Worlds Apart

Chapter Thirty

Please read the end bit.

Carl tried to talk to me, tried even harder to stop me, but it was no use.

Once I'd swallowed my tears - having let the rest stain his suit jacket - I'd pushed away from him and walked out. He really had tried his best to get to me. For once, though, it wasn't my friends that I needed. Or at least I wasn't willing to put that on them, not on their wedding day. I had no place to be crying at their reception. Hadn't I promised I wasn't going to be selfish today?

They'd already done all they could for me, and I had them in my head, laughing, like a photograph.

So I'd been monotone and tough, getting out of his grip in order to leave the wedding early. I'd slipped off when Lizzy and Brandon had been handed Donavon again, and were kissing over top of the baby to the delight of the photographer. Carl had glumly watched me take the elevator up to my room.

What he didn't know was that I walked into my room just long enough to grab a pack of smokes I had tucked in my bag and throw my leather jacket on. It was quite the look; mascara and eyeliner having stained down my cheeks, bright red dress and a black leather jacket. However I didn't even pause long enough to wipe the black blotches from underneath my eyes, and headed straight back out of the hotel room.

I didn't take the elevator back down; worried that Carl might still be there, fretting over me. Instead I took the back staircase, and even managed to sneak out into the night without any of our security catching me.

Since I'd gone out the back way, I had to sneak out about the garden, and could hear even hear the wedding. It was all squeals of laughter and thumping music, Fell In Love With A Girl to be exact. Yet I didn't care to glance back over my shoulder, just tucked my hands into the pockets of the leather jacket against the chill and picked my way carefully back to the cracked sidewalks.

I hadn't taken into consideration just how sobering the chilly spring air would be. Although it might have been the sudden isolation.

Even as I breathed in deeply like it was some kind of cure for what ailed me, I was already pulling out the pack of smokes I'd stashed away in my pocket. It felt like centuries since I'd had a smoke at this point. And I could feel the need gnawing at my stomach.

The need didn't fade completely when I sucked in that first acrid breath, but it was at least sated for the time being.

Where last night my band and I had wandered down the streets, chasing good memories that were full of smiles and youthful grins, I did the opposite.

Last night I'd been happy that we hadn't tread deeper into the rundown streets, preferring to stay on the main roads of the town. Now I trudged deeper, watching the buildings that seemed to droop with age, the paint peeling and fences become broken down chain link. I was dredging up old memories that had no right to be brought to the forefront of my mind again, but I couldn't stop myself.

Like when I passed an old gas station, the lights flickering drunkenly as I passed and the place had the air of a horror movie. My father had forgotten me there once, before my mother and he had even separated. Mom hadn't noticed I was gone, either. And at five years old, I trudged down these same splintered streets to get home. It was a memory that had gone grey with age, but I could still remember how the tears froze on my cheeks in the wintery air and the gasping breaths I'd taken. It was amazing just how deeply betrayed a child could feel by their parents, even at that age.

I'd snuck into the house where my dad was passed out on the couch, not bothering to say a word. There had been cigarettes butts piled in the ashtray on that ruined coffee table, and cans of beer strewn around the couch where he lay with his mouth open. Mom had been tucked up neatly in bed.

No one had stopped to help back then, and now when I walked, I didn't run into a soul.

The red dress should have been like a beacon to someone just begging to get a fist in their face, but no one approached. So I walked unhindered in my red dress, arm wrapped around my stomach while I kept my cigarette tucked close to my mouth the whole time, my gaze pinned to the ground with each passing step.

When I'd become a teenager, I'd been able to sneak around on these streets like a ghost, eyes slipping and sliding over me without notice. I'd been that shy girl; most people barely recognized my face let alone knew my name. Then years had passed, and those that did know me knew not to mess with Jude Turner. Now with more years piled on, there was no one left to even look at the girl on the street or recognize her face.

Eventually I made my way into the middle of the street as I got into a complex.

All the houses looked the same, having aged together throughout the years without a care from the owners. The paint was a sickly brown that had peeled over the ages. The houses had been old when I'd been a kid, now they were past run down. Every couple houses you could see the attempt to brighten the place up, a kept yard and even a tended garden with green just beginning to sprout out of the dark soil. Those houses were few and far between.

It had been a cheap neighbourhood to buy into twenty years before. I could only think it was probably even cheaper with the way the town was heading these days. The mortgage had been astronomical for my parents even considering, and it fell to my mom to get up the cash for the monthly payments time after time. I supposed she'd gotten the last laugh, though, because when my parents had divorced it turned out only her name was on the rights to the house. It had been a happy mistake at the time.

Sometimes I thought about that. Had she down it on purpose? Had she knew, even years before, that it was always going to end in flames? And if she'd known that about dad, what did that same about me? Because I'd never expected, not in a hundred years, what kind of person Josh had actually was. I'd just been too blind to see it, let alone see the ending coming.

Eventually I wound my way through the complex until I was almost right in the middle, and that's where I found it.

My childhood house in all its glory.

The paint was still the same as when I'd been a kid and the grass had gotten long. My mom would cut it one day, but it would take weeks before she found the time. There were cement steps immediately up to the door, giving it a porch that was about a total of three square feet altogether - and that was being generous. There was a garden beside the steps, but the plants that were in it were the ones that had died the year before.

When the money started flooding in - mostly due to song writing credits and sold out stadium shows - I'd offered to buy my mother a new house. She'd steadfastly refused, saying she liked this one. The buses were close since she didn't drive, and the hospital was only a short walk away.

For some reason she'd wanted to live here and I could think of nothing more depressing.

The windows were dark, and I didn't bother to check the door - I knew I'd find it locked. I also knew that I would find the spare key tucked between the two rotting planks that separated the grass from the garden, because I doubted she changed much over all these years. However I didn't go get the key to the house - it would feel wrong to walk in there without her after all this time.

Instead I climbed the steps and plopped down, ignoring the chill from the cement that instantly had my ass numbing substantially. I dug through my pockets again, pushing past my cell phone, until I found my pack of cigarettes.

I hadn't been here since she'd thrown me out at seventeen. Even when we played Detroit I didn't come back here, she always had to come out to me. Not once had we spoken about it, but I think my mom had gathered enough to realize I didn't want to come back to this place. I never left downtown when I was here. So what was I doing now?

Stretching my legs out delicately in front of me, I let my eyes scan the yard as I sucked in a careful breath from the cigarette.

That fight was flashing in front of my mind. The screaming between the two of us had been enough to shake the walls, and the neighbours would have been able to hear it clearly. Back then I was sure I sounded like a spoiled kid, saying how she didn't understand and that I was going to be a rock star. It might have been ridiculous, but no one could say that aloud anymore because I'd been more than right. I'd become everything I'd wanted, but it had taken me packing a bag and leaving that night without a word when she'd been working.

It hadn't been a very courageous thing for me to do. I'd been running away since I was a kid. In reality I should have waited and made her understand, but I couldn't exactly fault myself for what I'd done since I wouldn't be here without it. Whatever happened, I did this all myself. I deserved the credit for that, because I'd gotten myself out of this place. Obviously, my band had been a part of it, but it had been my songs that got us out.

It had taken blood and tears, but I'd done it.

That was my legacy, even if it wasn't much of one, and it was one thing I could be proud of when it came to an end.

Without a notice of the time that passed, I chained smoked in the night, only seeing one person pass by on the other side of the road. I barely noticed them as I neatly piled the cigarette butts. My mother had always been ready to kill me for just smoking so I wasn't willing to see what she'd do if she found butts flicked all over her lawn. She'd always been more than a neat person.

And I let my eyes find memories as I sat there, blowing smoke in front of me, allowing the memories to play in front of my eyes like a reel. The smoke created a mist over them.

Every place I looked had a memory. Good and bad, but I supposed that was the reality of it. The fact that there were more bad than good was just a fact of my childhood. It was nothing to cry about.

In that corner by the garden that had collapsed over the years I remembered my parents fighting almost viciously, the neighbours peering out from behind curtains like a fucking fifties sitcom. Yet in the same position I remembered my dad rambling on about how things were getting better - always the optimist that man, even when he was about to drop you - and how he'd been gripping my hand. I also remembered how my mother had decided she was going to try to start up the garden, back when she'd been in nursing school, and how for a week I'd sat out there with her, digging in the dirt. My father even used to drop back sometimes.

That idea hadn't lasted more than three weeks, and the plants had drooped in the sun without water until they'd withered away.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead.

With all those thoughts running through my mind, it was no wonder I didn't notice the figure approaching. And when she stood at the edge of the yard, she might as well have been a figment from my imagination, mixing in with all those memories that played across lawn before my eyes.

It was only the smoke cleared that I noticed her, but it was with a significant lack of surprise. It was like I'd always known she was there.

So with a surprising amount of calmness, I twirled the cigarette between my fingers for a long moment before I crushed it against the edge of the concrete step. I brushed my hands together with my eyes glued on her before saying calmly, "Hey mom."

To my surprise, and maybe even to hers, my mom didn't start us off with a lecture.

Maybe it was the shock of finding me sitting on her doorstep when I hadn't set foot anywhere near there in the past six years, but she was almost friendly. Almost was the operative word, however, because she remained more cautious than courteous. That didn't bother me, I didn't expect much more.

In fact, I wasn't sure what to expect seeing as I'd stopped returning her calls months before. Not to mention we hadn't talked to one another face to face in over a year. It was hard to tell your mother that you were just too busy when you were in an endless holiday in the South of France, and it wasn't like I could use the excuse of limited funds. After all, I'd offered to buy her a house - a mansion - I couldn't exactly claim I couldn't afford a plane ticket.

After a while, she'd stopped mentioning that I should come for a visit when the phone calls were still a habit. I supposed she'd accepted that it wasn't going to happen. Yet I didn't know if that was because she knew I couldn't come back here, or if she believed I wanted nothing to do with her.

And, if I was being honest, it was a whole lot of the first part with a shameful fraction of the latter.

She did well to not treat me like an alien, instead swallowing her shock at my appearance and digging out her keys. To her credit, she even asked vague questions towards my wellbeing, which I gave equally vague answers to as she led me through the house - after carefully locking the door behind us, of course. It was one of the most awkward exchanges I'd had in years.

It was just a sad coincidence that all the ones in my past had also come from my mother, not even my father. With my father there was never awkwardness. Bitterness and resentment, of course, but that man was a social chameleon. He could whisk anything away with a couple smiles and that ever ready charm, even I had to fight to keep the walls up between us because I knew the real him better than anyone besides my mother. I had to remind myself all that charisma was manipulation, which - according to Cam - I'd inherited in spades. And I found that I couldn't even deny it, not with the memory of Logan's lips still burning on mine.

With my mother, I had to fight to try and bring down those walls I'd stacked inside of myself.

As only seemed fitting, I was lead through the house that had barely changed since I'd last seen it that last night as I dragged my shit out. The paint had faded even further but it would have been impossible to do anymore damage to the shag carpet than it had already endured. The old patterned couch was the same, although the orange blanket that was slung over the back was new. Not to mention the television was the one I'd bought and sent her - she'd been due for an upgrade since the television had more years than I did. Everything else, down to that ancient trunk used for a coffee table remained set in the past.

