my name is john

Still, John was having reservations about moving on, even if it had been the only thing he'd wanted for years. He had tried running from his Brooklyn memories both with drugs and trips to the beach, Charlotte, anywhere he could drive in an hour or two. And though he'd hoped moving to Lakeview would be a fresh start, his dad always distracted with Kandi, he found himself just as miserable. So when Fiona had suggested a vacation in California, he jumped at the chance. And with her, he had finally found himself not needing to use cocaine to smile. She treated him, not like he was broken and needed parenting, but that he still had the potential to achieve his dreams, if only someone stood behind him. In California, he had found himself, he had realized again that he still wanted to be successful, that he didn't want to end up buried beside his girlfriend. The beach was relaxing, focusing, and Fiona both revitalized and took care of him until their week away from school had ended.

The only person who had really taken care of John before Fiona had been Beth. And while John was never the best older brother, he had tried to look out for the twins and Dalton. When they were younger it was easy to take trips to the bookstore or the diner to shield them from the fighting, but as they got older, John just felt disconnected from the other Moskovitz children. He and Craig no longer played video games together, he barely could hold a conversation with Dalton without getting completely confused, and he and Beth hadn't spoken since Blaise had come into the picture. But despite the schism, family was still on the top of John's list, and leaving without some kind of closure between them seemed wrong. So for a few minutes John sat in the kitchen, flipping a pen between his fingers, and tapping it against the table. He wanted to write something, but his brain couldn't think of anything remotely intelligent, heartwarming, or justified. He was moving to California, how did he scribble a few words to make it all okay? It didn't seem like anything he had to say would ever justify what he was doing -- he was going to further rip apart his family, the one thing they all dreaded, the one thing they had all fought together against. 

The paper in front of him stayed blank, and his mind didn't do any better, before finally he stood and filled a glass of water from the tap. He paced the house a while longer, dragging his fingers against the counters, the walls, the doorknobs, and then retreated up the stairs to his bedroom. The only clothing left out of his suitcase was what he had planned to wear on the plane, and he silently pulled on his jeans and shirt. After a look in the mirror, and another cigarette, he grabbed his suitcase and dragged it down the stairs. This was it, one phone call to the taxi company, one metal detector screening, and one short flight later, and he'd be starting a new life. So what was keeping him from picking up the phone? Clumsily he tied his shoelaces, then dragged the last of his belongings down the stairs and out onto the front porch. 

Then John sat for a while, finishing his pack of cigarettes as the minutes ticked by. Soon he'd end up missing his flight, being forced to reschedule yet again, and have to do another set of goodbyes he really had no interest in. Stuffed in his wallet was a letter from Ashlynn -- it had arrived a few days ago, and he'd read it so many times the creases in the paper were starting to become tears. But like every other person who had sought for some connection to John before he left, she hadn't received a reply. To some extent he felt a little guilty, wanting to write her back, but feeling like he had nothing to say that would be comforting or meaningful. The same thing had happened with Jill, he'd read the letter she tucked into his box (the one she'd hidden away from him after rehab), but didn't know how to answer it. His last cigarette was gone too soon, and the hands on the clock reached the witching hour even faster. 

Finally, he made the fateful call, asked for a cab, and made the trip to the airport. Before he knew it, he was standing at the gate, a half-boarded 757 ahead of him, Lakeview and all its memories to his back. Part of him hoped that someone would come screaming after him, Ashlynn maybe or Chloe, or even one of his siblings, but he knew they were all busy with their own lives, moving on without him, just like he was planning to do to them. His fingers played with his phone screen, scrolling through his text inbox, but not diving into any message threads. He looked over the names that sat there, Chloe, Ashlynn, Jill, Craig, Amanda, Reese, Ben -- he had made connections with all of them, memories of a life in Lakeview, thanks to all of them, and leaving now reminded him a lot of pain he had felt after losing Morgan. "It's not forever," he mumbled to himself, handing over his boarding pass, and shortly thereafter settling into his seat. But his hands wouldn't leave his phone, he just kept scrolling through phone numbers, call histories, and texts. It wasn't until the plane started to get quiet, as its passengers settled into their seats and prepared for the flight that John felt the first pang of regret. He fought every muscle in his body to keep himself from running off the plane and calling someone for a ride home, until the plane was in the air and he was staring out at a heavily-clouded sky.

