tingles my ears.

She would not let me drive back home last night in my "drunken stupor" and I could not find the gall to argue about it after her little story-time.
And so it was established, I was spending the night over.

I knew my parents would not give a shit. This wasn't the first time I had spent the night out, although in comparably grim situations. The only challenge was to keep the noise at a minimum and whatever happened, never cross her father's path. Even if that means getting up at the crack of dawn's newborn blue hue.

I never want to, even by accident, find myself staring into the frightful eyes of a disabled girl's father knowing he assumes the worst of people.

Anastasia takes care of the breadcrumbs as I collect my possessions quite surprisingly spread all about her room in the limited time I spent there.

At the door, Anastasia goes over the items once more.

"Car keys?"

"Check."

"Phone?"

"Check."

"Jacket, socks, and shit?"

"Seriously?"

"I am just making sure." She puts her hands up in surrender.

A second guess makes my hand crawl into the pocket of my jacket to check if my car keys are indisputably there. As I feel the cold metal dig between my fingers, relief floods me.

"Okay then. Leave a text when you get home with your..." - She gestures with her hands - "...mortal vessel intact?"

I roll my eyes, inviting a little chuckle from her.

The cold morning instantaneously envelops me as I step out into her porch.

"Bye, Ana." I give her a little wave.

Her tired and droopy eyes make one final effort to focus on my face.

"Bye, Brooklyn." She smiles.

She knows I called her Ana, something I have never called her before.

I step out onto the little path leading to her driveway and before she could close the door between us, I turn back. "Good morning, by the way."

I walk away, smiling from ear to ear with the image of her biting down her cheek to keep from laughing etched in memory.

The giddy peace of the day is broken with the sound of thunderous laughing erupting in the living room.

I crack my door open by an inch.

"Been a long time, John!"

A rough voice, the kind when you grind full chalk against a blackboard, says loudly.

"You didn't tell me earlier you were coming," Dad says. "And is this our little Charlotte?"

The mere mention of the name awakens in me a different panic I had stowed away and kept concealed for so long.

Please, don't be that Charlotte.

Who am I kidding? Which other Charlotte is my family close to?

"Brooklyn is going to be thrilled to see you all." Will he?

"Brooklyn." Exactly on cue. "Son, would you come on down for a minute? There is someone for you."