Vanilla Tokyo

Four-ish/Three-ish Years Ago 

He comes in that night around four in the morning, not drunk but hazy. You wake up at the sound of him stumbling down the hall in his boots, expletives coming out in droves under his breath. He opens the door to the bedroom letting in a stream of warm light from the hallway making you squint. 

Eddie leans against the wall, breaths coming in shallow while he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the side. He starts to undress while you sit up, watching him with a tug to your face – unsure of who you’re looking at. Who the person is in front of you. 

“You left,” you state plainly. Your heart aches with the icy fear that you fell for some prank, that maybe he went to the club and told everyone about what happened. That they all laughed at your expense, that he made a joke about it and made himself the hero. You resign yourself the that thought, believing it. The image of the girls on his lap in your mind makes your face burn with embarrassment, hidden in the dark where he can’t see.  

He looks back at you while he goes through his dresser, almost as if he forgot you were there. 

“Yeah,” he nods, “Had some stuff to do.” 

“Yeah, stuff,” you scoff bitterly, “You looked real busy with all those bitches on your lap.”

“Psh,” he shakes his head, tutting while he pulls on a pair of sweats, leaving the rest of him bare aside from his tattoos and the shiny silver jewelry on his fingers and neck, “Saw Jenna’s picture, huh? What’re you mad about? Had someone outside making sure you were good.” 

“‘You’re the only one I ever let in my bed – I missed you all the time,’” you mock, “So what – was that all bullshit or something?” 

“Really?” he seethes, crossing his arms tight against his chest, biceps bulging, “Bullshit, huh? You sound fuckin’ crazy.” 

“Crazy?” you ask back, crossing your own arms, “You pick me up from work, play savior for me and tell me all that shit, fuck me twice and then go to the club when I fall asleep? You think I’m not gonna be mad?” 

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he bites, “I can do whatever the fuck I want. I got you out of there, didn’t I? I got you away from him.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, and now I have 400 fucking missed calls and need to watch my back for the rest of m–” 

“You don’t need to watch your back, baby, I got it under c–” “Do not call me that,” you snap, getting up out of bed while frustration bubbles up in your throat, “You don’t get to call me that.” 

“I’ll call you whatever I fuckin’ please,” he bites, eyes flashing while you start to put pull clothes out of your duffel bags to put on, shoving on your shoes, “Where are you going?” 

“Home,” you answer tightly, “Gonna just go to my parents.”

“It’s four in the morning,” his voice raises slightly, “How you gonna get there, huh? Gonna walk or somethin'?” 

“You got a car don’t you?” you shrill, “Take me to my fuckin’ mom’s house. Maybe you can pick up your girls on the way back. You gotta go by the highway to get to mine anyway.”

“So this is the thanks I get?” he growls, watching you zip up your bags on his bed, “I go outta my way to get Gare to come see you, plan out this whole thing, put my life on the line – cause I don’t know if you know, but Bryan could probably snap my neck if he wasn’t such a booze bag – put my shit on the line to come get you out of there and now you wanna go ‘cause I went to go make some money?” 

“Entertaining Jenna and her friends isn’t making money, Ed,” you argue while you shove your pajamas into the duffel, “You’re out there doin’ blow with them and paying for dances – you think people don’t talk? You think people haven’t been telling me about you? About all the girls you got in and out of here?” 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” he huffs. “I don’t know what I’m talking about?” you counter, “Those tubes of lip gloss in your cup holder? The cheap fuckin’ -- I dunno -- Sweet Pea body spray smell left over in the van when you’d come pick me up? This was way before Bry, Ed – you’ve been, shit, you’ve been fucking me over this whole time.” 

“Fucking YOU over?!” he roars, “So I give some friends a ride home every now and again and I’m a fuckin’ scum bag?! You ever bother to ask me about it? Or did you just go ahead and assume I was fucking them?” 

You breathe to speak again but the words get caught in your throat, the disbelief in his face catching you in the chest. 

“Exactly,” he spits, “You think you fuckin’ know everything.” 

