Trapped in Forever

26 ~ Cantankerous About Their Latest Horoscope

A/N: I am so sorry about the belatedness of this chapter. I was almost, sort of busy. But the main purpose of this author's note is to tell you to read the 2nd note at the bottom (I wanted to avoid spoilers) about a certain character. ;) It will be helpful if you've been reading this a while and can't remember all of the details. I hope you like this chapter!

My fingers coiled around the edge of the car door, curling around the thick plastic flap in the middle, and pressing the pads of my fingers against the window pane, smudging them with my fingerprints, and I stepped foot onto the firm, dark, and glistening sidewalk beside the curb, instantly smelling the aromas of mildew, grass, and maybe the distant smoke of a fire, the rubber soles of my shoes making faint scuffing sounds on the cement, and I smiled back at him, feeling the wind dislodge a lock of hair behind the back of my ear and blowing it in my face, fluttering against my cheek and nose, a couple of strands sticking to my lips, and as I reached up to brush it back, I wiggled my fingers slightly at him. Resting against the upper rim of the steering wheel, he wiggled his fingers back at me just as I slowly pushed the door closed.

“Goodnight,” I could hear him say, watching his lips through the smudged, somewhat frosty window pane that separated us, and I nodded back, biting my lips, and pressed the door closed as quietly as possible. He had parked a couple houses down from mine, but I didn’t want the risk the chance of my mother’s super hearing picking up the sound of a car door slamming, then her slipping on her fuzzy, pastel slippers and scurrying into my bedroom, as, apparently, I was now another wild child for her to buy teenage parenting books about.

I turned away from the frosty windows of his station wagon, seeing the somewhat fuzzy image of him, leaning back in his seat, the upper part of his seat-belt maneuvered behind his back and shoulders, with his hand laid lazily on the steering wheel, and the radio quietly crooning soundtracks that were beginning to burn into my memory like the discs he used, and dug my hands into my pockets, knuckles pressing into my hips, and ambled off of the darkened sidewalk and onto the grass, wet blades bending in the oval shape of my shoes, a blade or two flicking back up occasionally in my wake, continuing the trail of wet footprints, and over the sounds of an owl hooting in the distant woods behind the Cul-De-Sac, a couple of muffled car horns, and far-off traffic, I could still hear the rumble of his engine, pulled up to the curb, and I knew he was watching me.

In the back of my mind, as I walked across those dewy lawns with plastic kid toys sprawled across the damp grass blades with droplets of water resting on the primary colors of the slides, swings, and discarded bicycles, I knew this was because he was making sure I could still get back into the house (like what your friend’s mother does after sleepovers when she takes you home, sleeping bag in tow) but a little part of me wondered if maybe it was for a different reason.

. . .

As my feet hit the carpeted steps, making small, muffled noises with each step, I could hear the sound of the freezer running and then ice being cracked out of our ice tray and falling into liquid, making a little clink against the glass as it went. Next I heard the freezer door being quietly shut and the slaps of bare feet against the white tiled kitchen floor. Once I reached the hardwood floor, solid under my feet, I turned a corner to see my sister, standing in the kitchen, her back turned to me while she lifted a glass full of orange juice, almost invisible ice cubs floating along as she tipped it back. Her one foot was lifted, rubbing the back of her shin, exposing the tale of a blue dolphin tattoo she got on her ankle four months ago as an early Christmas present to herself. Slowly, after swallowing, she set the drink down and stared out the window, silently, and then let out a long, drained breath through her lips.

I stood there for a moment, watching my wild child sister look, for once, at peace. Her wavy, light brown, normally crimped hair was tied back in a ponytail, flooding down her back. I recognized the shirt she wore as the one she bought at a Coldplay concert, a few, scribbled, black autographs on her back, too indistinct for me to read. Black shorts just barely went five inches down her thighs and matching nail polish was painted on both her finger and toenails. She seemed different somehow, and as my brow furrowed, I couldn’t think just how that could’ve been possible.