Like me, the sun is on the journey home. It's frustrating to watch people pass you in a race when you're putting in your all but have nothing to show for it. I can say the same for racing the sun. I hadn't even given a thought as to how far of a walk it is from Maverick's to Charlie's. Pretty much the only thing I was thinking when I fled down the street was, run. So I ran. Hard and long, passing everything in a blur of tears and punctured breath until somewhere down the line my legs gave out and I was forced to lean against a stop sign and actually consider where I was going and how the Hell I was going to get there. Home. It came to me so naturally, I almost forgot to question it. Is Charlie's place home now? They say home is where you hang your hat...but that would mean Maverick's place, cause I left my white cap sitting on the floor by the front door. And if home is where the heart is, then I'm not really sure where I should be headed.
Life has splintered my heart and dueled out pieces left and right.
Vixen's got one at the bottom of the sea.
Goose has his six feet under.
My family have bits laying around our farm house; Carol and Rooster have theirs with them at the reception; Charlie and Ghost each have one, hidden away somewhere safe; and Maverick—
He's got the biggest chunk.
But I can't go back to him, not now. Not after everything that's been said — or screamed, rather. So I get back on my feet and walk the rest of the way to Charlie's house, barely ahead of the sun as it dips under the skyline. By the time I set foot on her porch, the heavens are like a Georgia peach. Fuzzy, orange, and gloriously so. A shame I feel like shit...otherwise I might've turned right around and sat on the beach to watch the sun go down. I mourn the lost opportunity, one foot on the porch, the other stuck to the second step. My legs start wobbling again and I heave a sigh, reluctantly facing my back to the horizon and heading for the door where I leave a weak knock. Really, I ought to just walk in. This is my house too, even if I haven't lived in it for a couple of days.
Those days feel like centuries.
What a weird way to come home.
It only gets weirder when I hear Charlie bellow from inside, "COMING!"
I swallow hard.
Don't make this harder than it already is. You need space, you're back for the night, that's all.
The door flies open.
Charlie sags against it, "Can I — Stirrups?"
I chuckle, "Not so sure that's a proper sentence...or way to greet someone."
Charlie stares at me like my eyebrows have turned purple. The surprise on her face has me flushed and staring at the wooden boards beneath my feet. I trace their wrinkles with the yellowed toes of my Navy standard dress shoes. It's impressive how comfortable they are. I mean, I wouldn't give them up for a pair of converse or cowboy boots but my toes have nothing but good things to say about these fellas here. Carried me from Maverick's to Charlie's in one piece — and without any foot pain, I might add. Shoes, I sigh, a fond smile teases the corners of my lips as I study the crisp edges and stitching of the bleached leather. I used to look at them so much, I started guessing people off of them. Back when I was still torn over Vixen, I rarely looked up...so it seemed natural to assume personalities based on the only part of a person I could see.
Shoes.
They helped me judge most of my classmates here at Top Gun.
Pretty accurate I'd say.
"Stirrups...I thought you were staying at Maverick's?"
"I was," I mumble, finally sparing her a second look.
She furrows her brow and cranes her neck around the doorframe, clearly looking for some mode of transportation. When she realizes Maverick didn't bring me over on his bike, she snaps back into place, disbelief written in red letters across her face.
"Did you walk all the way here?"
Just say yes, I tell myself.
Alas, what can I say? I'm an overachiever.
"I ran the first half. Then I walked."
Despite her astonishment, Charlie has time for a bemused scoff. "C'mere, crazy girl," She mutters as she loops an arm around my shoulder and draws me inside the kitchen. I melt into her embrace, hardly ashamed of how much I need a hug. Call me crazy — which I guess she already did — but hugging Charlie feels like hugging an aunt. That hot, kind aunt who could've been your mother if your dad had just chosen the other sister. I was right to call this place home, 'cause wrapped up in Charlie's arms is the closest to home I've felt in a long long time, and it's all too soon that she's letting me go and hurrying down the hall to shout up the stairs, "Ghost! Wanna guess what pilot washed up on our front steps?!"
The distant whoosh of a door torn open leads to feet pounding down the stairs and then —
"You're back!"
"For the niiiii— oof!"
The girl practically leaped on me like a monkey, legs around my waist and everything. Laughing, we tumble backwards against the island.
"Sorry," Ghost giggles, giving me some space.
"So I guess that means you missed me?" I tease.
She blushes, "Don't let your head get too big, it'll break your neck." When I raise a skeptic brow, she giggles and adds, "Elvis said that."
The mere mention of Elvis inflates my heart. Not so much because he's gorgeous and famous and my childhood crush, but because Ghost remembers that I'm a fan and that he means a lot to me. That incredible attention to detail makes her the sweetest thing. In moments like these, even something so simple as a quote from the lips of an idol are like an extra big hug. Tears prick my eyes and I smile them away. With a wild shake of my head, I sigh and fling an arm around my RIO's shoulders, hauling her into a comfortable side hug.
"Oh Ghost, what would I do without you?"
Charlie steps back into the conversation with a pamphlet in hand.
"Pizza anybody?"
Needless to say, we're on board.
Once orders are made, Ghost and I hobble up the stairs to her room, where I immediately hog the entire bed, knowing perfectly well I'll need space to flail my limbs in tantrum fashion when she asks —
"So what happened with Maverick?"
Ghost perches at the foot of the bed.
Well, there go my tantrum plans.
Groaning, I toss an arm over my eyes and cough up an answer so stiff, it's almost robotic. "We had a fight."
A hand settles on my shin. "You don't have to tell me about it...but...you should know there's nothing wrong with having fights...it's healthy, actually, because it means you feel free to be vulnerable, to show flaws. False friends are only smiles. They're little happy puddles...cute, but no fun. You can't do much with them. Oceans rage and crash but you can swim, surf, dive in them...hardly anyone loves puddles. Everyone loves the sea."