“The girls at the cl–” 

“You think they’re telling you the truth? You think they didn't just want you to get pissed and leave me alone? You really believe in anything, huh?” he rifles through his drawers again to pull on a shirt, “You that stupid? Did Bry knock too many screws loose?” 

“Fuck you,” you choke out, “You’re such an asshole.” “Yeah, yeah, I’m an asshole,” he huffs, sliding his sweats off and pulling his jeans back on, shoving his bare feet into his Docs, “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.” 

He pulls his hair up out of his face with a scrunchy around his wrist that you know belongs to one of the girls he was with. You swallow the bile rising in your throat, wondering what he told them when he got there. Did they all laugh? Did they all think you were pathetic? Did they all think about how easy you were – immediately letting him fuck you? 

“Jenna said you slept together,” you say quietly, “She doesn’t have a reason to lie about that. She –” You pause and Eddie looks at you, keys jingling in his hands while he shoves them in his jacket pockets. He leans back against the door frame, hands revealing themselves again to cross his arms over his chest; a barrier away from you, looking down the slope of his nose while you finish getting dressed.

“She asked since I was with someone else if it was okay – y’know, like, right around the time you told me to fuck off,” you continue, “So don’t – don’t lie to me about it. I know you’re fucking her and whoever.” 

“Yeah, it sucks doesn’t it? Thinkin’ somebody loves you but they’re out there fuckin’ someone else,” he says, measured and low, “Get in the van.”

What a difference from when he drove you home from the diner, the anxiety from the afternoon melting quick into a blood pumping, frustrated, rage. A hum of something just under your skin -- how could you be stupid enough to believe him? He'd proven to be anything but trustworthy. Devolving. Unraveling. New story after new story of town gossip like a game of telephone down the diner stools and into your ears. Texts and voicemails, pictures online, pictures sent to your phone. 'Have you guys been talking at all? Something's up with him.'

'You know he got another cross on his knuckles? He's starting to get pretty deep into shit. Maybe you should see if you can reel him in.'

But he wasn't yours to reel in anyway -- never was really, not after a certain point, could never be again.

“Watch how you fuckin’ drive,” you hiss while he speeds onto the highway, turning hard enough to make you hit your shoulder on the side door. 

“Why don't you watch that fuckin' mouth?” his voice erupts, threatening, “I don’t even gotta drive you home and you wanna get smart with me.” 

“Wow, real knight and shining armor shit for you to say,” you bitterly laugh, “You’re right you’re so much better. Bet you’re high as hell, too – you a tweaker or some shit now?” 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, running his tongue over his teeth while he presses down hard on the gas, “I’ll take you back to Bry’s place if you keep it up. S’that what you want?” 

“I want you to slow down,” you growl, “You’re driving crazy.” 

“This is just how I drive,” he shrugs, “Don’t get used to it. This is the last time I take you anywhere.” 

“Yeah, well thank God for that,” you snap, “Wouldn’t wanna get an STD from the seat.” 

Eddie tosses a glare your way, reaching into his jacket pocket to grab a cigarette – taking it in his mouth and lighting it with one hand, one fell swoop. He cracks the window to let the smoke out, force of habit now, even when you’re not in the car. You used to always make him open the window when you started dating. You drive in silence, both of you fuming at each other while you look at the road. He finishes his cigarette and immediately lights another – knee bouncing while the other leg keeps the car in drive.  After another five minutes the tension breaks, "Stop bouncing your leg."

“When did you turn into such a bitch, hm?” he ruins the quiet, voice darkened with something more, “You used to be such a sweet girl, I loved that girl. What happened?”

“You happened,” you let out with finality, your heart hammering when you say it. You see your eyes shine with wet tears when your reflection catches in the windshield – the street light illuminating you and then plunging you in darkness – a reminder, “You fucking happened.” 

“Real nice,” he ticks, “I wasn’t the one that beat the shit out of you, but okay. I fucking happened.” 

“What happened to you? Carrying a piece on you like you're hard or something?” you counter, “Junkie fuckin’ loser. Can’t even keep your own sta–” 

"You know what?! I don't have to listen to your fuckin' shit," the van screeches to a halt at the end of your street, the rumble of the engine cutting when it turns the key to leave you in silence, “Get out.” 