I almost thought that the house was stuck in the perpetual nineties, since it had been this way for as long as my memory stretched back. The reality was that this house hadn't changed since it had been built back in the seventies, long before my parents had even stepped foot inside here.

In the end I was brought to the kitchen, and I found that it held the same amount of tiny differences that I found disturbing. I wasn't sure if it would have worse if it was an exact replica or completely changed. As it was, what had originally been white linoleum had gained a slight yellow tinge over the years, while the dark brown cupboards and glaringly offensive yellow countertops remained the same as ever. The appliances might have been slightly dated in their white, but they at least looked serviceable - more than the olive green ones we'd had when I'd been a child. However the coffee maker and kettle looked new, shiny stainless steel.

The table was the same as ever, though. It was an old scratched wood that - if the story was true - was the first piece of furniture that my parents had ever bought together. Fittingly, it had come from a flea market. And, oddly enough, a wave of affection flooded at me at the sight of the scarred and beaten table.

I turned away from it all, to where the garbage can used to beside the fridge and found myself fighting the wave of confusing emotions that rose when there was an empty space of floor instead. For a long moment, I stood still, hands filled with cigarette butts. That was until Mom flicked open the cupboard beneath the sink, revealing a little grey garbage can. She made sure to step back as I in turn took one forwards, letting the butts topple from my hands into the bag. In an almost sorrowful flesh memory, I quickly knocked the cupboard door shut, almost expecting to be told off for having left it open that long.

Painfully uncomfortable with my presence, Mom paused by the counter, shoulders stiff. "Do you want a glass of wine, then?"

My eyes floated back to the table in the middle of the kitchen. The muscles in my fingers twitched from the urge to touch it, but I kept them glued at my side. Yet I still answered her, though it was barely over a murmur. "I think I should cut down on the drinking."

"You should probably start with quitting smoking entirely."

The almost sharp comment had my attention flashing back over to her. There she was, my mother. All tired eyes that were brought into hard contrast with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The pale blue scrubs beneath her pea coat did nothing for her complexion, showing the pale skin to its maximum. Those brown eyes were almost sunk in their exhaustion. That thin woman was exactly my mother, even if the house wasn't the precise one I'd left behind.

Oddly enough the thought had my mouth curling up in a smile that was caught somewhere between melancholy and charmed. And because of that, I couldn't help but test the waters as I replied, "Oh, that's easy. I do that all the time. But I can't remember the last day I didn't have a drink."

And I found comfort in the predictable way her eyes flashed dangerously at me. However she reined in the temper that was hereditary on both sides of my family tree. Instead she just rapped her knuckles once - and hard - on the countertop behind her. "Your liver would be a picture."

"Well, as long as I have the lungs to match," I quipped, still searching to find where I stood.

This time her look was almost weary, not even bothering with anger as she pointed out, "They'll be pictures for textbooks."

"It'll only be fitting."

The sigh the words were met with made me sure there was a lecture to follow. My mother's eyes did linger long on my face, searching even when she looked about ready to fall into bed. Whatever she found there must have dissuaded her, though, because she only gave another sigh before turning around.

"I'll make some tea," she said eventually, busying herself with the kettle.

This time I was sure I wasn't comforted by her reaction.

The disapproval in her had been blatant from the moment she'd approached me at the steps, and those sighs had reeked of it. Yet she still didn't tell me off. And that was new. What had she seen in my face that stopped her? Was it the same thing that had Carl staring at me in alarm?

Those thoughts were cut off pretty damn fast when I heard Mom's voice, and it might as well have been from ten years ago considering the irritation and impatience that it held.

"Well, sit down already, would you?"

That, oddly enough, put me at ease in a way that nothing else could have. Maybe I was just hoping to regress back into childhood and that was the most familiar sound that I could remember.

Whatever it was, it had me pulling out one of those rickety old chairs. Despite the fact she was tidy to the point that it was almost neurotic, she'd never replaced these old things that should have driven her up the wall years ago. It could be said she didn't have the money to do so, which would have been true, but all she had to do was ask me for some money - I'd offered it to her more than enough times. Although I supposed there was pride to be taken account, which we both had an abundance of.

It only bothered me slightly at the moment, though, because I'd lost all of that pride earlier in the night - or else I wouldn't have been here.

And I was more concerned with the table that I sat in front of. Carefully I lowered my hands to the table, holding them flat even after I laid my palms on it and then smoothed them along. I could see where I'd taken a knife to it as a kid; having driven deep etches along the edges. The memory of being yelled at was far more welcome than any thoughts about the 'L' word - and it deserved all capitals - or weddings or friends.

"You remind me so much of your father."

The voice that spoke from the counter was now one I barely recognized, soft and regretful. It would have been enough for me to frown at, but it was the words that had me physically flinching as if she'd reached out and slapped me across the face. She'd never hit me before, but now I could imagine the red hot imprint of her hand connecting with my cheek and the horror that would follow it.

My chin snapped up towards her, eyes wide and I was sure showing that dismay that had followed the words. "What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"

Instantly Mom was frowning down at me, the corners of her mouth cutting deep lines into the skin around her mouth. Those brown eyes of hers were narrowed as she informed me, "I didn't mean it in a bad way."

"What other way is there?" The incredulous nature in me rang sharply through the kitchen.

The kettle began to boil behind her, but she didn't notice. "He's not all bad, Jude."

She might as well have been speaking Dutch for the way I gaped at her, a screeching filling my ears so fully I thought something must have torn in my head. There were thousands of memories - and a lot of them took place right in the kitchen - where she'd badmouthed my father. What were just some of the things she used to say? Oh, yes, he was a useless pussy - one of my favourites, personally - and that someone so fucking idiotic shouldn't be able to have children, not to mention the simple calling him an asshole. That was a classic.

And all those came flooding back to me as I felt my cheeks paling. The memories that ran through my head might have been her shouting the words at me instead of cursing my deadbeat father. I'd known that I shared more than a few unfortunate traits with the man, but I'd never expected it to slap me across the face.

So I barely managed to get the words out, "I wouldn't have known from the way you used to talk about him."

It was only my words that seemed to shock her into action. That was when occurred to me that the screaming wasn't in my own head, but in fact the kettle that was spouting steam from behind her. It would have been comforting at any other point, but right now I was still trying to gather the shards from what my mother had broke. I wasn't even sure what had broken.

Almost flustered in a way I'd never seen her, she began to pull the mugs and teabags from the cupboards. She only spoke when her back was to me, and that remorse had made its return. It turned her usually sharply cruel voice soft around the edges as she said, "I shouldn't have done that to you."

"He deserved it," I responded slowly. My eyebrows had drawn together in confusion as she busied herself at the counter, watching the stiff muscles in her shoulders.

"To a point," she agreed reluctantly, "But he was still your father."

"Barely."

Those rigid shoulders slumped as she gave another sigh, though this one felt almost defeated to me as she poured the steaming water into the two mugs. "You do remind me of him, though," she insisted, "The good things."

And this time I could resist the snort as I retorted, "What good things?"

She carefully the kettle back down, bracing her hands flat against the counter. Yet she didn't turn back around to me, which left me in a state of disbelief. If I'd gotten something from her, it was her willingness for confrontation in an argument. She'd always been one to get into another person's face when she believed she was right. And yet, here we were, and she couldn't even look me in the eye.

"Not everything is black and white." The words were said firmly, even if the body language left something to doubt. "He wasn't a good father, and he was no husband."

"Obviously."

It was only at the brief and callous word that Mom finally turned around. And I was sure she looked twenty years older than she had when she first turned away from me. She'd always seemed old to me, but at the moment she appeared nothing short of ancient.

So she had my attention when she continued, with a slight edge to her voice like she was trying to get something through my thick skull. Maybe she was. "But I did love him at one time. And you've got the good parts of him. The way you just ran your hands over the table and looked at it like it was amazing - that was him through and through. All those ideas you've always had running around at all times at a thousand miles an hour. That energy and the smile, you even talk like he used to. God, Jude, you've got his eyes."

I had to suck in a sharp breath, and closed my eyes for good measure. I wasn't sure if I was about to start shaking or not. It felt like she'd taken me by the shoulders and shook me until my brain rattled in my skull. Wasn't that only for babies?

When I did open my eyes, I made sure I was staring straight at her, what else could I do?

"So how did you even manage to look at me if all you saw was a man you hated?" My voice was even over the question, if low.

And hers was the same, brutally honest, when she said, "I barely looked."

That had me swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat. It wasn't like this was news to me, but I'd never had it spelt out to me and definitely with this little emotion. It was a fight to keep my voice from cracking, so it came out flat when I retorted, "I remember."

There was that sigh again, and she was running a hand over her face and then into her hair, tugging lightly at the hair caught in the ponytail. If there was ever a question where I'd gotten that movement from, it was now answered for me. And the realization now twisted my stomach with an outrageous amount of guilt that darkened my insides, which was ridiculous seeing as it was she that had just told me that she hadn't been able to look at me when I was a kid. She was the mother that had taken her failed marriage out on her child, so why was I the guilty one here?

Her hand ran back down, covering her mouth for a moment and then she was admitting, "I wasn't the best mother to you."

In response to that, I couldn't even find words to reply, staring her flatly down. Did that even need to be said? The words before had spelled it out clear enough, and it was like there was a deep oozing cut in my stomach. Yet when she couldn't meet my eyes, it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't the only one with guilt.

"And he wasn't a very good father."

If there'd been remorse before that was the blame, and it had my eyes hardening on her. With an equally harsh tone, I told her, "Yeah, don't worry, I remember that too."

That had her eyes flashing back up to meet mine, but there was no temper lingering in there like I remembered so clearly. They were almost shameful. I thought rather snidely that they should be, but the instant the thought had crossed my mind, I was doused in another resounding wave of guilt.

As she leaned back against the counter, her hand came up to cross her stomach, gripping her other elbow. That was a nervous gesture if I'd ever seen one. And I should know, because that was another gesture I did without thinking about it. Was nothing about me original or was I completely recycled from my parents?

That thought was whisked away when she informed me, "I never noticed that you barely had any parents until you left."

Because it didn't seem like she'd lie to me about a thing tonight, I couldn't keep it to myself and asked, "Were you happy I was gone?" That probably wasn't a question that I needed answered, at least not now, but it was out in the open now.

She didn't even have to speak to answer the question. She was turning away from me, a move far more telling than making sure she didn't meet my eyes.

I felt myself slumping in my chair like I'd taken a blow to the stomach as she pulled the teabags from the mugs.

Maybe it was because she didn't have to look at me that she was finally able to speak honestly. "Yes," she confessed, and it was only proper the amount of regret I heard now, "Because I didn't have to see you every day and be reminded that I once loved a man I could only hate."

Even with that ringing in my ears, I didn't get up to leave. I probably should have but I couldn't force myself to my feet. Instead I raised my hands and rubbed my eyes wearily. Without bothering to lower them, I told her, "I think I knew that, even back then."

"It wasn't fair to you."

Now I did drop my hands, if only to glare at her back, because even I knew that was fucking obvious. So I could only say, "No shit."