Between the velvet waft of her voice and the soft touches encircling the white fabric around my shinbone, I'm lulled like a baby by its mother to a daze-like state where hurt cuts to your soul but your body is too numb to react at all. The words are tearjerkers, but I'm too far inside myself to spawn them. I feel a phantom-tear pattern my face only to be absorbed by my sleeve. Static vision has a way of hypnotizing you, just like my RIO with her silver tongue, effortlessly drooling purple prose into our hungry ears. I find it easy to relax, despite all that's gone down since the sun came up.
The funeral, the fight.
Five slices of pizza and my best girls undo the damage. After dinner, Charlie leaves us for some unfinished reports. We throw fit — and by we I mean I hiss and boo and chuck one of Ghost's perfect throw pillows after Charlie's retreating figure while Ghost just 'awwws,' like a kid who didn't get dessert. Charlie chucks the pillow right back at me, clocking me in the head. A deserved hit. I let her off the hook and turn back to Ghost, only to find her climbing off the bed and heading for a stack of books on her dresser. Curious, I prop myself up against the headboard and nest the twice-thrown pillow in between criss-crossed legs. Her nimble fingers weave music bars over the spines of the books until she pincers a small green volume. The title is faded and impossible to read from where I sit.
"Which one's that?"
"Anne of Green Gables," She replies as she faces me again.
"I've heard it's good. Never read it though."
Ghost's face brightens. "I was hoping you'd say that."
What now?
It must be all over my face because she's tittering quietly as she creeps back over to the bed, sinking onto the mattress, closer to me than before.
"Here," She murmurs, offering the little green book. "I bought it for you, but I was going to save it as a graduation gift...only, now...after everything that's happened," Her joyful disposition withers and she shuts her eyes, holding back tears. I take the book off her hands and set it beside me so I'm free to cup her shoulder. "Anne is so fierce. She's resilient and adventurous and reminds me so much of you, I just thought you should know that you are such an amazing person, authors write you without even knowing it."
"Oh Ghost," I breathe, tears welling in my eyes. "And just when I thought you couldn't get any sweeter a person..."
A droplet runs down her cheek and she laughs mutely, rubbing at her leaking eyes. "I know he needs you...but I've missed you."
"I've missed you too," I smile, "It sounds so horrible to say it out loud but...Goose —" I suck in a breath; force back a sob. "G-Goose made me realize how thankful I am that you weren't the one...that we weren't up there and...and it's not just cause I lost Vixen but because you're my best friend and if I lost you, I wouldn't know how to think or talk and I probably wouldn't care to try cause you're so good at it, I'm always trying to keep up—"
"Stirrups," She chides gently, "Don't compare yourself to me."
"Did you seriously miss the parts about me loving you so much?"
Her laugh rains tears. "Of course not."
"Now," I expel the sappiness from my lungs. "Would you do the honors of reading me some of this fabulous book about my redhead twin?"
Ghost twirls a hand and bows dramatically, "If you insist."
Giggling, we crawl towards the headboard and prop the pillows like couch cushions behind our backs. Ghost curls in on herself, tucking the book into the hollow between her knees and stomach, while I rip back the covers. The sheets and duvet rise above us like a tsunami out of the eastern sea and with a powerful whoosh of cool air, they collapse across our laps. My bare feet slip across the chilly sheets, like a hockey puck on ice. I half wish I'd put on socks, but it's too late for that. Ghost is already turning pages and clearing her throat. I shuffle closer to her, seeking an external source of heat to leech off of for the sake of my poor frostbitten feet. Ghost's soft voice hypnotizes me. She reads each line ceremoniously; finding a perfect rhythm to bounce on. Even when the paragraph changes, or someone speaks, the shift in pace feels organic and I'm too wound up in following Anne's shenanigans to question it. For the first time in my life, I get the appeal of reading. Henry forced me through Lord of the Rings and Narnia and I've read various books of the Bible, but I've never sat down to read.
Not like this.
I was always outside, playing with sticks, climbing trees, listening to the record player or doing chores. There was so much to do and see on the farm...
Books were never it for me.
But through Ghost, I watch the itty-bitty print come alive.
I'm so invested, I forget time.
Until there's no more Anne...
Because Ghost's dropped off, head bent over her chest, the book falling from her hands. I sit up in increments, afraid to disturb her. My hands shake horribly when I go to retrieve the book, so it doesn't fall from the bed at some point in the night and startle her awake. For lack of a bookmark, I dog ear the page, choosing to bear the weight of Ghost's abhorrence and scorn. She'll forgive me, I boast. She always does. With the book under one arm, I roll over my side of the bed and land lightly on the floor. My eyes snap up towards her bent figure but she's out like a light. The bedside lamp is another story. That thing looks painfully bright now that my eyes are softened for sleep. I hurry over to her dresser to put away the book but something stops me.
A notebook.
The notebook, I realize.
The one her brother mentioned when he visited, where they would record Ghost's best poetic moments.
It's open on the floor, like she kicked it out of the way.
Ghost doesn't kick books. I narrow my eyes, all together abandoning Anne of Green Gables on top of the dresser as I crouch behind the bedside table and reaching for the discarded poetry journal. My eyes snag on a name scrawled in graphite loops along the margin.
For Goose it reads.
I hold my breath and dare to glance below the heading at the swirl of words in brief stanzas. They don't necessarily rhyme, nor is there a specific meter, but they leak emotion as potent as any Shakespearean Sonnet.
Water seeps
through cracks,
As he slipped
Through my
Fingers.
He was just
Taking flight,
But they clipped
His wings
And sank them.
Heart storms,
Blood winds
Take me ill,
And I hate
What I once held
Dear
He was a
Smile,
A plague
You miss, an
Unsatisfiable
Itch
Scratch, and scratch
He can't come
Back,
His wings are
Clipped
And he carried
My heart
To the depths of the sea,
And left me
Itching cracks.