“No,” you argue, petulant but uncontrollable. 

“Get the fuck out of my car,” he says again, eyes straight on the road.

The measured tone of his voice makes you suck in your cheeks, biting your skin to keep from retaliating. Used to fights now, you always know how to get the last word – whether or not it ended in a fat lip or a black eye, it didn’t matter. He was right, you ran that mouth to the wrong person – and now you’re doing it again. 

You reach over to grab your duffel and backpack, tossing them on the street before you get out. The slam of the van door echoes down the empty road and you keep your eyes hard and steady through the window. 

He doesn’t even toss you a glance before driving straight through to get back on the highway. You’re almost thankful that he doesn’t see the first flow of tears start to pour out from the dried outer creases of your eyes, burning with new moisture. You hiccup and try to steady your breath while you hoist your bags up, making your way down the street to your parent’s place. The only sound on the block is the buzz of the orangey overhead lamps, the brush of trees in the wind, and the sound of you trying to swallow the next rack of sobs threatening to punch out from your chest. 

You weren’t even sure what part of the last forty eight hours was making you cry, but it felt good to let it all rest on the relief you felt at your mother’s near cheer of your name when you got in the door. 

It took a week of recuperating in the softness of your high school bedsheets to make your decision to leave. Sandra and your parents agreed it would probably be better if you went elsewhere for a little to lay low. You’d have your job back the second you stepped foot back in the diner, no questions asked.  Plus – Hawkins felt like a paper cut. Lemons and salt always finding a way to seep under the crack of your bedroom door. 

When you heard Eddie’s voice in your kitchen a few days ago to pick up Beau for the batting cages it stung you all the way up your throat. Maybe you are a fool. Maybe you were right the first time, staying in Fort Wayne –- So when you and your daddy packed up your car and his truck to go to your old college friend's house, it felt right. A few months crashing in her guest room was a good break – find some work out there and try to shake off the dust. Stretch. Become clean. It only took two weeks to get back in the swing of things. You picked up some temp work at a call center, more money than the diner, even with tips. Your mouth hung open when your first paycheck was dropped on your desk, awkwardly hiding your face while the 40 somethings snickered at you. At this rate, you could maybe save up for a place pretty quickly and just leave Hawkins behind. Maybe all the pain from before was a blessing in disguise -- you could finally do something right. Go back to school and get your masters, start working for the paper or something. Get a real job and be someone and never go back to the diner or your parents house again. Never have to worry about Eddie Munson and his stupid friends, never have to worry about his cross tattoos and all the cocaine. Never have to worry about seeing Bryan or the construction guys. It really could be over once you saved enough, especially since you're crashing in this guest room rent free. Weeks later, in the dead of night, your eyes snap open to the loud vibrate of your phone on the glass topped beside table by your head. Bzz bzz, bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. Bzz. Bzz, bzz. 

“Jesus fucking…what do you need?” you huff to yourself and to the phone, squinting into the brightness of your screen. the girls room 💗

ew, becoming ‘official’ with jenna?

jenna lynn or jenna marie?

he’s sooooo nasty. 

jenna-lynn

not surprising 

he’s def still sleeping with brooke, too 

OMG i know, they were hooking up at rick’s last night

You swallow while the group chat pings with a buzz over and over in your hand, another roll of sick rumbling over in your stomach when the screenshots come in from Jenna’s page. Close ups of them kissing, her manicured hand in his tattooed one – ‘down to ride until the very end, it’s me and my boyfriend’.  

not shocked at all, he’s been fucking jenna since before we broke up 

he’s fucking everyone over there 

he’s such a skeeze 

whatever the boy version of slut is he’s that 

I don’t care, you assure yourself, and maybe it's a lie -- but the thought of getting your own place and really starting your life over here was getting sweeter by the day. Jenna could have your ex-boyfriend if it meant you could move on, if it meant you could just be happy. If it meant you could breathe.