There was another sigh as she tossed the bags carelessly into that new trash can beneath the sink. Those little disapproving sounds were going to piss me off as much as the new garbage if she wasn't careful. Although with all that she'd admitted already tonight, I couldn't be sure if she even cared.

"It wasn't until you left that I realized you weren't just Steve's daughter."

My eyes were narrowed even as she turned back around, and I didn't bother to hide the spiteful disbelief that coloured my voice. "What, you realized I was yours too?"

Strangely my words had a ghost of a smile turning her mouth upwards, although it looked almost painfully sad. "No," she said gently, passing me the tea she'd steeped. "Not even just that. You were your own person. You might have had his smile and my temper, but you definitely didn't get music from either of us. That was all yours, right from the beginning."

She took a seat across from me, and finished, "You did it all for yourself. You didn't even need us in the end."

I watched even as she settled her tea on table, and the tidiness of the gesture as she gently brushed the table had an alarming amount of annoyance surging up in me. "That's bullshit," I told her, allowing the emotions to surge up in my voice so she glanced up at me. "I needed my parents, but that didn't mean they wanted me."

"That's not true," she protested instantly. When her brows drew together, it had a wrinkles appearing out of nowhere.

The annoyance had transferred quite quickly into anger, and since I was sure I might throw the mug in a fit, I placed it down on the table. Well, placed was being generous; I slammed it down so hard that liquid slopped over the edges. Ignoring that, I snapped, "Then what the fuck was all that?"

"I wanted you," Mom told me, that frown still in place as she stared across the table at me. It was like she actually surprised by my reaction. "I always wanted you," she assured me, "I loved you right from the beginning. I just wasn't very good at showing that."

There wasn't an ounce of belief in me as I snorted, "Clearly."

She held the mug just inches in front of her mouth like she'd forgotten it as her brow furrowed. If she did that anymore, her eyes would disappear straight into her head. "Whatever our faults, we did both love you."

Although I was doubtful on both accounts, it was the mention of my father that had my blood boiling. She'd bitched about him for my entire childhood, and then it had been six years of carefully not so much as referring to him. So what the fuck was all this getting thrown at my face? "How can you even talk for him after all the shit you used to say when I was growing up?" I asked incredulously.

Now she took a sip of her tea, eyes watching me cautiously above the mug. "I loved him," she said plainly, "And when I couldn't love him anymore, I hated him. But it wasn't right for you to be dragged in the middle of it."

"No, it really wasn't," I returned with a little too much feeling. "How can you say that you loved him when you ended up despising each other?"

Even as the words were passing through my mouth, images began to fill my brain. Ones from Cam smiling at me to where he was glaring down at me, accusing me of manipulating him, and I saw Logan laughing but then he was punching his brother in the face before he was kissing me in the middle of the dance floor. I'd asked that question, but I didn't need the answer.

Just because hate existed in relationships, it didn't mean that it love couldn't still remain. However I wasn't sure those sorts of relationships would be able to last. How could you know a part of you hated them yet you still stayed with them? I didn't know if I could ever bare to look at one of them again and see the hatred running through their eyes. That would be harder than hearing my mom tell me she'd hated me when I'd been a kid. Because I'd been the blame that had caused that emotion to rise in her, whereas I'd had them and they'd been mine before I caused that.

However my mom's voice broke through the questioning thoughts that were racing through my head. "People change," she told me, and there was more than a little sorrow as she peered across the table to me, "Circumstances change. That's just the way it is. The new feelings don't discount the old."

All that anger had drained out of me as I stared straight into her eyes. I was left with nothing beyond a wounded wonder, saying, "But he hurt you. He hurt you so much."

That at least I could remember, even I'd just been a child. I'd remembered the tears and even the anger that had come in to fuel it before it dissolved back into misery. It wasn't hard to remember something similar that had happened with me, although there had been far more drugs and alcohol with only a little anger, because it was mostly just despair of losing someone I'd thought I'd loved.

"I know that," she said calmly, sipping her tea but her eyes were clouding. The memories had to be surfacing about my father with her, just as Josh had arisen in mine.

All I'd ever wanted was for someone to love me back then, because I'd known - even then - that my parents didn't, at least not the way they should have. Not the way Lizzy and Brandon already loved Donavon, and definitely not the way Marie Gallagher adored all three of her monsters. That little kid I'd been had just wanted someone to give a shit. And Josh just happened to be the first one to look twice, so I'd given him everything without even considering it. It never occurred to me that he might not deserve it. I'd just wanted him to love me, and I thought he did. So when he swept that all way, it had been more crushing than I'd ever expected.

And I never did get back everything I'd given him, which was exactly I saw in my mother's face as she looked across at me. Except where I'd had magazines and photos of him to bring him into my mind, she'd had a little kid with his eyes staring back at her every moment. How was that an excuse, though? I was her daughter; she was supposed to love me no matter what. Yet a part of me, a sick part of me that had always felt undeserving and tiny, understood it. It understood just why she could never love me.

"He ruined your life," I said slowly, "We ruined your life."

That grabbed her attention, and that cup lowered as her eyes widened in incredulity. "You didn't ruin my life. You didn't," she told me pointedly, reading my distrustful expression clearly. And it was with incredulity that she asked, "How can you even say that, Jude?"

"If you hadn't had me, you could've done anything," I murmured, rolling my lips into my mouth even as the emotions twisted and tore at my insides. My thoughts were running a million miles an hour. And it was true; that woman could have done anything, she was smart and cunning, but she'd chose to have me and lost her parents in the deal only to be abandoned by the man she'd loved only years later. "You wouldn't have been stuck here, in this town, because your husband left you high and dry with some kid."

Then she did something that I hadn't expected in a thousand years. She reached across the table, stretching her hand out until she put it on mine. It wasn't until then that I realized my hands had been fists on the table. Even then, it took me a moment to relax them under my mother's hand. I could count the amount of times she'd hugged me on one hand, so what was this? We didn't exactly have a touchy feely relationship.

Yet even through my disbelief, she gave me hand a squeeze, as if she was reminding me that it was really there. "Do you remember when you offered to buy me a house?" she asked, and then squeezed my hand again until I nodded numbly. "You said you'd get me one anywhere on the planet because you couldn't promise space yet. You remember what I said?"

Swallowing, I looked up at her, hand limp under hers. "You said you liked it here."

"Exactly," she nodded, "I always have." Then she twined her fingers through mine in the middle of the table, and it was a miracle I didn't fall straight off my chair.

"But how can you? It can only be bad memories here, of him, of me."

"How many times do I have to tell you until you believe me?" she asked, meeting my scepticism with some impatience. "I love it here." To punctuate her words, my mom squeezed my hand again, almost painfully tightly this time. "My dream job is here. I raised my daughter here. There are even some good memories of your father here."

I found myself sniffing, and almost mumbled, "This isn't enough for you."

"And why's that?" She laughed with the question, but it was a thick, chocked sound.

We were being honest here. So I raised my eyes and turned my hand over to squeeze her hand back, answering plainly, "Because you're my mother."

This time she just smiled, and it only seemed fitting that the expression she sent me had equal parts sadness and joy in it. What else was there here? "And you're my daughter," she confirmed as if that explained everything - maybe it did. "And I love it here."

I nodded slowly, reading her expression. She was right about that, no matter what had gone on between us and others that fact remained. It wasn't altogether that much, but it meant something to know that I was always going to be her daughter. I was almost a bit regretful, but I pulled my hand away from hers, slipping it carefully from her grasps. There was no telling how long we could have stood the contact.

Averting my eyes, I watched as I carefully wrapped my fingers around the mug she'd handed me before. There was still steam coming from the top. And as the heat ran through my palms, I realized just how cold I'd gotten sitting out on the front steps. Not even my mother's hand was going to warm that, and I wasn't sure that the tea could do it either. It felt like I'd been cold since the moment I'd left Wembley, and even Logan's momentary visit to the wedding had only brought a passing warmth.

I tapped my fingers on the glass, watching the ripples travel across the dark tea. The words came out of my mouth reluctantly, but I knew I couldn't leave here without talking to her about it. "I talked to dad."

Mom suddenly became guarded, even though she'd just been trying to defend him to me. But I supposed the mentioning of him was on her terms. Here, in this conversation, she didn't know where I was about to lead her. Whatever she said about having loved him once, there was always going to be that lingering resentment on the air - and not just from her. "Did you?" she asked coolly.

Unconsciously I found myself mimicking her nature and expression, raising my cup to my lips and taking a sip as if we were talking about the weather. "He told me he didn't think he'd ever have a child," I told her calmly, but was unable to meet her eyes. "He doesn't even want to remember I'm his kid, I was his kid long before this. I was completely his, through and through, and he never gave a shit. So how can you sit there and tell me that he loves me when he says that?"

The carefully constructed coolness she'd worn was deconstructed just as precisely with my words until it was nothing but that gentle gloom that darkened her eyes and wrinkled her mouth. I'd never have believed I'd see a look such as that on that woman's face.

"I can say that because I'm certain," she began. When I opened my mouth to protest, she silenced me with a simple shake of the head as she propped her elbows up on the table. "You're forgetting, I was there when you were born. I'd never seen him look at something the way he looked at you. He was staggered by you. He's never loved anything the way he loved you."

Her tone made sure there was no doubting the words. I couldn't force myself to hold her gaze with that bluntness looking right back at me. "He's got a funny way of showing it then," I mumbled, running my finger tip along the edge of the mug.

This time she gave a short laugh, and it actually sounded amused. "Where do you think you got it from?"

That had me raising an eyebrow as I spared her a glance. "I think I got in equal parts from both of you."

She quirked her head to the side and then gave a shrug, answering, "Fair enough."

I was the one that sighed now. The tea I was staring at was as black as the night. It didn't even surprise me that she had no idea how I took my tea when men I'd hated for so long knew it exactly, and yet I couldn't work up the energy to be hurt by it. It had been six years, and I was pretty sure she'd never made me tea before tonight. "If you two loved me as much as you said, how'd it end up like this?"

This time there was no laughter to meet my words. I was only thankful that she didn't give a long suffering breath. Instead she took a moment before replying. "Your dad always wanted the newest, most exciting thing, and he wasn't ready for a kid. He was easily scared, and didn't understand the responsibilities that came with it."

"And you did?" I retorted sharply with something akin to a snort.

Mom grimaced at my words, closing her eyes for a moment. And the worst part as I watched her was that I found I couldn't feel bad for the sharp words. "I was worse," she confirmed forlornly, "Because I was jealous of the fact that he was always going to love you. And I knew that even as he was falling out of love with me."

It was my turn to cringe at her words. I was starting to wonder if we were sharing our thoughts or trading blows. That didn't stop me from questioning, "Did you hate me for that?"

"I didn't hate you, I never hated you," she promised me, but she couldn't meet my eyes as she said it. Her gaze was fixed on her tea and fingers were drumming on the table. The lyrics ran through my head quickly before I could stop them; So much hate for the ones we love. "I just wasn't a good mother. I couldn't show you I loved you when he was gone."

If I only could make a deal with god, and get him to swap our places, I thought. However I just continued on with the conversation that felt as if it was turning into an interrogation. "How can you look at me now?"

