A/N: I'm aware of how over used these story lines are, but they are just so fun to write! I really hope you guys like it! It would be great if you could leave a review to let me know if I should carry on or not.
I still feel nauseated from the plane journey; it was two days ago.
Something about travelling through time zones just doesn't really sit well with me. I'm all for long plane rides, but as soon as I step off my stomach feels funny.
"Tris? Did you hear what I said?" the direct question snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Sorry, what?"
"The boxes." Caleb repeats. He sits directly in front of me on our new dinner table, "I asked if you took your boxes to your room."
I lean my elbows further down onto the table and dramatically place my head into my hands, grunting as a form of replying a 'yes'.
"I thought you overcame your jet lag years ago. You were fine when we went travelling last year," he sipped his tea thoughtfully, his glasses balancing on the tip of his rather hooked nose, his green eyes fixed on the newspaper he holds. He looks so much like our father in moments like these. Old and wise looking, his dimples showing every now and then with the concentration in his eyes so obvious it's almost mesmerising to look at. It always surprised me how easily Caleb could concentrate. It's some how calming.
I sit up, remembering Caleb asked me a question, "I guess there's something about never going back which triggers the sickness in me,"
"Don't be so dramatic, Tris." he says, turning to look at me with a slight, rather forced, laugh, "No one said anything about not going back."
I feel like a child, constantly fidgeting in my seat, "No, but they might as well have. The house is practically emptied out, and on the market, we're officially out of our old school. Going back would mean staying in a hotel and that just wouldn't feel right. I'd rather not do that." 'they' being our parents, both of which are currently touring the new neighbourhood.
Caleb just went back to reading his newspaper, conceding. I slump further in my chair, not knowing what to do. Quite ironic, since I know what I should be doing. My new room awaits, with boxes stacked high, ready to be emptied out. I get up, leaving my brother and turn the corner to the hallway. Looking around, I recall the layout of our old house in London. Small yet spacious, with the interior being the exact same as that of the other houses on the same road. Still going to have to get used to this.
I climb the stairs two at a time. The first floor landing has access to two of the four bedrooms in the house, one study, and one bathroom. I climb the next flight of stairs, to the second floor my right is the door to mine, and to the left is the door to Caleb's. We have an adjoining bathroom in between. I turn into my room an open the door, only for it to be constricted by the pile of boxes blocking it.
I inwardly groan, squeezing my way through the crack in the door, careful not to topple over any of the boxes. Other than that, the only things currently in my room are my desk and the bed. My refusal of unpacking left me sleeping on the sofa in the living room for the past two nights, but I need to get it together.
My window seat looks uncomfortable with the lack of pillows, my bed doesn't have a mattress and my desk chair is still in it's box and needs to be built. There is literally nowhere for me to sit, so I plug my phone into the speakers, set it down on the desk and get to work unpacking the boxes.
The music is so loud I fail to hear the the knocking on the door. I see movement in my peripheral as it opens and I reach to turn the music off. The sudden silence leaves a ringing in my ear.
"Mum and Dad are back, they want to know if you're staying for lunch," Caleb says as he peeks his head around the door, unable to fit through the small gap. He looks around what he can see of the room. "Jesus, Tris. You might want to finish unpacking. We've been here long enough,"
I ignore his comment, however correct he is, "Yeah, I'll be here for lunch. Not exactly many places I can go to,"
Do I really want to spend another day in the house, wearing the same pyjamas? Caleb begins to close the door.
"Actually," I start, "tell them I'm going out."
Caleb turns to look at, confused at first. He then just rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind him. He's put up with me for sixteen years, he's learnt to just stop asking questions based around my indecisiveness.
Looking around my room, I see how little I managed to achieve in the time I spent unpacking; one of the disadvantages of having a big room. Back in London, I had the best bedroom. It wasn't too small that I was cramped but it wasn't too big that I would spent hours attempting to tidy it. I collapse onto the bed with a groan and lie there, staring up at the ceiling. The room was freshly painted before our plane landed, and the bed frame was put together on our first day here. Why I'm so against unpacking, I have no idea. It's just the thought that making this house permanent feels like an insult to home back in London.
I lie there for a minute. The jet lag is still pressing down on my eyelids, goading me to sleep, and for a second, I'm tempted to admit defeat. Instead, I force myself up and walk over to the bathroom, lock the door on both sides and turn the shower on.
It's crazy the difference five minutes makes. Five minutes ago, my hair was greasy and I might as well have been asleep, but now, I feel fresh and awake. Well, as awake as I can be. Towel wrapped around me, I make my away towards the small walk-in wardrobe in the other side of the room. Thankfully, I've already unpacked most of my clothes, though my favourite boots are still lost in one of the boxes.
I pull black jeans off one of the hangers, but too quickly, and the hanger goes flying off. I ignore it and grab a turtle neck that's folded on one of the shelves. The dark green of the top compliments my hair colour, or so that's what a friend of mine said back home. With the outfit on, I stare at myself in the full length mirror. My dirty blonde hair is almost dry and comes up to just below my shoulder. It falls straight, framing my face. My long nose is too thin, making me look like a little girl who's features don't fit her face.
Sighing, I pull on black boots and a denim jacket as I walk out the door with nothing but some money in my pocket, leaving my phone on the desk. My father had to change all the money in our bank accounts to fit the currency here. I don't think I'll ever get over a one dollar note.
"Tris, could you not slam your feet on the stairs so much?" I hear my Dad say as I climb down the last set of stairs. I turn towards the kitchen to see him and my Mum making sandwiches for lunch. I walk towards them to give them a kiss and run back towards the door, taking one of the keys from the dish in the entrance and slam the door behind me.
Once outside, I take a deep breath. Before now, I haven't been outside for the past two days. The fresh air is relaxing, and I stand there for a minute in the autumn weather with my hands in my pocket just looking around. The street has a line of trees either side of the road, all with orange leaves ready to fall in mid-October. That is, if they haven't fallen already, as the pavement is covered in a disarray of yellow and red and orange. It's as if the colours of a flame welded together to form the leaves of a tree.
It's beautiful.
As much as I miss London, I do have to admit - Chicago is a stunning city.