Three Years Ago

After some months of the temp agency and an additional two to three nights bartending after work you had enough to start renting your own place. Nothing too fancy. Your college friend and her wife were on the hunt with you, despite their shared sadness over not having weekly nights anymore once you moved out. You always have the best commentary and get the best snacks.

The momentum of finding a place coincided with your plans to go back to school. You'd spend time after work at the call center looking up places to apply, what aid you qualified for, what made sense with what you wanted to do. If you even knew what you wanted to do -- the possibilities finally felt endless. You rarely drank these days, only in a bar when you were working in one. Mentally, a lot had changed -- anger bubbling just under the surface, unhashed out feelings left discarded in a metal box locked up in the back of your mind. But clear headed, determined -- all that other sludge could come later. You had a whole list of shiny knew things on your horizon. The rot comes last. Your group chat never mentioned Eddie anymore, any of that crew -- just work and after work plans. One of your friends was about to get engaged. Promotions. Vacations. They'd moved on, too. You went to sleep that night after seeing two apartments and applying to both, just waiting to hear back on your applications in the next day or so. You already knew where you were going to put the cream deep seat couch you put on layaway at Bob's. You already drafted out a budget and got a planner for your bills. You bought a vanity for all the makeup you bought for yourself -- everything finally just yours. Not a gift, not an apology. Just you.

Bzz bzz, bzz bzz. Bzz bzz. Bzz. Bzz, bzz. 

You wake up with the cool light of a partly cloudy morning shining in over you, hitting snooze on your phone before rolling over with it in your hand. You hardly wait to check your email, heart thudding against your chest while it loads. Great news! Your application has been accepted!

Your heart swells and rises in your throat, tears pricking your eyes while you click on the subject line. Attached was your lease, you had two days to respond -- it was happening, it was all finally happening.

Tossing your phone you hop out of bed to tell your roommates in their bedroom, only stopping breifly when your phone rings - 'Mama' glowing on the screen.

"Mom!" you bounce on your feet while you squeal into the speaker, "Mom! I got the place! I got one of the apartments!" She doesn't respond, you check your screen to see that you're still connected with a quirked brow. "Mom?" you ask.

"Baby, I'm so sorry to tell you this," she sniffles, the croak in her voice making it clear that she's been crying.

Ice replaces your excitement in your veins, numbness creeping into your limbs, fingers, and toes.

"Tell...tell me what?" you stutter, "What happened?"

"It's your daddy," she cries, "He's in the hospital. He had a heart attack at the shop and -- oh honey, it's -- it's not lookin' good."

"Should I...wait...is he -- what do you mean?"

"He's not gonna make it, I don't think," she rasps, "So you -- you better come on home to see him." The room doesn't spin when you hang up -- it's never felt more still. The breeze doesn't blow through the windows, the sheer baby blue curtains hang -- cradling the pale white light from outside. It's never been more quiet. You've never felt more real. The room feels like a picture book around you, pop out pages in guest room technicolor feel too well rendered.

You turn to move but feel stuck. What were you doing before this?

Roomates. The apartment.

You body takes the steps to your friend's and her wife's bedroom and you knock on the door, following through at their welcome.

"Did you get it?" she asks with a smile from their patterned sheets.

"I have to head home," you say quietly, but your voice sounds far away, "My dad's in the hospital."

You pack a bag in silence, still feeling drawn into the scene -- this wasn't really happening, right? Your dad wasn't really dying, right? You're okay, right?

When you get in the car and get out of the city bounds of Fort Wayne, a piece of you stays there on pause. You know you have to come back to get it. You have to come back to press play.

Your mama had never wailed so loud. Piercing through the numbing droll of the flatline still ringing in your ears. You aren't even sure if you'd ever seen her cry like that before.

Beau buries his face in your ribs while your mom lays over your daddy's chest in the hospital room. You heart sinks but the tears aren't there yet -- it's not real yet. Six hours ago he snickered at you when you walked into his room, 'Oh, is that my city girl? Made it all the way back here to see her daddy?'