This time she met my eyes as her mouth curved up slowly. "You can't stay mad forever," she informed me, taking a sip of her tea, "Especially when you loved someone."

And once again, the angry expressions from the Harrisons flashed before my mind, unwelcomed but unchecked all the same. I just couldn't get them out of my head. Apparently especially when I was talking about ruined relationships and love. And because of that, I let my head tip slightly to the side in curiosity as I asked, "How did you know you loved him?"

There was no hesitation in her this time. "Because when he'd look at me, for a split second, nothing else mattered."

I remembered that sensation lasting for longer than a split second, but I kept that quiet. In the same vein as before, I questioned, "When did you realize it was over?"

And still no uncertainty on her part. She'd thought about this a lot, there was no doubt. "Besides my daughter finding him with my best friend? It was when he'd look at me and the world kept on moving, and I could never find comfort in that. Your father and I weren't meant for domesticity. It was all fire with us, and when that died out, there was nothing else left."

With a slow nod, I let my eyes go out of focus to let the memories play across my mind like a movie. I could remember thousands of times the world had stopped on its axis when it came to those brothers, but then it did keep moving and they were still there, going on with life. And opposed to her, I did find comfort in that. Life couldn't stop moving, and it was only the better for that. I'd felt fire, but there was always more.

So I rolled my lips into my mouth before speaking up. "Was it all worth it; all this pain and everything that came with it?"

Then she did it again, reaching across the table to touch my hand. This time it was only the briefest of squeezes. Whereas she'd never felt the need for contact, I'd always been the opposite and she must have understood that I needed the reassurance of touch. "Of course it was," she confirmed, and this time the smile wasn't sad at all, "I got you, didn't I?"

To my alarm, I felt my eyes start to well up with tears at her words but I didn't try to blink them away. They would just come back. I'd broken the dam, and just like I feared, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to keep them down anymore. At this moment, though, it didn't matter. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I do," she said with another squeeze and then she was taking her hand back. "I know it might never have seemed like it, but I'm proud of you. I might not have understood you, or any of your choices, but I'm proud of what you made yourself into. You did it with no parents to help you either. You turned out better than I ever expected, and that's for sure. What more could I ask for?"

Thankfully no tears fell even as my eyes filled, but I found myself narrowing my eyes at those words. Wiping the sleeve of my leather jacket carefully under my eyes, I asked, "You didn't think I'd do it, did you?"

"When you told me you were going to be a rock star?" she laughed incredulously. "God, no, what parent does?"

"I did it, though," I reminded her, still frowning, "I knew I would."

"And that made all the difference," she confirmed, "I wish you'd at least get your GED, though."

Despite myself, I gave laugh, only glancing briefly down at the mug of tea that had cooled dramatically in my hands. Who would have thought my mother, of all people, would have me laughing right now? But I didn't dare question it, only replying, "Are we really going to have this fight again?"

She frowned at me now, clearly not appreciating the light hearted response to her desire. "You're a smart girl, Jude, smarter than you let anyone know. I just wish you'd finish some form of school."

"Does elementary school not count all the sudden?" I countered easily.

"Jude," she sniffed my name disapprovingly.

I just laughed again, taking a cautious sip of the tea. Just barely hiding the grimace, I set it carefully back on the table. Black tea just wasn't for me. I could drink coffee in any form that it came, I'd practically take intravenously, but tea was a whole other story. Maybe I'd just gotten spoiled by the stuff those brothers had been bringing me. They had much higher standards than I did. And it surprised me that a smile came out when I thought about them.

My mom appeared to be content with the silence that came, sipping her cooling tea as I sat with my hands wrapped around the mug. And maybe I'd been able to smile at the thought of him, which I was unsure I'd ever be able to do again, but I still felt cold. I was starting to wonder if I was going to feel cold forever now.

Maybe I'd always been cold before, I'd just never known what it was like to feel warm.

The thought had me sighing again, and I bit it off quickly, remembering just how annoyed I'd been when it was my mother making those noises. My mind was too cluttered right now, I wasn't going to come to some conclusion about those men, if there was even one to find. And I definitely wasn't going to make a choice like Logan had demanded.

Lingering there and letting them catch me in there was more than dangerous, because I wasn't sure if I'd ever escape them, so I forced my mind away from them. Instead it wandered towards the only other people beside my band and the Harrison brothers that had been causing me grief over theses past months, and it settled down on my father. But it wasn't just him I thought of. No, it was the conversation with my mother, not to mention his impending marriage and child on the way.

I knew my mom knew about my dad's choice to get married again, or else she wouldn't have pressed me to talk to him in the first place, but I didn't dare bring that up. There was no reason to dig into old scars and turn them into new wounds. But it wasn't the marriage that really bothered me, because I'd watched him fall in and out of love as easily as the rain came and went. If it lasted, I'd be the first one to raise an ironic glass to them. I didn't expect much from them, though.

No, that wasn't what lingered in my head about him most of all now. It was the child that he'd told me was coming. The one he'd thought he'd never have. The one he'd told the press he wasn't going to let me near.

Before I could stop myself, I was speaking with my eyes glued on the cold tea. "I want to be a part of my sibling's life."

Mom's voice had gone back to carefully cool as she replied, "Do you?"

The rhetoric question did nothing to deter me, and I returned with one of my own. "Can't really leave them alone with him, can I?"

"Yes," she said surely enough to have my eyes flickering up to her. And she was looking me dead in the eye, as certain as she'd been when she'd told me about dad actually loving me when I'd been born. "Yes, you can. I just want you to know you don't owe him anything. You don't owe him anything at all. The only reason I pestered you to call him was so you understood what was happening. I didn't want you blindsided by anything."

"It's not really about him, though," I admitted, tapping the mug in my hands. The tea did just as I'd asked it to, rippling neatly. Nothing was ever that simple though. "I'm going to have a brother or sister somewhere, mom. I can't leave them alone."

With the words out in the open, I glanced up, reading to gauge her expression. If it was annoyed or insulted, I'd have to work to diffuse it. After all of this, I couldn't leave her angry. Yet what I found was something close to gentleness again and it shocked me right down to my core. She wasn't a gentle person, and look what the years had done to her.

"That's good of you," she managed.

"It might be," I replied, but the scoff in my voice told the truth plainly. "It took me longer than it should have to decide that."

However my mom just dismissed the disgust that was written across my face and felt on my voice. "You could have taken all the time in the world," she corrected me, "It's not all your responsibility, Jude."

She was trying to shift the blame away from me, but I wouldn't have it, shaking my head. I remembered what she'd said about me being like my father, and even if she hadn't meant for the connection to occur in my head, she'd always told me that he'd been scared by the responsibility of his kid. I wasn't going to be like him in the ways that I could help, just like I was trying not to be like the woman in front of me. I wasn't going to run away from this helpless child just because I was scared. And I'd fully admit I was just that, because going into this meant more than just a kid.

"But it is," I corrected her. "There's going to be someone out there who shares my blood, even if they're not my kid. Someone out there that needs me to look out for them. And I was going to turn them away because I was afraid to deal with my own father."

"You have a right to be wary considering what you were stuck with genetically," she pointed out.

There it was - that little needle towards my father. She probably didn't even notice she did it, but I did. There was always some comment, even if she promised me she wasn't as angry as used to be. She was never going to let it go completely, but I supposed I would always be mad at Josh for what he'd done to me as well.

Still I shook my head again. "No, I don't, because I've seen what siblings mean. And that's more than some shitting parenting. It's more than responsibility, too. There's going to be someone out there that I can love unconditionally. I've never had that before. I can't leave them alone with that deadbeat for a father. I know what that feels like."

My words had us plunging into silence again.

This time mom managed to finish off her tea while I simply stared at the wall. I didn't break the silence again; I didn't know what else could possibly be said between us at his point. There was more, fuck knows there were a thousand more things we'd need to talk about, but they couldn't be said tonight. There was going to be more fights, but for the first time in my life I knew that she loved me, even if it was in her own twisted way.

The times she'd actually said the words, they were in passing and vague - never bothering to make sure of the emotions behind them. And I might have believed it was because she didn't and only felt responsibility for me, but I knew now that it was because she just didn't think she needed to.

It wasn't really an excuse, but it was an explanation.

When I never did bother to break the silence, Mom stood up with her mug in hand, taking it to the sink to rinse it out. "Well," she began practically, back to that familiar brisk tone I'd known well as she brushed her hands over her scrubs. "It's late; I need to sleep now if I'm going to make it for my shift tomorrow afternoon."

Instantly my eyes flicked towards the clock on the wall - it thankfully remained in the same place as ever - to find it was three in the morning.

I probably shouldn't have been surprised, I had, after all, known her all my life, but my eyes still bulged in surprise when she turned away. She'd almost gotten out of the kitchen before I found my voice.

"Wait," I called out, "Can I stay here tonight?"

Without turning around, she nodded. "You know where your room is," she informed me, a sudden weariness to her tone. "I'll see you in the morning, Jude."

And then she was gone. My eyebrows were still raised as I eyed the doorway she'd disappeared through. I supposed there was only so much I could ask of her, especially after tonight. To say the least that had been an emotionally charged conversation, even with hand holding, she'd said she loved me without even saying it and for the first time, I believed her. Asking for a hug goodnight would probably be pushing us over the edge.

Even with those thoughts, I sat alone in the kitchen, letting the loneliness sink in. What more could I expect, though? This place had only been lonely, and one truthful talk with my mother wasn't about to change that. Maybe she loved it here, but the place reeked of isolation and despair for me. That wasn't going to change. And just because I'd come back tonight, I didn't expect I'd do it again anytime soon. This place wasn't for me. It had been clear for years, and right now, sitting alone under the single dull light in the kitchen, it was written plainly out for me to see.

I'd always believed it, but it had never been quite as obvious as it was now.

Those cold fingers of that ancient seclusion reached out. To be truthful, they'd always been there, just a hairsbreadth away. I'd pushed them back when I'd left to tour with my band and thought I was getting rid of them completely when I'd met Josh. But I'd been lonelier than I'd ever when I was with him, and I hadn't even realized it. When he was gone, I was back with its cold grip around me.

The first people to really push it back might have been my band, but the ones that moved it back had been the Harrisons. And I'd never even noticed, too caught up in the whirlwind that they brought with them. Everything had been fast and confused and charged. I hadn't got the chance to breathe with them, but I hadn't even cared. I'd always wanted it to be like that. It didn't give me the chance to think, and that's the only reason I'd managed to stick around.

Yet even when the thought crossed through my head, I knew I hadn't given myself enough credit. I'd had the very sane thought that I needed to end whatever was happening with them in its track, but I couldn't. I'd just let it happen.

Another sigh and I was standing up. After dumping the full mug of tea down the drain, I rinsed the cup out in a habit that I'd never had in my own apartment before setting it down gently in the sink. We'd never had a dishwasher, and it appeared she'd never bothered to invest in one. I supposed she only had herself to worry about, and she'd always been too tidy to let the dishes stack up. Opposed to that, I was on my dad's side where we'd both leave the dirty dishes to overflow. It drove her mad. And after he'd left, she'd browbeat me into the habit of cleaning up after myself. It hadn't stuck around, unless I was here, of course.