Wrong. That's exactly how it feels, now that I've done this terrible thing. I suppose this is how criminals feel when they've just grabbed the cash only to hear sirens closing in. Like you've mistepped. Screwed up, rather. It's hard to tell whether you're a screw up or the situation is just screwed up. It's not so hard to tell that I'm one major screw up once I've violated my own RIO's privacy. The second I reach the bottom of the page, my eyes blur, and my heart races, and the air turns like a rotten fruit. A sickly sweetness assaults my senses and before I know it, hideous fat tears are fleeing down my cheeks. Her notebook is suddenly red-hot against my skin and I practically fling it away from me, miraculously able to move so carelessly without startling Ghost awake. Balancing on the balls of my bare feet, I pivot, tilting my upper body in a painful twisting motion, all to catch a glimpse of Ghost as she sleeps, having sunk down against the pillows, cradling one in her arms.
Spittle hangs from her lower lip.
Her long, sugared lashes flutter like butterfly wings with each exhale.And yet...the longer I look, the easier it is to see the cracks in her heart. I wonder, is this how it is to be Ghost? To look directly at someone when they aren't paying attention, and see into the utmost depths of their being, where all manner of ailments and fractures lie, hidden from the light of day? How is it fair that someone so intuitive could be surrounded by us oafs? We're one dense pack, and here's our little messiah who hears hurts and sees splintered hearts, all the while bearing her own.
For the second time today, I hate myself.
I hate my legs for burning after squatting so long.
I hate my eyes for crying uncontrollably.
I hate my mouth, because it refuses to make a sound as I cry, which leaves me wet and guilty and lonely in the dark, unable to call for help. But as much as I hate every inch of myself, I realize how much I hate my need for my own boyfriend. When I finally pick myself off the ground and turn off the lights to Ghost's room, I hover over her, tempted to wake her up for comfort.
Guess I'm not all that selfish afterall, cause I can't go through with it. I hurry out of her bedroom, easing the door shut. Still, the desperation doesn't fade. If anything, it heightens, leading me to Charlie's closed door. There's a thick slab of darkness spilling out from under the door, and I can hear a fan running for white noise. She's asleep.
Everyone is asleep.
Except for me.
The wailing specter that drifts down the stairs in search of humanity.
Well, in search of one member of it.
You had a fight, I remind myself, holding back a fresh wave of tears. He said he doesn't wanna look at you...he's angry and he needs space...it's ok to need space...you'll see him tomorrow.
Will I?
Panic tears at my chest.
What if this is a worse fight than I thought?
I reach my bedroom in the nick of time. Hot tears cascade down my face as I hurl myself inside my room, hinging my body weight on the fist wound about the doorknob. Gravity plays with weight dispersion, using me like a pulley to jam the door shut, only for it to yank me backwards. A gasp fumes from my open mouth as I collide with the door and the arm still attached by my tight fisted hand, gets roughly twisted and crushed between my back and the ridges in the door. Barely whispering a scream of pain, I release the doorknob and slide to the floor where I fold in on myself, showering my kneecaps and clutching at my shins. Goose, an anguished whine stirs in the shadows of my mind. Goose why did you have to go...why did you have to leave us like this...Goose...Goose...a fervent chant to bring back the dead, but a dud, just like the rest of them. His name rings like church bells in my ear, inspiring a wholesome inflation of the heart yet simultaneously pitting the vital right out of my ribcage. Two emotions latch onto my hands, drawing and quartering me.
Growing up, my siblings and I would tear holes in just about every scrap of clothing we had. We got so used to the sound of denim splitting, it felt as natural as the rooster's crow.
Years away from the farm have destroyed that tolerance.
What I hear inside my body is not torn jeans or plaid, it's tissue; flesh and blood, ripping apart in a drawn out tchrrrrrrrrring that nauseates me.
Maverick, I sob, changing the tune of my mantra. I want Maverick.
My voice is so tiny in my own head.
I'm a little girl again, begging for her mama — only this time, it's a boyfriend's arms I want around me, and who knows when I'll have them back...
So make believe.
I'm acting childish anyways. Might as well go all the way. Make believe Mav's here, right now, holding me. I clench my eyes shut, digging through my memory for the sensation of being in his arms. Warmth, tingling, and pressure, like a firm grip on something. Finding the precise feeling proves more difficult than I thought, but I'm determined. So I hunt for it; straining my eyesight to the remotest corners of my brain until static blisterings the backs of my eyelids, adding a sharp pain behind my eyes to the dull ache that crying leaves in the sinuses. Who knows the time it takes to get a hold on that feeling. I'm an addict, searching for the hidden stash, suffering a withdrawal. The symptoms are almost too much to bear. Nausea, headaches, hyperventilation. They tick off one by one, counting me down. I search harder and harder and harder and then—
Magic.
He's here, holding me.
I sigh...
...and fall asleep.
>>>>>
The first thing I do when I wake up, is by far the worst thing possible.
Panic.
There's someone at the window! On top of everything else, we're experiencing a break in, in the middle of the night! When you're immediately thrown into a spike of fear, especially from out of a deep sleep, it's incredibly difficult to come down from it. Thankfully, the animalistic urge to flail my body lassos my senses and drags them back to reality. The jerk of my arms scrapes my knuckles across the hardwood, my legs kick the empty air in front of me and land sharply on the floor, biting through the bare pads of my feet and reminding me for the quadrillionth time tonight that I need a pair of socks. And of course, cracking the back of my skull across the door I'm propped up against helps me reset. For a moment, my whole head burns and shadows crawl from the corners of my eyes, spreading towards my pupils, and then, I blink, and the pain recedes, the shadows disperse, and I finally focus on the face peering through my window.
"Oh my gosh," I croak. "I conjured him."
Maverick looks like shit. He doesn't even smile when I notice him. He waits patiently for me to get off my ass and let him in.