You showed him pictures of the apartment on your phone and he kissed your temple. Said he'd help you on move in day so 'none of those bastards in a moving truck could pull one over on ya'.

Not anymore, you guess. 'Cause your daddy's dead now and the bank wants to know where the money is for all those loans he took out for the house and the shop. The banks wondering why there's so many back payments. Your mama doesn't know how she's gonna keep up. With Beau asleep, you and your mama both sit in the kitchen at the table, eyes weary and bloodshot. "Well we can just, you know -- we just gotta get a death certificate to the bank mom," you assure, looking over the piles of past due bills and IOUs on the hardwood, varnish chipping away, "Debt doesn't stick around now that he's gone -- it'll be fine." "It's not just his debt," she shrugs, pitiful in her posture, the ache in her spine evident, "I signed for them too, and now I -- I don't know what to do, I can't -- How am I supposed to pay this off and pay the rent on the house? That was you know -- the shop was how we got that money in."

"Well I --" you start, but stop yourself. You know what you want to say, but you don't want to say it outloud. It feels stuck in your mouth like caramel on your teeth. Hardened. Cloudy like peanut butter, or a dry biscuit. You lick your lips -- your voice sounds like a recording -- your kitchen like a movie set. When you finally speak, the piece of you on pause in Fort Wayne glitches like a fuzzy TV screen.

"...I could move back home."

"Oh, honey, you just got approved for that new place," she weakly urges, but you can tell by the slight perk in her shoulders that she was hoping you'd say that.

"The rent there'll be...way higher than if I find a place here, and I can use that extra money to help with these loans," you nod, "And I can...y'know I can go back to the diner. Sandra said I'm always welcome."

"You don't wanna stay in your room?" she asks with a smile, her frosted pink lipstick spreading with the lines in her lips.

"Think I'm a little old for that now," you smile back, swallowing the sick crawling up into your mouth with a hot burn. Lost your daddy and your ticket out all in one day, your feet go numb with the realization of what that means for you. Too tired to think much longer, you fall sleep on the couch -- all the papers still left out in the morning to greet you.

The numbess follows you throughout the week, barely recognizing yourself in the mirror in your black dress and heels. Hollow, mostly, was what you were getting -- sunken in and sullen, hazy.

Your stuff was already all moved out of Fort Wayne, you sent the decline email to the realtor for the apartment, you passed in your keys to your roommates and gave them your goodbyes. You picked up the piece of yourself that you left there and superglued it back in -- you could feel it fighting you the whole time you drove through Hawkins. A perpetual scream begging you to turn back around and never go back. Your momma will figure it out, Beau could come live with you -- anything but being back there.

But that's not the kind of girl your daddy raised, the kind that steps up to the task, who takes it on the chin. It'll just be a couple more years, your momma's already looking for better work and more clients. It'll be fine -- just fine. Life was just waiting on the otherside, life can be on pause again just like it was before. The piece of you from Fort Wayne just a dead pixel from the moment you crossed the border back in to Hawkins.

"You coulda taken an iron to that dress, honey," your mom says when you walk into the kitchen, "Y'know your Aunt Tess is gonna say somethin' about it."

"Aunt Tess's daddy didn't just die, so I think my dress can be a little wrinkled," you sigh, putting your phone, gum, gloss, and wallet into your wristlet.

The ride to the funeral home was quiet, Beau tapping on the window occasionally to match a song beat. You look at him in the rear view mirror, gangly pre-teen in a suit that's both too big and too small for him; a weight on his shoulders with the burden of something being missing. You take a piece of Bubble Yum and hold it over the head rest, feeling his fingers brush yours when he takes it. "What flavor?" "Cotton candy, duh," you say to his reflection, "What kind of sister to you think I am?"

A smile creases his face, the first you've seen since you've been home.

The service was a blur, countless hugs and condolences, sobbing through your eulogy at the podium while your hands shook and your mascara melted down your cheeks. The guys from the garage came in their garage best, bringing his favorite paper weight and prized wrench from the shop to put in his casket with him. You wonder if he'd want to remember work in the afterlife -- you think he'd just want his Jimmy Buffet CDs and a margarita mixer to bring to his next stop.