I pressed the old black light switch from the seventies, plunging the kitchen into darkness. It was only then that I took an easy breath. Everything was easier in the dark.

With that thought, I passed through the house, letting my hand run along the scuffed up rail as I walked up the stairs. With the lights out, I could imagine that nothing had changed at all, and I wouldn't get the confusing mix of relief and sorrow rise in my stomach at the sight. This way everything that I passed was washed in the dark, allowing only the bones of the house and lines of the walls up to discussion for me. That hadn't changed.

Like my mother had said, I knew where my bedroom was, and I walked blindly down to the end of the hall. The room she'd shared with my father and still slept in was at the opposite end, a fact that had come in handy when I'd been practicing my guitar in the wee hours of the morning. That hadn't stopped her from shouting at me to shut the hell up more times than could possibly be counted.

This time I did flick on the light when I entered the room. That question I'd asked myself the moment I'd walked in the house was answered instantly. It was easier when it hadn't changed at all. And the relief was palpable as my shoulders slumped. All the sudden I was fifteen again, walking into my bedroom. I'd never expected to find reassurance in that. I'd spent so long trying to lock that girl up, push her away and down inside of me, not wanting anyone to see that insecure little kid. But I supposed she'd come out time and time again, because my friends had seen her countless times over the years while strangers only caught glimpses. Maybe it was just a relief to not have to focus on keeping her down - she could come out here, it was her place after all.

The room was the picture of what I had left it. Well, maybe not a picture since I'd left it in shambles when I'd been grabbing my stuff to move to Lizzy's. Mom had obviously be in to tidy it up, but she'd left it as I'd created it.

It wasn't exactly a big room, but it was the only space I'd had to myself. There was one big window, and I remembered just how the ghostly sheen from the streetlights used to spill it. It was never completely dark, but I used to love always having some light whereas the woman I was now always craved the darkness.

The walls were papered with posters and papers that I'd written on, tacked to the wall as teenagers tended to do. There was no organization to it, and I'd even written lyrics on the wall with place pen - I could remember the verbal lashing I'd gotten for that. There were fliers for Red Riot tacked all around, clashing with the enormous Pink Floyd poster that I'd found inside the Dark Side Of The Moon vinyl I'd bought years before. There was a cheap book shelf shoved against the wall, but the shelves had been organized so that they held music instead of any books.

My finger traced over the shelves thoughtlessly, breaking through the film of dust that had fallen over them. The kid I'd been never bothered to read, it was a habit I'd gotten to over the tours, she'd been more focused on piling her pennies together from a part time job to get all the music she could. After that, I'd learnt - with the help of Carl - the art of shoplifting, never from our favourite record shop, though. I hadn't been able to take them with me when I left, too much baggage, and had never asked Mom to send them to me since I was sure she'd tell me to do it myself. I wasn't going to come back here for the music, even if I loved it. I spent the money to buy it all again.

The single bed was covered in a deep purple cover, but it was looking raggedy after all these years. I didn't mind, though, more focused on the empty guitar stand beside it.

Turning around, I pressed the light off, letting the room be filled up by the streetlamp outside the window. It through everything into a slight yellow tinge, but I didn't mind and immediately climbed onto the bed.

And despite that bone deep tiredness that I'd felt since the moment I'd left the wedding - well, more honestly, since Logan had left - I knew I wasn't going to get to sleep. Not until I swallowed my pride, at least, and with that thought I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket. The decision had been made in my head when I'd been sitting at the kitchen table with my mother. I knew I wouldn't back out on it now, but I needed to gather my courage and make the phone call while I still had the determination.

So I pressed the phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone. They flowed into my head, and I let my eyes flickering to the wall, reading the words I'd written on the wall with the thick pen. 'If there's a light at the end, it could glow for anyone. Hope that time is on your side. But it's no cure.' My breath trembled out at that, reading the words that were now in written in the booklet of my first solo album. Everything leads back to here, whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not.

And then the words from another song popped into my head.

Oh sweet ignition be my fuse. You have no choice you have to choose. Bid farewell to yesterday. Say goodbye I'm on my way. But in the end we all come from what's come from before. So here I go.

I found myself murmuring along to the song. "I threw it all away because I had to be what never was. Been so hungry I could lie. You took my word I took your wine. And held you in my bloody hands. These rattled bones and rubber bands. Washed them in the muddy water. Looking for a dime, I found a quarter. But you can't make me change my name. You'll never make me change my name. Pay no mind now ain't that something. Fuck it all, I came from nothing."

Having been so focused on the song running through my head, I hadn't noticed the dial tone die off in my ear. It wasn't until a groggy voice spoke that I blinked back into the moment. "Hello?" it asked in confusion, "Jude?"

And yet my mind still jumped ahead to more lyrics. I'm something from nothing. You are my fuse.

I had to shake my head to get the thought from my head. It was with a brisk voice that I spoke next, saying plainly, "Hey dad." The words were out of my mouth when I found myself grimacing. It was the same voice my mother used all the time when dealing with me, the same one she used to use on my father when he wasn't being agreeable. And I was sure he heard it too - it would be impossible not to.

Thankfully he didn't comment, but that might have been due to the fact I didn't give him the chance to speak and blundered onwards. It was another move common for Mom, but I knew Dad did the same thing, especially when he wanted you to come around to his way of thinking. "I need to talk to you."

His voice still sounded hoarse when he pointed out, "It's almost one in the morning here. Did you have to do it now?"

I didn't bother to tell him that it was almost four here, then. That seemed even more desperate. He could stay in his little west coast bubble - it didn't matter to me. And time was all relative by now, seeing as my internal clock was hell right now. So it was in a stiff voice that I asked, "Is that a problem?"

It was only then that he seemed to grasp himself, I could hear someone murmuring in the background, but for once he only paid attention to me on the phone. That was new. I even heard the creak of what I hoped was the bed moving as he shifted. "No," he said quickly, and this time he sounded at least slightly more awake. His voice was clearing up quite quickly. "No, its fine, it's good," he insisted, "I wanted to talk to you, too."

The conversation with my mother had drained me off all patience at this point, and though it wasn't quite fair to him, I found myself clipped. "But you're not going to," I snapped. "I'm going to talk to you for once and you're just going to listen."

However he didn't seem to grasp that concept, because he was already questioning, "Have you been drinking?"

"You don't get to ask me that." This time my voice was so cold it was a miracle the window across from me didn't frost with the chill that entered the room. "After all of this, don't you dare say shit like that to me."

"It's just that -" he began.

I almost groaned at his protest. He was just going to dig himself a deeper hole. So instead of letting him dig his own grave, I cut him off, because I didn't have the time for this shit. I needed to get to the point. I'd have time to get angry at him at other times, but this wasn't one of those.

"No, I said you're going to listen and you will. So shut the fuck up."

Apparently he caught the dangerous tone of m voice, because there came no response on the phone pressed to my ear. I knew he hadn't hung up, because I could hear him breathing on the other end, the slight rattle of a lifetime smoker's breath.

"Good," I said with a nod that he couldn't see. It was one of the first times I'd gotten him to actual listen to me for the first time in his whole life. He usually was the one rambling on while I stared up at him, when I was a kid it used to be with wonder but as I'd gotten older it had turned into apprehension.

"You don't get to judge me for shit; you're the last person in the world that gets to do that. I know that the press talks out of their ass, but you're my goddamn father, and even if you believe it you're not supposed to judge me. You can't listen to them."

He couldn't keep the urge to speak down, and started, "I don't -"

"Shut up," I snapped. "I want to be a part of my sibling's life." The words I'd spoken were the exact ones I'd said to my mom just an hour before, but I knew this was different, of course it was. There was a world of difference between what those words would me to him opposed to her. "And you don't get say I shouldn't be a part of it because my lifestyle or whatever shit you've been saying to the press. How dare you say that? Do you not remember what kind of father you were to me?"

There was a pause that lasted longer than I would have liked. The one time I asked him a question, and he couldn't even fucking answer me.

Before the irritation rung off my tongue, he was speaking again, though. And he was quiet as he said, "I remember."

This time I scoffed, and it was a bitter noise that felt like it had been torn out of me. "Are you sure? I can remind you of a few things I'm sure you don't remember."

There wasn't much he could say to that. Because what could he say to defend himself? It was all true, and it hung heavy over the phone line between us. Although he liked to pretend he'd been a good father, he knew he couldn't say that, not when he was speaking to me. He could bullshit anyone else in the world, and I didn't even care, but if he even tried that shit with me, I'd tear him to pieces. We both knew it.

Instead it was in the low voice that he said, "A sister, by the way. You're going to have a sister."

That stole any anger away from my body and I found myself slumping back into the bed. Instantly there were visions flooding over my eyes, letting me see a baby with those same blue eyes I'd gotten from him.

It was in a surprisingly soft voice that I answered, "Oh."

"And we're getting married next week."

I could only repeat, "Oh."

The tides of the conversation had apparently turned, and I didn't try to grasp the reins back. I wasn't sure I had the peace of mind to do so with the news I'd have a sister. I was going to have a little sister.

So Dad was the one who continued on. "We'd like you to be there?"

"Would you?" I couldn't help the wonder that came out in the two words. I sounded like I was five years old again. But what could I do?

"Yeah," he confirmed simply.

Swallowing, I rolled my lips into my mouth, looking around the room without really seeing anything. I'd known being in their - her - life would involve him, and it was a perfect time to start. However even I knew that was a lie. Just like my mom, even if a part of my despised the two of them, I couldn't stay hard forever. I always let my dad fool me, even knowing he was going to fuck me over by the end, I couldn't help it.

At least now I would get something more out of it besides disappointment.

So I answered, "Okay."

"Thanks Jude."

"Yeah," I mumbled, feeling a wave of emotions flooding inside of me. And I couldn't be on the phone with him of all people, not right now. So I quickly said, "Bye."

When I ended the phone call, I didn't toss my cellphone away from me; in fact I just pulled the knotted headphones from the pocket of my leather jacket. It was with shaking fingers that I untangled them, lying back on my bed. The song that had popped into my mind had me finding my Foo Fighters playlist. And I'd just slipped the headphones in before I curled to the side, clutching the blanket to me.

It was stale but it still smelt of childhood. I didn't know if that made it worse. I could remember clutching the pillow to my face countless times throughout my formative years and letting myself sob into it, because of both parents.

However I was focused on keeping my eyes dry this time, and I pushed the pillow back away from me so I could lie on my back. The thoughts were racing across my mind too fast for me to make sense of them, let alone grasp onto one and focus. The conversations with my parents were repeating in my head, but they were speaking over each other, along with the ones I'd had with my band over the past day.

Yet in the end, it didn't even matter that I was sitting in my childhood bedroom after having just talked to both parents. It wasn't even my band that I thought of, but the Harrison brothers. They were where my mind fell these days. There was nothing I could do to change it, even if I wanted to. And I wasn't sure if I could find comfort in that or not.

One thing I knew for certain, which I'd never allowed myself to acknowledge, was that they were it. Whatever it was, they were it.

The thought led into Best Of You pumping through the headphones.