Blinking stupidly, I rock onto my knees and shuffle all the way to the windowsill. "Pete?" His name rolls off my tongue easily, as if we never fought; as if he hadn't said all those terrible things to me and forced me to run all the way home just to escape him. The ache remains, monotonous and unforgettable as ever, but the pain is different than it was back at his place. Less poignant. It doesn't hurt that we fought...it hurts that we haven't made up. I find myself breathing his name again and again, like it's the last time I'll ever feel it on my lips. I have half a mind to trap it — close my mouth around it in the snapping motion of a crocodilian bite. Tucked between tongue and cheek is where I'd keep it, if I weren't so impulsive that is. By the time I consider savoring his name, I've already strung it along a line and cast it, "Pete?" There it goes, "What are you d—"
"Remi," Maverick rasps.
Every hair I have salutes the sky as a shudder passes through me.
In the past five hours, he must've changed. The undershirt could be the same one he wore beneath his uniform, but the sweatpants are definitely new. I can't see his shoes, but I bet he shoved flip flops, knowing full well it's dangerous to drive with flimsy footwear like that, but look at him — he's not really giving off a 'cautious vibe' at the moment. Whatever's the converse, that's what he's giving. A wild, untamable sort of desperation that hits home. Maverick's puffy face shrinks as he presses his eyes shut and seems to wrestle with his words. His chapped lips move soundlessly, forming about a million different words at once, but never to completion. There's something in my throat. Like bone, lodged in my trachea, wedged between the malleable flesh and I gulp so hard it cuts and bleeds but I can't seem to get the nighttime air down to my lungs. A quiet scraping draws my attention away from Maverick's face.
The bone goes down cold.
Blood crusts the jagged edge of Maverick's fingernail.
It looks tender.
But he still uses both hands to peel splinters from the window frame.
I grab his hands instinctively, afraid of him slicing the rest of his fingers open and wiping blood all over the wood. The second our skin meets, an electric jolt sprints up my arms, successfully jump-starting my heart. Magic. We keep running into each other don't we? I guess I'm gonna have to admit — I'm a believer. How could I deny it when I've practically summoned my boyfriend? Ghost would call it magic. It's a romantic way of seeing our situation...but I can think of a more romantic, magical way for Maverick to have gotten here, and it has nothing to do with magic and romance and all to do with something far stronger.
Maverick trembles as I cradle his hands in mine.
He rips one out of my grasp and saws the back of it under his drippy nose.
"I..." He sniffles. I squeeze his hand. He gags. I squeeze harder, anxiously anticipating thousands of confessions. None of them hold it to Maverick's hoarse whisper, "I c-can't do this without you..."
I wish I could say I was strong for him.
But even Jericho's walls came tumbling down.
I burst into tears and threw my arms around his neck. Screw the damp air that cuts to the bone; screw the awkwardness of leaning out a window against my boyfriend's head; screw the world and screw everyone in it because holding Maverick is the only thing I care about right now. Actually, scratch that. Being held by him. That's what I care about. Magic memory digging deceived me. Hugging shouldn't feel this good, and yet, it does. As I cling around Maverick's neck, awkwardly forcing his face against the joint of my chest and shoulder, his arms engulf my torso, totally crushing my organs to system failure. And the crazy thing? I freaking love it. I love how my whole body screams for air the tighter he squeezes. I love the way his hair smells like spearmint and tea-tree, with glorious undertones of jet fuel and sea-salt. Who knows how dirty he is after a day of anxious sweat. So what if he is? I bury my face into his scalp, sobbing like a baby.
Thirsty dark chocolate waves drink up my tears and grow stiff and wet. The ridiculous sweater Carol made me buy is like a bath towel. It gets heavy as Maverick sobs into it. A thick, wet patch leaves a sloppy kiss along the bare skin underneath and I shiver involuntarily, but hold Maverick closer, seeking the warmth he emits, despite his tears.
"I'm sorry," He croaks, pawing at my back frantically, "I'm sorry for yelling at y-y-you a-and saying all those t-terrible things—" an ugly hiccup rocks his body. "I'm sorry I hurt you and scared you — I was angry a-a-and I was stupid—"
"No you weren't," I whimper, "Pete you weren't stupid, nothing you ever do or say is stupid...you're in pain and that's okay."
He shakes his head.
The sweater makes a scratchy sound over the ebb and flow of sniffles.
"Not okay, not okay," He mumbles, "I sh-shouldn't have said all of that...I was wrong...wrong about you — ab-about Gh-Ghost and..."
"Shhhh..." I comb both hands down the nape of his neck and kiss the crown of his head, guiding his attention away from his accusations against Iceman.
"I love you, Remi," He gasps, nails stabbing through the gaps in the stitching and pricking my back. "I love you so much and I can't lose you because of shit I said—"
I gently break away, slipping back through the window so I can trust my own balance as I cup Maverick's face in two hands, "Pete?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you too...and I forgive you."
He winces in slow motion, releasing a stifled cry. "Why?"
I stroke his inflamed cheeks, a rueful smile on my tearstained face, "Because...you came here, and admitted that you hurt me, and apologized. You're willing to be wrong. You aren't afraid of running to me after you mess up...that means you love me, really truly love me, more than your pride, more than your comfort and feelings — you love me, and I love you just as much...how could I not forgive you?"
Maverick's head spins in my hands. His swollen lips fit the curve of my palm, sealing a firm kiss along each crease. That kiss speaks for him. The whisper of his mouth along my skin is a fervent prayer; a hands-and-knees plea to be hidden. Emotions are like children, unrestrainable in large numbers. Neither of us has to say it to know the other is feeling the same way. We're exhausted. We've worn ourselves to the bone over the past four days, emotionally, physically, mentally. And it's not like it's getting any easier around here. Hell, tomorrow we've gotta roll out of bed like we didn't get two hours of sleep and show up to a Naval tribunal! Thinking about it gives me a headache — another to add to my growing collection. Sighing, I tip my head back. A strobe of moonlight flashes my face. It slithers like seaweed over my eyelids, and I moan, suddenly freezing cold and sore.
Across my chest of all places!
Heartache is for real, I mumble a laugh.