More hugs and condolences, some jokes and talks with cousins -- half there and half not. Smiling and chatting while the ache of reality hits in a thud that knocks the wind out of you every time you escape to the bathroom for a breather. The room spins and then you settle, water to the face -- makeup ruined but it didn't matter anyway. You can't imagine anyone but your Aunt Tess caring.

It's at the end of the line of the final respects at the funeral that you hear the familiar clink of metal, a known swish of leather. Your eyes stay glued to the musty carepted floor, lingering on your shoes before you see the shine of his two people over. "I'm so sorry," you hear the tobacco coated grizzle of him when he hugs your mom. First your fingers then your toes go numb, your throat closes -- gaze now glued to that spot on the rug. You listen when she collapses into his chest with a heavy sob. With a flicker over of your eyes you see Beau in the embrace, too. The room spins again, so does your stomach. You meet the bathroom in a hurry before he gets a chance to let go of them. Bile pours out of you and you're not quite sure if it's from the pain or if it's from the sound of his voice. If it's from the Bubble Yum on an empty stomach or the dead pixel in your heart. On your knees in the funeral home bathroom you rest your cheek on the cool porcelain of the toilet. Staring at the wood paneling on the wall, you trace the lines of the woodwork with your eyes. Maybe if you just stay right here in this spot, your dad wouldn't be dead and your exboyfriend wouldn't be here and your mom wouldn't be crying into his chest. If you close your eyes and open them, still in this spot, you'll wake up in the bathroom in Fort Wayne. But you don't. The elevator music on the shitty speaker in the corner of the room crackles out. A voice comes on to announce that everyone should head to the parking lot so they can start the processional. Bury your dad. Insane. After what felt like years, you lift yourself up off the floor to rinse out your mouth in the sink -- popping another piece of gum in the process. Your tongue stained blue like a kid; and you feel like one. You know your Aunt Tess will say something about it to your mom later, how you're too old to have a wrinkled dress. Too bad it's not her funeral.

You slide out of the bathroom and back to the car, settling in the passenger's seat -- car clunking awkwardly to life when your mom starts the engine.

After the casket is lowered, people stick around and watch in silence while you, your mother, and Beau toss your flowers and the first couple of shovels of dirt over the grave. The men at the garage pay their final respects, going down the line of the three of you with hugs and tears. They’ll all be drunk and rowdy by tonight at the reception at the auto body shop; a party you can barely think about right now while tomorrow’s financial’s loom over you. The line runs out, people going back to their cars while you listen to your mom cry and hear the wind whistle through the trees of the cemetery. There’s a chill that you wished you’d prepared for, running goosebumps over your arms. 

“Your mom isn’t in any position to drive,” your Aunt Tess says to you quietly, dabbing her eyes with an embroidered kerchief, “So I’ll drive her and Beau home to change and then to the reception.” “What do I do?” you ask. 

“Just take her car,” she responds. 

That’s not really what you were asking, but you nod anyway, taking the keys that she holds in front of you. While you stand there in the blow of the wind, you listen to your mom’s cries get quieter as they move further away – leaving you alone with the empty plot of ground and your dad’s casket. You stare at it, part of you expecting it to open and have him look at you and wink – ‘Thank God all those losers are gone, huh kid?’ he’d say in that raspy voice of his. But he doesn’t pop up. You twirl the keys to your mom’s car on your finger, nodding to yourself while you take a final glance at the plot and walk to her beat up Toyota Corolla. Settled in the driver’s seat with the window down, you put your hands on the wheel – it feels like how it did in Fort Wayne. Everything’s too bright, everything looks drawn, everything feels like a picture book that you fell into; waiting for the director to yell CUT! Swallowing and shimmying out the uncomfortable gnawing in your head, you put the keys in the ignition, the familiar Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! chugging it to life.

“Y’know, it’s not supposed to sound like that.” 

Your eyes close, letting a breath out through your nose, “Yeah, I know.” 

His rings clink against the edge of the window when he wraps his fingers around it, “I can check it out for you, if you want?” 