I've got another confession to make. I'm your fool. Everyone's got their chains to break. Holding you. Were you born to resist or be abused? Dave Grohl asked in my ears. Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

And because the words could lead nowhere else, I could see both brothers in my head, but also Josh. It was no mystery why the lyrics shoved him into my head. If someone had ever gotten the best of me, it had been Josh, and I'd definitely been his full.

Are gone and on to someone new? I needed somewhere to hang my head without your noose. You gave me something that I didn't have but had no use.

I had moved on from him, but not on my own accord. I'd had no other choice. I would have stayed with him forever if he'd let me, even though he didn't deserve the best of me that he'd gotten. Even after he sent me on my way, he'd kept a piece of me that I'd never gotten back. The only reason I'd moved on from him was because it was that or destroy myself, and my band, with the wallowing. And I hadn't even noticed what I was doing until it had been battered into my head by Keely and Seth all those years before.

I was too weak to give in, too strong to lose. My heart is under arrest again, but I break loose. My head is giving me life or death but I can't choose. I swear I'll never give in, I refuse.

It would have been death for me, had I stayed like that. It would have been another boring overdose by of a rock star. The story had been written a thousand times before. Boring. And boring wasn't meant for Jude Turner, at least not the one I'd created as a mask and the one that existed in the tabloids.

Eventually I'd refused to give in, even if it had threatened to engulf. And I hadn't realized until now, even months after meeting the Harrison brothers that it was the only choice I'd had. I couldn't have let it swallow me.

And now, I knew just how little that relationship compared to the ones I had with them.

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Has someone taken your faith? Its real, the pain you feel. You trust, you must confess. Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

Just because Josh paled beside them it didn't mean the pain had been any less, even now it still existed in me. It was just as much of an oozing wound as the one left from my parents. Years of being unloved and rejected didn't just disappear because I'd gotten them. They shadowed everything else, but no matter what, they couldn't eclipse it. Because, just as the song said, Josh had taken what little faith I'd ever had, along with the best of me.

Has someone taken your faith? Its real, the pain you feel. The life, the love you'd die to heal. The hope that starts the broken hearts. You trust, you must confess. Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

Both of the Harrison brothers had never gotten the best of me. I'd never given them to me as freely as I'd done to Josh; I'd kept bits of me hidden and apart from them. Some I couldn't even give them if I'd tried, because they still belonged to Josh, wherever he was no.

They'd loved me, and I could accept that now in the dark.

It didn't matter that Cam had never told me, Logan had been right. I'd known it from the way he'd look at me, whether he was smiling or yelling. I'd known it by the way he looked at me when he sang Pale Blue Eyes to me back in Sheffield, even if I'd tried my utmost best to ignore it all. Just like I'd tried to tell myself that I didn't see the exact same love in Logan. I'd gotten good at lying to myself.

I've got another confession to make. I'm no fool. I'm getting tired of starting again, somewhere new.

I dug my fists into my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut painfully, because that was true as well. The only thing that had stayed constant in my life was my band. I was forever running away, from emotions and people, picking up my life and moving it somewhere else if I even started to feel something. I'd been so scared. I was still so scared it felt like I couldn't breathe. But I was tired, just as tired as I was scared.

Were you born to resist or be abused? I swear I'll never give in, I refuse.

The tears welled up again and this time they did fall, they flooded down my cheeks unhindered. I didn't even try to stop them. I just rolled to my side, gathering the pillow up and sobbing into it.

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you? Has someone taken your faith? Its real, the pain you feel. You trust, you must confess. Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

And maybe the hardest part was the fact that they'd never gotten the best of me, but they loved me anyways.

In the end it took a while for me to fall asleep, but the tears had dried on my cheeks even as my throat felt ragged. My face was buried into the pillow with my arms wrapped around it like a snake and the music was still in my headphones. And as I drifted off, lyrics drifted through my head.

One more night that I've survived on my own, another night alone. Pay no mind I'm doing fine, I'm breathing on my own. I'm here and I'm on the mend. I'm here and I'm on the mend, my friend.

When I finally awoke it was with a stiff back. Groggily, I lifted my head, peering around the room with bleary eyes. For a moment, my heart jumped up into my throat, seeing my childhood bedroom all around me. It was harsher in the light of day spreading through the window on the other side of the room.

However the panic subsided when the events of the night and early morning came back to me. It shouldn't have been enough to have me flopping back in relief, but it really was. I let out a deep breath, running a hand through my knotted hair to get it away from my face.

I hadn't woken up in a nightmare, so that was comforting at the very least.

It had been a very long time since I'd fit myself into a single bed, let alone one that was this far. I supposed I shouldn't have been complaining, considering I'd slept on floors and in horrid positions more time than I could count. However, there was the little factor that I'd been fall down drunk at the time, or high. And I usually woke up with a raging hangover, so I didn't take into account all the little aches and pains that came with it.

Maybe I was just getting old, because I didn't remember the bed being just this painful. My arms were aching from their tight lock around the pillow, and my brain felt swollen from the bout of crying that had exhausted me into sleep.

That thought was a sobering one, and had me waking up more to the events travelling around with me. It was at least enough to have me sitting up in bed. Only then did I feel the tightening around my neck, and with a grimace, untangled the headphones that appeared to have wanted to strangle me throughout the night. It might have made my life all the simpler if they had succeeded.

As it happened, I was awake and breathing, so I had to go about this logically. Well, as logically as I could. The first thing I did was silence the music that was still travelling through the headphones, although I could only hear a slight buzzing at this point. As I did so, I took into account that I'd gotten a text from Mandy, that it was almost three in the afternoon, and my dwindling battery.

However I didn't reply to my friend. In the end, I didn't even look at the text I'd gotten, but followed a similar pattern to the one I'd had that morning at the airport hotel in Detroit. At least I managed to sleep the night - and morning - away.

This time I was a little bit smarter, and knowing I wouldn't want to read an article speculating about The Bends and I, instead I looked up the set list from their New York gig. It was the wonder of the internet age, you could find any information you wanted within a couple clicks. And soon enough I had what I wanted before my eyes.

Scrolling through the list, I found that it wasn't unlike what they'd been playing in the UK. It was most of the same songs, always starting with the same one, and a few added treats here and there. The website even noted when Cam was alone on the stage. He sang some songs acoustic that he had the lead vocals of - most were b-sides - but then I saw a song I didn't recognize from their repertoire during that bit. Heart In A Cage. The title made me frown, because I knew a song by an American band by the same name, but he could have always written a new song. Cam was nothing if not prolific. He was forever writing.

I clicked on the link provided, letting it take me to the video, and I wore a frown as it buffered for a short moment.

Just like the video I'd watched of the brothers playing That's All, it was obviously filmed on somebody's cellphone. The hand was shaky where they'd zoomed in and the colours were bright and harsh in the camera's glare, but this time the person who had filmed was closer to the stage, but off to the side.

Like a visceral reaction to seeing Cam, even if it was just in a video, I felt my stomach clench just as that vice tightened in my chest. And I couldn't help but wonder if it would always be like this. Would I see him twenty years from now and still see the same thing? Yet even as the thought crossed through my head and I began to chew on my fingernail, I noted a couple things.

First of all, he looked past dishevelled. That could be put down to partying and playing a gig, but it also looked as if he hadn't slept. And he also looked like that Dickens' version of a rock star that an article had once described me as. He looked quintessential; tattered jeans and beat up leather jacket with that Epiphone Coronet in hand. That was the first guitar I'd ever seen him play in person, and I felt the thud of realization right down to my toes. And that's how I noted that he was playing an electric guitar on stage on his own, and that he'd already started the song.

I just needed to listen to the guitar part for half a moment to confirm that it was The Strokes' song I'd been suspicious of. That had me swallowing a lump in my throat. Because, to my knowledge, the first time he'd ever seen me perform live, I'd played Hard To Explain by the very same American band.

By now I knew enough to know if he was playing a song by an American band, I better be paying attention, because every time before he'd been singing straight to me.

So I was already a bag of nerves by the time he stepped forwards to the microphone in the video. His head was down as he played the chord seamlessly, hand hard and rough over the strings. Then he raised his head, letting his lips almost brush the microphone as he began, "Well, I don't feel better when I'm fucking around. And I don't write better when I'm stuck in the ground. So don't teach me a lesson 'cause I've already learned. Yeah, the sun will be shining and my children will burn."

I watched the video with the lump in my throat growing, and I couldn't figure out what to do about it. It felt like in moments it was going to choke me.

"... Yeah we got left, left, left, left, left, left, left. Now it's three in the morning and you're eating alone."

It didn't matter that he wasn't moving around. He just stood still, maybe rocking back as he played a particular part, but for the most he stood absolutely still in front of his microphone. We were the opposite kind of performers when he was singing lead, he moved around energetically and put on a show when he was only playing lead guitar, but the moment he had the vocals, Cam came to a halt. And maybe it was because of that, the lyrics hit me hard in the stomach.

"... All our friends they're laughing at us. All of those you loved, you mistrust. Help me I'm not quite myself. Look around there's no one else left," he sang. And then he was moving closer to the mic, and I felt my stomach tie up in knots as his voice strained over the lyrics. "I went to the concert and I fought through the crowd. Guess I got too excited when I thought you were around."

He took a step back for half a second, slamming his hand down onto the strumming chords as his voice rose into the microphone. The strain becoming so pronounced that it cut me in the stomach. "Yeah, he gets left, left, left, left, left, left, left. And I'm sorry you were thinking I would steal your fire."

My breath trembled out like a sob without tears.

"Oh, the heart beats in its cage. Yes, the heart beats in its cage. And the heart beats in its cage."

The video cut off with him taking two steps away from the microphone stand, his head dropping down to look at his hands again. The crowd was roaring so loudly that the camera shook, and I could hear a shrill scream of a girl saying she loved him. There were complete strangers managing the words, and here was I.

With a sigh, I dropped the phone to the side and wearily ran a hand over my face. It wasn't like there I was anything I could do, even with my insides twisted and tied within themselves. So it came down to the sliver of practicality I had inherited from my mother.

And, though I suddenly felt exhausted again, I pushed myself off the bed.

The first thing I did was shrug off the leather jacket that I'd slept in, letting the toasty air in the room brush my shoulders. Since I didn't particularly want to look as if I'd just done a walk of shame when I saw my mother in the light of day, I stepped up to my closet. I'd only taken a duffel bag and my guitar when I walked out of here that night all those years ago, and had left countless clothes behind.

What I found was that my mom must have organized my clothes since the last time I'd been here, probably even washed them at one point, but she'd kept them all. In minutes I'd peeled myself from the dress, letting it pool down around my feet. The dress might have been beautiful, but it definitely wasn't lunch attire, not to mention it had wilted and crinkled after a night spent sleeping in them. There were even water stains at the neckline where my tears had pooled.

The pair of jeans I pulled on were in a better state than most of the ones I wore now, without holes and only a slightly faded black. It was to my alarm that I found they hung a little on my hips. I'd been certain that I'd weighed more six months ago at twenty three than I had at seventeen - that had obviously changed. People had told me I looked like shit, but now I had the proof right in front of me as I hooked a finger in the waistband and pulled them out. With a shake of my head, I pushed that from my head to slip on a black and blue plaid shirt. It was definitely the comfortable clothes of a person that felt like they were about to go into battle.