Maverick lines my fist up with his mouth. His eyes peer over the ridge of my knuckles adorably, "You okay?"
"Yeah," I huff, "Just...shitty. You?"
He kisses my knuckles.
"You said it."
My laugh has a vibrato, but my voice is plain as I add, "For the record...I'm less shitty since you showed up."
Maverick sheds a lopsided smile. "You said it..."
I grin.
A gust swirls past me, kicking my hair into my face. I break out in instant chill bumps and yank both hands from Maverick's face, repurposing them for some friction.
"You wanna come in?"
He almost says yes.
"Nah," he drawls, rubbing at his eyes and nose, "I uh...got the uh, trial tomorrow. Should probably get back, sleep...if I can...and then get ready."
"We could go together," I offer. "Charlie's gonna wake me up anyways. We'll just swing by your house after I'm ready and I'll wait for you and we can go together."
Both eyebrows buckle inwards until they seem to blur into a single entity. Any other time, I would laugh. As it stands, I feel like an empty six pack. The crushed kind you find along beaches, post Fourth of July fever. Dry and capsized. Useless, lest some green-earth nut finds you and makes you into a bicycle. Or so I've heard. Gosh, I'm not even sure where I'm going with this...I just feel drained. Like, barely able to sit and wait for Maverick to answer me. I love the guy, but if he makes me wait another second, I'm getting in bed where it is warm and my legs don't have to work.
Maverick bites his lip.
A fatally attractive look.
Not to mention completely inappropriate for our current situation.
"We can't be late," He says.
I narrow my eyes, "Who are you and what have you done with Pete Mitchell?"
"Better question," Mav replies as he squeezes himself through my window. "What are you gonna do with Pete Mitchell?"
"Snuggle him all night long."
I grab his arm before he faceplants and wakes the sleeping girls upstairs. We exchange droopy-eyed stares and half smiles as I entangle our hands and guide him towards my bed. The two of us fall in, on sleep's doorstep the moment our eight limbs are sprawled across the mattress. I struggle against the cavernous abyss closing its jaws around my consciousness and manage to tug most, if not all, of the blankets over our idle bodies. The bedspread flops on top of us. Maverick rolls on his stomach, loosely roping an arm around my middle as I scoot up against him and tuck my face along the curve of his forehead. Together, our combined body heat sets the sheets ablaze. They reflect the warmth like silver paper and bake us a golden brown as we fade away...
Drowsy is its own drug.
Loosens the tongue.
Like liquor.
I don't feel my brain cells fusing, nor my mouth moving, but I hear the distant echo of my own voice whispering into Maverick's hair...
"You're gonna be a good husband..."
And I think he kissed my shoulder.
>>>>>
Beyond the twilight of my mind, a distinct rapping of knuckles pricks my ears, and with my head still stuck in a bottomless hole, I recognize Charlie's voice from the other side of my door, reminding me what day it is and throwing in the time. Really, I moan, raking a stubborn pout across Maverick's back. His warm skin numbs my droopy face, kindling the urge to flop over and fall back asleep. I wind both arms around his waist. Maverick hums quietly, maybe asking what's wrong, maybe telling me to go to sleep. It's hard to tell as the abyss catches me in it's net and reels my willing body towards it's cavernous mouth —
Charlie knocks again.
"It's 69 degrees already."
"Thank you for the weather update," I groan, "We'll be out in a second!"
Wait. Did I just say we?
She doesn't ask questions; just disappears in a tune of footsteps down the hall.
Shit.
I sit up so fast my whole spine cracks. Wincing, I contort an arm behind my back and massage the tender vertebrae. There's a sudden draft. Maverick flinches in the corner of my eye, arching his back as the cool breeze sweeps over the expanse of his bare skin. Oops. I was supposed to be there buffering him. No time for that, I dig the heels of my hands to the back of my eye socket, practically gouging my eyeballs out in the process. They sting from sudden exposure to California sunlight, but my aggressive rubbing leaves them red-raw and preferring the light. I redirect my restless hands up and over the top of my head, combing through my knotted curls and flakey scalp. Great. I showered yesterday and I'm already getting dandruff? Lovely, lovely stress. He's come back to torment my mental health, throw a wrench in my relationships, and squirt grease all over my scalp.
What's next?
Explosive acne?
Because that would help Maverick's attraction to me.
"Mhmmm, Remiiii?"
"Huh?" I startle, having forgotten about the boyfriend in bed next to me.
He rolls onto his back and hides behind his hands, grumbling a barely audible, "Do we have to get up?"
Being the horrible person I am, I miss every word of his whining because I'm too hung up on the thought of stress-hijacking my hygiene. To make matters worse, I basically tell him I wasn't paying attention by blurting out,
"Would you dump me if I broke out in stress-acne?"
"What?" Maverick rises onto his forearms, bug-eyed and bed-headed.
Blood rushes to my head, spreading an embarrassment rash around the circumference of my face.
"Nevermind — " I scramble to get off the bed. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."
Shopping bag handles coil around my ankles and dirty clothes boobytrap the path to the door. I trip unceremoniously out of my bedroom, hopelessly blocking out Maverick's strangled laughter. I lock both hands around the doorknob and slam it behind me, capping the sound of him wheezing from the bed, but the sudden silence gets blown to pieces by the blood draining from my cheeks and pooling in my ears, producing a sort of artificial ocean ambience. I wobble up the stairs like I've got a seashell glued over each ear and turn towards the bathroom, but the door is shut and there's a yellow bar leaking onto the floorboards.
Perfect timing.
I prop my hip against the doorway to Charlie's bedroom and cross both arms over my chest but the bathroom light shuts off and the door swings open the minute I've gotten comfortable and out walks the one person I wasn't expecting.
"Ghost!"
"Stirrups!"