“Shop’s closed,” you say despondently.

“I got my tool belt at mine,” he explains, “Why not, huh? Might be a good surprise for your mama, something she doesn’t have to worry about.” 

You consider it, and you know you don’t have it in you to go to the reception. A party where everyone eats and gets drunk and listens to music and talks about your dad. The more you imagine it, the more you see the bars of the movie scene in your head close in on you. Crushed between the weight of them.

“Um…” you start, and then nod, still looking at the pavement ahead of you, “Yeah, yeah why not.”  You can’t find it in you to turn and look at him quite yet. 

“Atta girl,” he grins, his smile just as charming as ever you’re sure, “I can drive, if that’s good for you.”

Still staring at the pavement you nod wordlessly, a pause at the stillness while the trees blow in the wind. It would’ve been a good day to play wiffle ball with Beau and dad. But — not anymore. Not really. 

You get out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. Your eyes scan the grass and back to the pavement, seeing his shoes again. It’s all you can let yourself see — he smells like Paco Rabanne One Million now, not the Polo Black he used to wear when he first wanted to impress you. Wayne never let him hear the end of it when he’d used up the last few spritzes of his uncle's good stuff.

Spicy with a hint of cigarette smoke, a ghost sits next to you in the driver’s seat. You feel his hand hit your head rest while he backs up to turn the car around. His scent wafts over you and it feels like a scratch and sniff, like smell-o-vision. You can’t really be here, right? In the car with Eddie Munson leaving your dad’s funeral? How many deaths is he going to be witness to? How many times does this all have to die? 

The ride is quiet, the blow of the wind through the window just deafening enough to not hear the music on the radio. You shut your eyes, if only for a moment, only for them to open at the entryway to Forest Hills and not on the freeway in Fort Wayne.

“Where’s the van?” you ask quietly while you pull in by the trailer — the van a permanent fixture in how you remember the place. 

“Uh, my old man he, um —” he starts, leaning back in the seat while he sucks his teeth, “Well, you know how he is…”

“He took it?” 

“Yeah but…but like, y’know – he mighta needed it,” Eddie shrugs, “I uh..I got a Camaro, but it’s in the shop getting detailed.” 

“How’d you get to the funeral?” 

“Gare brought me,” he replies quietly, turning off the ignition and getting out of the car, you follow suit, “He was there – you woulda seen ‘im if you didn’t run away.”

“Hm,” you nod, feet landing on the edge of the indent where the van always parked. The grass permanently worn in the grooves of the wheels, “What he steal from you this time?”  It's then that your eyes flick up and you see him: black jeans and a white button down, black tie. All his jewelry freshly shined like his shoes. His hair in a wavy mop down to his shoulders, curls more defined than normal. You wonder for a moment if he's using anything new. Your stomach flips when he meets your gaze and for a second you think maybe it's shifted to fondness. Eddie stumbles on his words when you press again, unsure if it's from the eye contact or if he's just embarassed, "Well?"

“My dad? He didn’t, he…Well, he just needed to get back on his feet, that’s just…” he sighs when you cross your arms over your chest, knowing, “...A few grand.” 

“You gotta stop letting him come find you,” you chastise quietly while you make your way to the porch, “He’s not your friend.” 

“Okay, Wayne,” Eddie rolls his eyes, opening the storm door and fishing out his keys to let you both in, “I’m gonna change and then I’ll get to work on this. You can um – you can help yourself to anything in the fridge, watch TV or whatever.” 

“I have some calls to make, so – I’ll just be in the kitchen,” you both make your way into the trailer, looking more and more modern with each change he makes to it. He starts to undo his tie while he nods at you, sliding it off himself and starting on the buttons of his shirt. 

“Everything good?” he asks, the top of a wife beater and the shine of his silver chain visible while he stops mid task. 

“Well my dad just died, so…” you shrug with a tight smile on your face, eyes focused on the linoleum on the table. The laugh track on the show you’re in plays mockingly, the piece of you that belonged in Fort Wayne fuzzes over, fades to black.