When I went to the door, I paused, finding that it was open a crack. I was certain I'd closed it carefully the night before. I'd wanted privacy to see this place before. So that could only mean my mom had opened the door to check on me at some point.

The thought strangely put a little pep into my step as I exited the room. At least it didn't feel as if I might have been starting a war.

However the moment I stepped outside my room, I felt the echoing sensation of an empty house. I told myself that it was just memories from what the place had felt like when I'd been growing up. So instead of trusting my instincts, I went about searching through the house, trying to ignore the jolts as I noticed more changes.

By the time I made it down to the kitchen, I found that I'd been right. There wasn't another soul in the house.

With a sinking stomach, I slouched across the linoleum floor, following the scent of coffee. It might have smelt slightly stale, but it was still there. And beside the coffee maker, I discovered a neat note sitting beside an empty coffee mug.

Picking it up, I read; You slept through the morning, and I didn't want to be the one to wake you. I had to go to work for noon, but there's coffee for you. It was made at around eleven, so it might be stale by the time you join the living world. If it is, would you empty the pot?

The note was short and to the point, even with a lingering hint of briskness.

It was very like my mom.

There was no 'good morning my dear child' or 'I love you' written to sign off, there was nothing at all in fact. And that too was very much like her. I supposed one honest conversation in the wee hours of the morning wasn't going to do anything to change that. That sinking sensation continued in my stomach as I poured myself a mug of coffee anyways. I supposed that at least took away any need for messy goodbyes that took longer than anyone wanted and were awkward for both of us, because I wasn't going to be hanging around here for the day.

Yet the thought I'd hoped would be something consoling for me was far from that. It had the exact opposite effect, in actuality. I couldn't see me coming back here anytime soon in the coming years, and it might have been nice to say goodbye to my mother here for the first time since I hadn't gotten the chance when I'd moved out.

And I knew it shouldn't, but it still stung that she couldn't have switched her shift around or even lied to get the afternoon off since her only child was at home. But what should I have expected from her?

So I tried to ignore it, taking a sip of the coffee that I took black. She'd been right, of course, it was long past stale. But it would do.

I took the coffee up with me back up to the bedroom, deciding that I needed to make another phone call. There came a time when even I had to grow up, and I was going to run forever even if I had no idea what I was about to do. Whatever happened, I was going to have to make some arrangements first.

However as I finished off the coffee, I regressed back to childhood when I dug through that old CD collection to find another Foo Fighters album.

With All My Life echoing around me, I shoved open the window and clambered up on the sill, just like I'd been doing since I'd first taken up smoking. It made it easy to hold out a smoking habit when your mom was rarely home, and there was a reason the room was also going to have the stale lingering smell. One more smoke wasn't going to hurt.

All my life I've been searching for something. Something never comes, never leads to nothing. Nothing satisfies but I'm getting close. Closer to the prize at the end of the rope.

As the song thumped around at a deafening volume that made me feel like I was home for the first time I'd walked into the house, I lit the cigarette as I sat on the windowpane. One foot was in the house I'd grown up in, and the other dangled out the window, the pavement of the front steps almost a floor away. It was a position I'd sat in countless times over the years, the foot that hung out over the pavement tapping along to the song.

All night long I dream of the day. When it comes around and it's taken away. Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most. Feel it come to life when I see your ghost.

Letting my head drop back against the pane, I blew out the smoke in front of me, the words rushing over me like water.

... Will I find a believer? Another one who believes. Another one to deceive. Over and over down on my knees. If I get any closer. And if you open up wide. And if you let me inside. On and on, I got nothing to hide. On and on, I got nothing to hide.

The chorus charged out in that empathic rush, and I found my whole leg was moving along to the music as I carefully smoked what was left of the cigarette.

All my life I've been searching for something. Something never comes, never leads to nothing. Nothing satisfies but I'm getting close. Closer to the prize at the end of the rope.

As the first verse repeated, I let myself swing my leg over. Now both legs were dangling over the side and I was staring down at the pavement, taking another drag from my smoke. There were only a few breaths left for me to take. My body was moving along with the song, both feet tapping the air as I allowed my head to keep the time as well.

And then Dave Grohl was shouting from behind me, and I allowed my head to tip backwards. I almost lost balance but only let out an almost hysterical chuckle.

Done, done, on to the next one! Done, I'm done, and I'm on to the next one. Hey, don't let it go to waste. I love it but I hate the taste. Weight keeping me down. Hey, don't let it go to waste. I love it but I hate the taste. Weight keeping me down.

I tossed the butt carelessly out, and my eyes traced it all the way down to the ground.

Done, done and on to the next one. Done, I'm done and I'm on to the next.

Since I'd made the phone call in preparation, I had the time to finish off the stale pot before getting on with it.

I took a glance through the closet as I found a pair of tennis shoes that actually fit perfectly. However what I didn't find was a bag to shove my dress inside. It wasn't like I'd held out much hope for it, because as memory served I'd only had one backpack and had left with it - the bag that happened to be the same one I used daily. Only miracles were keeping that thing from splitting at the seams.

With the dress folded in my arms and leather jacket shrugged over my shoulders, I headed back out of the house. This time I did go to find the spare key, but when I deposited the key to its old spot, I didn't spare the place one last glance.

Maybe one day I'd go and collect some of the music and clothes I'd left behind, but it wasn't as if I didn't have the money to buy the same things over again. Those things didn't really bother me. And, no matter the how I'd felt about the changes in the house the night before, now that I was out and breathing fresh air, those didn't concern me either.

The house was only a house. It wasn't like it had been a home since the early days before the cracks had started showing between my parents.

It had only been my mother I was coming back for, and that I had always known.

This time there were people on the street, but none wanted to make eye contact. That was with the exception of a group of guys that I blew past with a roll of my eyes. Years ago I might have skulked across the road and tried to avoid them at all, but I'd cut tougher guys than them off at the knees. I definitely wasn't bothered by one person as I swept over the cracked sidewalks until I caught up with Mandy who happened to be having lunch with the Collins.

From what I gathered from the first seconds of the meeting, they wanted to hold me down there, probably talk some sense into my head. It was obvious from the cautionary eyes and lingering hugs. Well, except Addie, she just honestly wanted me to stay. It helped that someone didn't have an ulterior motive for me.

However I wasn't having any of that. I may not have made any decision about what I was going to do when I got there, but I knew where I was going if I didn't know what I was to do.

So I swept off their questions with one word answers if I was feeling generous, but I mostly just responded with shrugs. With those sad eyes, they asked where I spent the night, and I could just see the question that they didn't ask written across their faces. Who did you spend the night with? I actually told them I stayed with my mom, if only to see the flash of shame that crossed their expressions when they realized they'd jumped to conclusions. However I didn't tell them where I was going despite their pestering.

It took five full minutes to get my backpack from Mandy's tight grasp, and they were hard won. I'd hoped for two. I left with her promises that she would have my luggage sent back to the apartment I hadn't seen in half a year.

Although I was in the mood to for public transport, fighting what I still suspected was the worst in the transit system in the world. However it was pointed out that I didn't have the time, and had a cab called for me by the ever motherly Mandy. Another ten minutes, and I was yanking myself from their claws to dive in the cab.

Their worried stares followed the car as it swung onto the road, I could feel them but once again I didn't look back. Unlike at my childhood house, I didn't send them one last look in goodbye because I knew I'd see them again. I doubted it'd even be that long since Terri looked about ready to pop with the newest kid. It was the age for babies, apparently.

This cab driver wasn't interested in conversation, and I didn't bother to try and push it. He had glaring eyes on the road. I might have been known for easy conversation with my cab drivers, I even still talked to one from New York, but I wasn't going to push it. It wasn't like I'd had much luck with them back in the UK. I was forever seeming to piss them off.

Instead I yanked open the bag, searching through it carefully. Everything I'd asked for was in there, not that I'd ever doubted Mandy. Charger - would definitely come in handy seeing as the phone in my pocket was quite dead. There was my passport, songbook, wallet, along with the things that had filled the bottom while I'd been on tour; pens, guitar picks, change from all over the planet. And then there was the change of shirt that I'd requested, and to my surprise I gave a snort at the sight of the baggy Bends' tee that had been stuffed luggage by Cam sometime in time during the tour.

It was to my utmost relief that I could laugh at it instead of getting a sharp pain in my stomach. There was even a trill of excitement when I saw it.

Getting through the airport was a simple matter with only a backpack as I walked up to pick up the ticket I'd ordered over the phone while drinking stale coffee on my childhood bed. For once I hadn't called Mandy to delegate even though she'd personally told me to leave all planning to her, professional and personal.

Half of it was due to the fact I could do some things on my own and the other part because I didn't exactly need her knowing where I was going. I had no idea what was going to happen, my plan having fallen off a sharp cliff with the cab I'd requested to pick me up after I got off the plane. And, honestly, that was just the way I wanted it. I didn't want to think too hard about what I was about to do, because I was likely to just crumple my ticket up and toss it into the garbage can. So, I didn't want to share this until I knew the end result. I couldn't stand to see the pitying glances and receive sad hugs, because I might just throw a punch.

On the words of Mandy, I started through the airport on a mission. I knew I had next to no time left, so I marched down to the terminal that told me where the flight to Cape Town would be leaving soon.

Firstly I caught sight of the tittering crowd that was slightly separated, sending excited glances over to the side. Because of that, I knew my band had to be on the other end of those looks. With that logic, I found them standing together. Lizzy glowing as was only right the day after her wedding while both Brandon and Carl appeared a bit worse for wear. It only took one short glance for me to call hangover for those two. And then, of course, there was Donavon who was held in his mother's arms.

Without a hesitation, I headed over and plucked the kid straight from his mother's arms. Considering the unknown future that laid before my feet, I figured I should take all the time with the kid that I could, or else I might have the parents nattering at me for the rest of my life. Donavon made a delighted sound that was reminiscent of gurgling to me, but I allowed him to curl his hands into fists on the lapels of my jacket.

"Oh good," sighed Lizzy, her shoulders slumping at the sight of me. "I didn't think you were going to make it in time. They've been calling for our flight, and they're getting towards the end of the line."

"First time I ever heard of you turning down pre-boarding," I said with a snarky little smile I couldn't help. Brandon rolled his eyes at me, but I just focused on Donavon in my arms. "Isn't that right?" I asked him as he peered up at me with wide confused eyes.

I puffed out my cheeks and he gave a laugh.

However when he reached out and smacked his hands to either sides of my mouth, it was my turn to laugh as the breath escaped my lips.

"It only happens when we're with you. We're not big enough celebrities without Jude Turner." Despite the fact the words were meant to be sarcastic, they came out rather soft. And that had me glancing up to find her watching me and the child with almost dewy eyes.

And I couldn't have that for a goodbye. There were no tears now. So I raised an eyebrow, peering over the kid's head towards her. "Oh, don't get sentimental on me now."

"Piss off," she said surely.

That was more like it.

As an announcement rang over us, Brandon took the chance to pull Donavon from my arms since I was crinkling my nose and looking up at the desk where the lady behind was staring at us pointedly.