It's a stalemate straight outta those westerns, minus the guns, cowboy hats, and handlebar mustaches...so just a stalemate. A seven o'clock pajama stalemate outside the second floor bathroom. Neither of us speaks, I can't even tell if I'm breathing to be honest. There's only one sound and that's the trickle of the toilet from behind my RIO. Brilliant scoring for a real cinematic moment.
"I heard you and Maverick last night–"
"I read your poem last night–"
She blushes, "Oh."
"Oh," I cringe.
Ghost curls her head and glides from the doorway like a bashful swan. We swap places, tracking around each other, dipping away from the space between our bodies. Two beads of water, bent by an oil canal. Halfway into the bathroom, I stop. Ghost is a poet; she's good at talking to people and understanding them; she's equally as good at staying silent and taking the time to listen. Before I can second guess myself, I spin around, but so does Ghost.
"Did you think I did a good job?" We chorus.
I laugh at the odd harmony of our voices. It's weird hearing polar opposites play in time. Kinda like a bass on the lowest note and a violin on its highest. Pretty soon Ghost is chuckling along with me, and the tension dissipates. I shuffle into the doorway where she stood and raise an arm above the lightswitch. As my temple slots along the sharp edge of the doorframe, I smile and say to her, "Your poem was lovely...it made me cry so much I thought I'd wake you up...that's why I went downstairs and uh, that's how I found Maverick at my window."
"I figured," She beams. "I woke up sometime after you'd left and went for some water and as I stole past your door I heard a wailing on the wind and thought it was you..." Her lips wriggle into some wry expression, "I put my ear to the door and recognized Maverick's voice...eavesdropped too long for my conscience to bear, but I heard enough to tell you you said everything right..."
"Thanks, Ghost."
"Don't thank me," She giggles, "It's him you need to thank...and he you. I can't see either of you living without the other...you two are symbiotic."
Symbiotic, I grin, yeah...I guess we are.
We part ways for a little while, each getting ready for the trial. A Naval board of inquiry has taken the previous days to review Maverick's situation and judge the condition of the accident. Today, we find out if he's off the hook...
Or if he's flown his last.
To say I'm nervous is an understatement.
Nervous is how I feel walking hand in hand with Maverick down the hallway into the kitchen to meet up with Charlie and Ghost for breakfast. That tummy tingling, hot faced sort of uncertainty is like a papercut compared to the disemboweling sensation of dread that haunts me from Charlie's house to the court's house. My white naval uniform feels itchier than I remembered. It becomes a sort of temporary twitch; tugging at my collar and scraping at the irritated skin underneath. The bun I sport is agony by the time we reach the front steps. I squeeze Maverick's hand to distract myself from the burning temptation to reach back and yank my hair free. As we slip inside, I switch to holding hands with Ghost, so the suits don't go after Maverick and I and expose our relationship. Ghost and I stand at ease in the back, cutting off each other's circulation.
Maverick is called to the center of the room.
He stands in front of the board members, towered over by them at their fancy desk lineup.
My larger than life boyfriend has never looked so small.
The man at the very end of the line flips open a manella file. There is no grand opening statement, only the clearing of an aged throat and the seemingly lifeless recitation of whatever fine print lies in those papers. I can almost swear that a bead of sweat rolls down the side of Maverick's neck. My tongue coils up in my mouth, clogging my airway as I gnaw my lip, desperately wanting to fidget. Ghost's fingers slide between mine, she applies light bursts of pressure and release. Of all the things I should be feeling, horse is not one of them. Yet I feel like one of our ponies from back home, getting nagged by the bit, slowed by half halts. Pull, release, pull, release. Until the bit settles and my face isn't straining against the reins. Tap. Tap. Tap. My heart rate plummets to average and I squeeze Ghost's hand as a silent thank you. It's around then, that the preliminary introductions are completed.
The scene has been set: Maverick, in the cockpit, with a stalled engine.
Where and when are no longer in question.
Another board member takes it upon himself to explain the how.
"The f-14's flat spin was induced by the disruption of airflow into the starboard engine. This disruption stalled the engine, producing a rate of spin which was unrecoverable..."
Maverick works his jaw.
I fight the urge to collapse in relief.
Unrecoverable.
Un-freaking-recoverable.
Which means —
"There was no way Lieutenant Mitchell could either see or avoid the jet wash. Therefore the board of inquiry finds Lt. Pete Mitchell was not at fault..."
They go on. Redundant law ramblings that I have no appetite for. My sole focus is my boyfriend, who's head seems stuck at an uncomfortable angle. His chin hasn't dipped for a good three minutes, and I can see his upper body trembling, like he's been holding a weight for too long, and any minute now, he's gonna lose his grip and it'll all come crashing down. He needs a spotter. He needs me, I breathe, subconsciously jerking forwards, only for Ghost to curl an arm around mine, tugging me back.
"Almost there," She whispers in my ear.
I swallow and nod.
Almost is an eternity.
A gavel strikes the desk as a commanding voice echoes through the stuffy room, "Cleared!"
Voices erupt. People stand, stretching their legs, shaking hands. Ghost calls for me, but I'm halfway across the floor before she can stop me. The only person who hasn't moved is Maverick. The second the gavel fell, his eyes did too. They're clenched so tight, he's practically sewn his eyebrows together, causing them to form an awkward ripple of a unibrow. Skirting around lawyers and investigators, I hurry towards Maverick, finally skidding to a stop between him and that awful desk. They're like God's judgment day panel. I'm sick just standing here, even with my back turned to them, I feel their scrutiny like pins stuck down my spine. Maybe they're nice men; fathers, grandfathers, husbands. Maybe. But they're big men in dark suits with files and right now, that's just about as close to the devil as it gets.
"Hey," I set a hand on Maverick's bicep, "Hey, Pete...it's over, okay? You're cleared, we can go home now—"
"Carol."
"Wh-what?"
Maverick squints, "Carol," He repeats, sucking at his teeth and pulling some unwanted emotion from between them. "We go to Carol's first."
"Oh," I sigh, "Right. I forgot."
Footsteps click towards us.