When his feet touched the sidewalk outside of the Los Angeles airport, John let out a long breath. He felt as though he'd been holding it in the entire flight, and while it was a relief, it was also agony. The street was noisy, full of people and cars brushing past him, but John was at a standstill. He reached for a cigarette, but found his pockets empty, and looked around for anyone smoking outside. After the nicotine had passed through his lungs, and after a few more calming breaths, John turned his phone back on. There were no new messages, no missed calls, it was as if the flight to the alternate coast had closed the door to his life in North Carolina. He dialed Fiona's number, but there was no answer on the other end -- she was no doubt in a lecture or knee-deep in a study session, but John was hoping to hear her voice. He longed for some reassurance that being here was the right course of action, and his hands just kept coming up empty. For a moment he considered sending a text message to Jill, one of the few people who seemed genuinely excited for him to be moving on. And though it was also obvious that she would miss him, she had selflessly told him to chase the life he really deserved. Now more than ever he wanted to hear those words, to believe them, to stop second-guessing himself while he stood at a foreign curb. But his pride (and maybe a little of his fear) kept him from calling, and instead he sat down along the wall of the terminal and smoked the cigarette he had bummed while his head tried to process his new environment. 

The sound of muffled Pink Floyd from his pocket startled him back to full attention, and he lifted the black case casually to his ear. "Hi babe," he answered to Fiona on the other end. She gave him the much expected welcome speech, excitement evident in her voice at finally getting to see him, start their lives together. The call was short, but it gave him a sense of comfort that he hadn't felt getting off the plane. And it comforted him enough to walk out to the line of taxis, slide into the backseat (suitcase and all), and give the address to their new apartment. The ride was longer than he'd anticipated, traffic keeping them from gaining any speed on the highway, and John found himself once again thumbing his telephone. Absently, he let himself dial the number he'd been staring at the entire day. 

"Hi Mom," he said dryly, a soft quiver behind his throat, but John did his best to suppress it. She seemed surprised to hear from him, which would not have come to a shock to anyone who knew the Moskovitz family. It was no secret that the Moskovitz children held a bit of distaste for their mother -- she had prompted the divorce, and yet she had been the one lucky enough to stay in their hometown. "No, everyone's fine I--," he sighed, fighting his instinct to yell at her to be quiet. "No, Mom, just..." He bit his tongue as she asked about Dalton, then Craig, and finally Beth. One word answers about each of his siblings was all she got in return; they were "adjusting," "fine," and "healthy." Finally, she quieted and gave him the window to reveal why he had, for the first time since the divorce, willingly dialed her number. 

"I want the shoebox," he said as the taxi finally reached the exit for Fiona's street. For his new street. The other end of the line was silent as John continued, his fingers uncomfortably moving, as if reaching for a medicine bottle he knew he didn't have, desperate to flick his lighter or smoke a cigarette or pop a pill. "You can mail it to Lakeview, someone there will make sure I get it." If there had been a lack of confidence in his voice at the start of the call, it was gone now, and John sounded once again like the cocky, Brooklyn-raised teenage boy he was notorious for being. "And Mom, let me make one thing perfectly clear, everything I've gotten through, every amazing fucking accomplishment Dalton, Craig, and Beth have achieved, we earned it without your fucking help. You gave up an amazing fucking family, and I'm not letting you, or that fucking box, with that fucking history in it, keep me from living up to my potential anymore."

It didn't feel final to hang up the phone there, but John didn't really know what there was left to say. Did he ask for the box again, or did he just assume that she would mail it like he'd asked? He could hear soft, uneven breaths through the handset, an obvious tell that Lily was trying to stay stoic, a trait that all of the Moskovitz children had inherited. The taxi turned onto a side street just a few blocks from his new apartment before John spoke again. It had been an awkward silence, though it lasted only a few minutes, when he finally said, voice soft, yet firm, "I got everything I ever wanted, Mom, and I got it without you. As far as I’m concerned, once that box is in my hands, there’s nothing left tying me to you."