My arms were only empty for a moment before Lizzy was flinging herself into them, and it was with all the desperation as she'd hugged me back at the hotel.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked, pulling back to look in my eyes.

I made sure to paste a smile on my face for her. "Yes."

That only had her frowning. "Are you sure?"

Although the questioning of me should have been annoying, this time I just gave a short laugh as I rolled my eyes lightly. "Not quite," I told her quite honestly. I was never sure, but that was the way I liked it or else why were there always unknowns splayed out at my feet?

The answer might have been truthful on my part, but it probably would have been kinder to lie to the girl because her face fell. With worried eyes, she put her hands on my cheeks just like her son had, though she was far gentler and there was no laughter to go along with it. "You should come with us."

"What?" I snorted. "You want me to come on your fucking honeymoon?"

"You can have your own room," she pointed out fairly.

"Oh, gee, thanks mom."

That didn't even faze her, because Lizzy was too intent on trying to see into my thoughts. I wouldn't have doubted her if she hadn't given a defeated puff of breath. "Just wait for the next flight; we'd have a lot of fun."

"Yeah, sure," I said a bit disbelievingly, "You, Brandon, Donavon and I. One big happy family."

Thankfully I managed to get some disapproval from her at that, which was more like it. "Jude."

I gave a little laugh, shaking my head. "I've got something I need to do, actually a few," I told her truthfully.

"I was afraid of that," she sighed before moving in for another squeeze. It was a miracle my organs stayed in my body for how tightly she hugged me. However when she pulled back again, she still didn't leave, just looked me boldly in the eye. "You're going be around when we get back, right?"

Although I couldn't promise that, I decided it was only fair for her. So I gave a nod.

"Good," Lizzy breathed, dropping her arms away. With one last pointed look, she added, "Because we've got a lot of music to show you. It's been too long doing nothing for everyone, and we could really use some words to go along with it."

The words might have been said as if they were in passing, but the four of us knew far better than that.

And my eyes widened in surprise even as excitement stuttered through my stomach.

"Are you serious?"

She gave a shrug, taking the kid away from Brandon and turned around to where the line had disappeared for the people boarding their flight.

It was Brandon who ended up answering my question. "Deadly," he promised as he gathered me in for a tight hug. "Cash was even talking about getting us in the studio if we want him. We'd have to do it in Philli considering he's going to have a new baby by that time, but I think we could make it work."

My arms went around him like a vice. "I think we could," I replied breathlessly.

Brandon was smiling broadly when he pulled away. Knocking a fist lightly into my shoulders, he said his goodbye. "See you around, kid."

And with that I watched the two of them walk out the door, heading towards the plane that would take them to their honeymoon. I'd expected to feel miserable when I watched them leave me, thinking that it was probably the last time we'd ever be together with that last gang in town mentality. But here I was, buzzing with anticipation and my mind already working a thousand miles an hour.

There was so much work to be done and so much to plan.

At least I knew I had something to come back to, as did they.

It was Carl nudging me in my side that broke me from the stare.

When I blinked at looked over at him, he smiled charmingly at me, which had me sending him an answering one. "So are you coming back with me to Chicago? You haven't seen your apartment for months."

That was the truth, but I just gave a shrug. "It's going to have to wait a little bit later," I pointed out.

Carl didn't look surprised at my admission, but I saw the resignation run over his face. He didn't let it over come him, though. Instead he flung an arm over my shoulder, tugging me to his chest before turning us away from the gate. There was no point lingering around here, anyways.

So with me companionably leaning against him, Carl questioned, "So you've got a plan?"

"Nope," I answered readily.

The bluntness had him laughing.

I said goodbye to the last member of my band about an hour later. There was a hug that lasted far longer than they were supposed to, but I didn't matter as I fisted my hands in his blazer. And, to my eternal gratefulness, I managed to hold back the tears as I shoved him back, telling him to fuck off.

My plane didn't arrive for another hour. And in typical fashion, the panic didn't set in until the plane was actually in the air and I couldn't turn back. That was probably a good thing, because I wouldn't have doubted that I would have walked away. It had always been easy for me to walk away from anyone that wasn't in my band, no matter how much it hurt. I would make sure I was alone before I allowed it to hit, though.

A thousand times during that short flight I asked myself what I was doing. And I couldn't give a real answer, even in my own head.

Yet I still got in the car that was waiting for me after I'd landed.

I might have been good at walking away, but I also had a bit of stubbornness built up inside of me. Usually that just lead to people calling me hard headed - or, less kindly, a bitch - when it came to music or changing dates, but in this case it kept me on the path I'd chosen. It didn't matter that there was a tight ball of nerves that had started in my stomach that had now risen to my throat and was threatening to choke me.

And when I got out of the car, I had to fight the urge to fly back into it and tell the driver to take me back to the airport after all. However I kept my back straight as I shut the door. It didn't matter that my hands were shaking.

One text message and Louis had a door open and waiting for me at the back of the stadium.

He smiled broadly at the sight of me, shaking his head in something akin to disbelief. "You're back," he murmured, giving me a big hug. He'd always been soft on me. "I said you wouldn't be able to stay away."

I gave him one light squeeze before pulling away. "Well, let's hold the happiness," I told him, "There might still be a bloodbath."

With that, I left The Bends' security guard, making my way through the labyrinth with all the skill of a person who had been doing this for years, which meant none. Thankfully there were signs, and then I was able to follow the sound of music I'd heard countless times over the tours.

It was only from gritting my teeth and keeping my feet moving by sheer brain power that I kept myself from trembling. Well, that was on the outside, because inwardly I was shaking like a leaf. As I got closer to backstage, I began to run into more and more familiar faces. All of them showed shock at my figure walking around like I still belonged there, but it was an even half and half who smile at me and called out greetings while the others looked at me almost disdainfully and didn't bother a comment.

Apparently the topic of Jude Turner was up for hot debate, and we were split over the decision. I'd expected as much, but that didn't numb me from the cutting sensation that came with people looked at me like that when weeks ago we were laughing together.

The only person I paused at the sight of was Clara.

She had a notebook in hand, chewing on the end of her pen as she wandered through the immediate back stage with the sounds of The Bends absolutely deafening around us. Her eyes flicked up to me and back down almost carelessly, but then she must have figured out just what she'd seen, because she did a double take, the pen dropping to her side as she froze.

For a short moment that felt like an eternity she gaped at me. And as I stared back at her, I thought of what Logan had told me, how it had been her that had sent me away and never bothered to tell me that it wasn't the brothers who wanted me gone. Yet I found I couldn't work up any anger with her. How could I? Whatever happened, they'd been her Harrisons first, especially Logan considering how long they'd been best friends. She was always going to be protective over them.

Then she closed her mouth abruptly, quirking an eyebrow in a silent question across the space between us.

I only responded with a shrug.

She pursed her lips at that, glancing about her once carefully, but then she just shook her head and turned away. Apparently I wasn't going to have to worry about her, at least not yet. She was giving me a pass for the moment.

So with that, I stepped up to the open doorway that lead straight onto the stage. It might have been on a different continent, but I could find no differences between America and England at that very moment when I looked over the stage.

The music was just as loud as it had ever been, and the crowd was dancing and shoving and shouting along to the music. And, of course, the Harrison brothers were there. I knew Rob and Graham were on the stage as well, but I'd only ever had eyes for the brothers, and I think we'd all known it, straight from the beginning. Even that first time when they'd walked into my studio when I was playing my then unknown song, I'd only looked for them even if I'd been furious. Everyone else always faded away in comparison.

Cam was closest to me, but his attention was fixed down on his guitar as they charged to the end of the song. His hand was so heavy on the strings it was a miracle they didn't cut his fingers. Then he was jumping along to it, foot stamping along to the song as his head tapped as well.

Then there was Logan at the point in the stage, and I watched as he flung his arm out to signal the end of the song that came with a hard hit from the drums. It was all done in perfect time.

As I watched, I leaned my shoulder against the doorway. Their chests were heaving from the effort, but Cam didn't waste a moment, his back still facing me. He strolled straight up to where his brother was standing at the middle microphone, running a hand through his sweaty hair that had it splayed in all directions. Logan laughed at something his brother said, and gave him a playful shrug.

Cam allowed himself to be pushed back a step, but he was already focusing back down on his guitar.

And when I recognized the chords to She Loves You, I realized just how close I'd come to missing the whole concert. If this wasn't their last song, there would only be one or two to come after it. But the thoughts fled from my mind, all my insides twisting up in a tangle of fear and excitement at seeing them again.

Logan stepped up to the mic, running both hands through his hair, almost an identical motion to what his brother had done moments before.

"You think you've lost your love when I saw her yesterday. It's you she's thinking of," Logan kept his voice easy and swinging for the old Beatles' classic, but I watched his eyes fall on his brother. Cam hadn't even looked up from his guitar, though. "She told me what to say. She says she loves you and you know that can't be bad. Yes, she loves you, and you know you should be glad."

He took half a step back between the verses, and then he glanced over at me. "She says you hurt her so she almost lost her mind. And now she says she knows you're not the hurting kind." Logan's face betrayed no surprise at finding me there, almost like he'd expected it. And I didn't dare let my eyes flicker away from him. There was practically electricity pulsing through my veins, and I was sure that was the only thing keeping me upright. "She says she loves you and you know that can't be bad. Yes, she loves you, and you know you should be glad."

It was only when the chorus came up that Logan's gaze broke away from mine. And it was in order to shift to the side so his brother could sing into the same microphone as him. "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. And with a love like that you know you should be glad."

They both took a step back together, and I felt eyes soften at that despite myself.

Even as Cam played the guitar part, Logan was looking at him before nodding at what could only be me.

There was no pause in the song as Logan stepped back up to the microphone. "You know it's up to you I think it's only fair. Pride can hurt you too apologize to her."

Finally Cam swivelled around so he could glance over his shoulder, hands playing the song so smoothly after playing it every night the entire tour. Yet when his eyes met mine, his fingers stumbled over one chord - just the one - before he picked up playing again without pause. I found the smile curving the corners of my lips even as he watched me.

"Because she loves you and you know that can't be bad. Yes, she loves you, and you know you should be glad."

Then Cam had to break the eye contact as he stepped up to sing again, the two brothers singing into the microphone together, but the smile didn't leave as I watched them. "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. And with a love like that you know you should be glad."

I hadn't had a plan when I walked in here. I hadn't known what I was going to do, and I still didn't but I knew what made sense as they glanced over to me in time.

"With a love like that you know you should be glad."

And I was looking at both of them with my arms crossed over my chest and soft smile on my mouth as I leaned against the door. Because I knew no other way to do it than this, I just mouthed the words, "I love you."

"With a love like that you know you should be glad. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah."

- And what the FUCK do you all think about that???? Tell me, tell me, tell me!

Okay, so there will be an epilogue, I promise. It might take a while, but I thought I wouldn't torture you forever. I have a horse show this week, so I probably won't get any time to write it. But if some of you wanted to tell me what you think happens immediately after or not so immediately, I would love it. Even some of you that like to write the fanfics lol. I would LOVE that.

Now I really have to go.