"Everything alright?" Ghost asks quietly, her large eyes flickering towards the investigative committee.
"Fine," Maverick gulps. "Thanks," He mumbles, craning his neck to meet her gaze, "You didn't have to come...or drive..."
"You're my best friends," Ghost smiles gently, "That's what friends do. Chauffeur each other to stressful hearings."
Maverick laughs.
I shoot Ghost an eye watering look of undying gratitude. She perks up, the right hand corner of her mouth tucking into a smirk. My hands finagle their way into my pants pockets and I nudge Maverick's arm with my elbow. "C'mon," I murmur, "Let's get out of here. I can't stand breathing everyone else's air and body odor."
The three of us waltz out smiling to ourselves. Ghost hops into the driver's seat while Maverick and I slide in the back, forgoing seatbelts and situating ourselves comfortably against the other. Maverick wraps an arm around me, caging me to his side. Our ribs and waists align nicely, encouraging me to fold a cheek against his shoulder. The radio flicks on. Background noise to dampen my thoughts. Maverick was definitely sweating in there. How do I know? Well, for one I can smell him a lot easier than I could on the ride there, but I also feel the stickiness along my scalp. It's gross, but I'm way too comfortable wedged against him to consider shifting my position. Besides, I'm sure if I turned my head a little closer to my nearest armpit, I'd be just as pungent. But it's not sweat that's bothering me.
It's the emotions wafting off of Maverick.
Not even the smell could hide them.
I hear his pulse quicken as we pull into Carol's driveway.
So that's why he hesitated.
He wasn't processing the verdict, or savoring the relief...
He was putting this off.
The goodbye. The box.
His box.
The one we've collectively been preparing for the past couple of days. The only box in the house that has Maverick's name on it. Goose in blue, Maverick in green.
Ghost unbuckles and turns in her seat, leaning over the center counsel.
"Take as much time as you need, okay? I'm not in a rush."
I grimace and nod, "Thanks, Ghost."
She offers half a smile. "I'll be inside."
The car door opens. Out she slides and then it pops shut, trapping us in the suffocating silence of our own thoughts. I wrap both arms around him, burying my face in his chest and fighting back the onslaught of tears. Maverick hiccups so loudly, it sounds like it came from under the Jeep's hood. I panic — he slumps onto me, face buried in my hair — and I relax, hugging him tighter and tighter until I'm probably doing more to harm than good. His hands curl into my skin, fitting around the cut of my shoulder blades. I'm amazed at how strong his grip is, and admittedly a little terrified of how much more my insides hurt than the flesh he's punctured through my uniform.
Words wash up on my tongue...and just as quickly wash away, back tracking down my throat. I feel a reflexive urge to just...say something. Even if it's just a sound, like a soothing hum as I stroke his back. The silence just hurts. Like glass shards all around us, poking, stabbing.
How the Hell does she do it? I muffle a groan, overcome by petty jealousy.
Ghost has some witchcraft up her sleeve. She practically owns the quiet moments like these, when things are best left unsaid.
And here I am, drowning in it.
Eventually, the words stick, and I spit them out before they can drift away again.
"You can do this Maverick."
He inhales sharply, then lets me go. I peel away, holding him at arm's length and scanning his face for a tell-tale sign that maybe we shouldn't do this. Already, swelling laces his under eye. There's a glossy sheen in both eyes, a prerequisite for an emotional breakdown. I can feel the shock waves coursing through him. His shoulders buzz like a jammed vending machine. My hands dig through his button up shirt, worried that he might fall apart before we've even left the car...but Maverick persists. For the first time in days, I watch reckless determination streak across both eyes, setting emerald irises ablaze. The sudden shift renders me breathless. How could I have forgotten that look? That terrifying confidence? It's not at all what it once was. Something's changed since he last looked at me like that...but it manages to cut through me all the same. Maverick peels my hands off his shoulders and folds them both in one of his, wordlessly leading me out of the Jeep and towards the front door.
Every footstep feels heavy.
Somehow we take them quickly. My hamstrings ache from the weight by the time we've slipped through the screen door.
"Auntie Stirrups!"
A blonde head smacks into my leg.
I let go of Maverick's hand and squat down to wrap Rooster up in my arms. He squeals and giggles as I heft him up, both his stubby legs looping around my middle as I huff and puff dramatically, rocking his side to side. I can feel him flip-flopping his feet in tiny kicking motions, almost like he's swimming in a pool. The heels of his sneakers bounce off my back, uncomfortable, but welcomed. I'd take a hundred uncomfortable sneaker-kicks from this kid then be forced to set him down again and watch him fly away from here; from us. The mere thought of not stopping by to see his little chubby face guts me. My whole body groans in protest. I hug Bradley tighter, borderline hyperventilating to stop the tears from flowing. Damn Goose for making me fall in love with this little boy. Damn him and Carol for making such a cute kid, who's ability to give hugs astounds me.
I say a Hell lot of damns to myself before I hear Carol speak up.
"Through there..."
"Auntie Stirrups wanna see my drawing?!"
Rooster starts fidgeting in my arms just as I glimpse Maverick disappearing into Carol and Goose's bedroom. As I set Bradley back down, I'm seized by the temptation to follow after him — Maverick, I mean — so he doesn't have to be alone in there...confronting the box, the empty room, the absence of Goose. I inch a leg towards the bedroom, crouched in a lunge, but a small hand fits in mine and nearly yanks my arm out of its socket. I topple over, causing Rooster to laugh as he tugs me twice more.
"C'mon, Auntie!"
It takes everything in me to turn my back on that doorway...
He needs to face some of this on his own, I tell myself.
Besides, I'm right here, one call away. If he needs me, all he has to do is say my name, even in a whisper, and I'll come running. With that in mind I let Rooster take me to the coffee table where he's got a tiny crayon station set up. There's three sheets of construction paper laid out, red, white and green. Crayons of various sizes and colors have rolled around quite a bit. A few are in a neat row by their box, but a couple, like a golden yellowish one that's been worked to a stub, are precariously balanced on the edge of the table. Bradley lets go of my hand and kneels down over a small dent the size of his butt in the rug. I stifle a laugh and reach out to move the yellow crayon. What in the world did he use it for to get it so low? My eyes flit over his two drawings, a disfigured jet, and some questionable animals. All very cute and very colorful —
Wait.
Two?
I swore I'd seen three papers but —
"Look!"
A paper is shoved in my face.
I startle.
"Bradley, baby," Carol calls out from the kitchen. "You can't shove stuff in people's faces, you gotta give 'em some space..."
He inched backwards, giving me a better view of his drawing, but I've already grasped it in both hands, my eyes immediately drawn to the source of the dying yellow crayon.
Me. Me and my curly hair. And next to me, Maverick, with sunglasses on, and there's Ghost to my left and Carol on the other end of the drawing —
"That's me," Bradley boasts, tapping the tiny person with yellow squiggles sprouting from his head. "Next to mommy and daddy."
Well shit. Who knew flakey wax drawings could make you cry? I sniffle, freeing a hand from the paper to swipe my nose before it can leak down my uniform. Who knows what Bradley will grow up to be. He could be a chef for all I care, and I'd support him every step of the way. Maybe he'll be an astronaut, a musician, Hell, he might even fly backseat like his dad...but one thing's for certain. This kid is only four and he's already better at art than I am, 'cause the crayon-Goose staring up at me is so spot on, I almost feel like I've gone back in time for a moment, and there he is, walking down the runway next to Maverick. They're smiling under their shades and turn to do their silly old high five, and I'm laughing, wind in my hair, helmet under my arm, and as they spin back around, I lock eyes with Goose and he gives me a megawatt grin. A grin I'll only ever see in one other person.
"Auntie Stirrups?" Said person whispers. "Do you like it?"
"Like it?" I sniffle. "Roos, I love it — c'mere."
I lay the drawing aside and rope him into another hug.
We sit together quietly, his sneakers knocking together, me staring at his art. Eventually, Ghost and Carol join us. We cram on the couch. Carol curls an arm around my back and rests her head on my shoulder. I bite back a sob and tilt my head against hers, wishing she didn't have to go. Vixen was one of a kind, but in so many ways, she and Carol are the same person. Wild women in a crazy world; they hold their own; and men and women alike worship the ground they walk on. They're rare gems, those two. I shudder a sigh and hug the Bradshaws tighter. How I wish I could be more like Carol. If Maverick died, it would break me forever. It's like Ghost said, we're symbiotic. We need each other. Goose and Carol...they loved each other more than any couple in the history of the world...but they both have this oddly independent spirit that could endure a journey to Hell and back.
"You're gonna do great, Carol," I whisper in her ear. "You're the strongest person I know...and you're the best mom ever...but if you need anything, you've got three people you can call, m'kay?"
She nods.
I squeeze her hard.
A floorboard creaks and all four of us look up to see Maverick cradling a box against his chest in the doorway to Carol and Goose's bedroom.
He's been crying.
And by the looks of it...he's barely gotten started.
Silently, Carol and I spin to face each other and collapse into a bone crushing hug. She rocks us back and forth, gripping me tight, breathing in deep rolling sighs to keep contained for her little boy. "You're part of this family, Stirrups," She hiccups. "Maverick's Bradley's god-father, which means you're his god-mother. You two are just as much a part of his life as I am...so you call him...and call me..."
"Every second I can," I promise with a hollow laugh.
She echoes it, and lets me go.
Ghost and I switch places.
I hug Bradley; she hugs Carol; and together, we rise from the couch and move towards the door. As Ghost turns the handle and steps onto the porch, I turn back. Maverick stops by a pile of boxes and sets his on top. I gnaw my lip, watching him just stand there limply in the middle of a desolate living room that was once a home. A beautiful, lively, magical home. The very same living room where Maverick and I had such deep conversations about my own trauma and the struggle of letting go. The first time I put on a piece of his clothing was in this room...and in the adjoining kitchen, we swore to get married if we survived graduation. Time never seemed to exist in this house, and now our time in it is up. The thing we're really saying goodbye to isn't Carol or Rooster; not even Goose...
It's this place.
Rooster hops up from the couch and totters over to Maverick, hugging him around the legs and pressing his face into the standard Naval pants. "Bye bye Uncle Mav..." He murmurs, voice slurred and face squished against the white fabric.
Maverick bends down and hugs Rooster back.
It lasts a second.
Rooster sprints away, going back to his art.
Still, Maverick lingers.
"God," Carol's gasp splices the tense air like a knife. "He really loved flying with you Maverick...and he would've done it again and again...he would've..."
She leaps to her feet and wraps her arms around Maverick, cradling the back of his head in a motherly manner that has my knees shaking. How didn't I see it before? Carol is so much more than Goose's wife; so much more than a friend; she's like a second mother to Maverick. She watches out for him, she laughs with him about his shenanigans; she teases him about his charm and charisma. Carol gets Maverick in a way that I'm not even sure I do, and she really, really loves him.
Which makes it all the worse when she's forced to break away.
Maverick picks up the box, and brushes past me.
I swallow the wad of snot at the back of my throat and turn to leave—
"Wait!"
Bradley runs towards me, waving a familiar piece of white paper over his head. My heart lurches as he hands over the portrait of our little group; our little family. I drop to my knees in time to intercept his hug.
"I love you, Auntie Stirrups," He mumbles.
I cup his face and plant a kiss on his forehead, "I love you more, Rooster."
He beams at me.
Just like his daddy before him.
And I carry that grin all the way to the jeep, where I climb into the back with Maverick again, immediately sliding the drawing into the pocket on the back of the passenger's seat. As Ghost backs out of the driveway, I take Maverick's hand in mine and cradle it in my lap.
"This isn't goodbye," I murmur, "It's just see you later."
He nods.
But cries all the same.