Yes, this is a lame short chapter, I know. But next chapter will be better. I had major writer's block and had some trouble getting through this one. Next will be more dialogue and action. Some *things* will happen. You'll see :)
Ash is woken early a few mornings later by a ringing noise.
A loud ringing noise. The sound is so horrible, it's like she's rubbing a cheese grater against her ear canal.
The oh-so-lovely noise is her phone. She left the stupid device under her pillow— a fatal flaw in the sciences of sleep, according to professionals— and now the damn thing is going off at… wait, what time even is it?
She sits up on one elbow and squints at the bedside clock. It's 11:13 AM. Okay, not that early.
Yet still way too early.
Now she picks up her phone, and it's no surprise when she sees who is calling her.
Her contact picture for Johnny isn't the most flattering of images. It was one she captured during a leisurely day at the theater.
"Ash! Get back 'ere!" Johnny lunges forward at her, but his balance is so off that the lunge turns into a wobbly, one-legged pose. "Gimme back my shoe, dammit!"
She giggles, skirting around a box of props. She has one of his dark blue Converse tucked under one arm, her phone held up in her other hand. It's on the camera app, set to record every desperate movement he makes.
He's hot on her heels— so hot, in fact, she can feel his puffs of breath on her back and— oh. He's caught her.
She dangles from his grasp like a piece of lint. She thrashes desperately, keeping the shoe firmly nestled in the crook of her arm. "Holy shit, Johnny, put me down!"
"Only if you gimme my shoe back," he counters.
Her feet seem so high above the ground, it's insane. She swings her legs and shakes viciously, hoping maybe that will jostle a few quills loose. But nothing works. His fingers are still holding fast to her shirt thanks to some sort of invisible glue.
She holds her phone high, framing his face on the screen. "Say cheese, big guy!"
There's a dazzling flash that sends him reeling. As a result, she's dropped back on the floor. Ash scrambles to her feet and races back to their rehearsal room, slamming the door shut behind her.
She scrolls swiftly to her photos app and scrutinizes her loot of embarrassing pictures and videos. It's like a goddamn gold mine of Johnny pictures. She zooms in on one and examines it closely.
He's running fast in this one… so fast that… the edge of his shirt is flying upward— is that a hint of abs?
Yeah, she's gonna have to keep that one. Ash smirks as she moves that particular photo to a private folder.
This is when Johnny finally catches up with her, getting into the locked room with his own key. "Hey!" he roars. In instant, he's rammed into her, spinning her around and snatching back his shoe.
"Hey!" she yells indignantly.
"Just takin' back," he grumbles, voice muffled as he slides the shoe back on and reties the laces, "what's rightfully mine."
She stands on her tiptoes and tugs at his shirt. "I thought I was rightfully yours?"
"Yeah, but…" He winces, and she recognizes this face and tone of voice. Clearly some of her sassy sarcasm has rubbed off onto him. His sweet personality has been tarnished by her, and she loves it. "… they're my Converse. These buggers aren't cheap."
"Shut up!" Ash says suddenly. She whirls him around, fistfuls of his shirt enclosed in her hands, and pushes him down onto the floor into a pile of music sheets.
The papers flutter upward at the sudden movement, scared off like a flock of birds. Then, gracefully as leaves in autumn, they sway back down to the ground. One lands on his shoulder, and she brushes it away as she climbs on top of him.
"I wish you would just shut up and kiss me," she tells him.
"I believe that's a wish I can grant," he says. His large hand slides underneath her quills, resting on her back. Feeling his warmth through her shirt makes liquid fire shoot up her spine. He pulls her in while she leans close. They both smile into the kiss, but she knows his grin is wider when their teeth click.
The memory from a few weeks ago fizzes away from her wistful eyes. As Ash readjusts to reality, she realizes she's hugging her pillow, and it's wet from tears.
With a grunt, she kicks the quill-studded pillow away and glances back at her phone.
She has three new missed calls from Johnny. All from over fifteen minutes ago. How long was she lost in the perfect world of three weeks ago?
Johnny's contact picture is the one she took with the flash on to surprise him. His jaw is dropped, fangs peeking out, eyes wide and a brilliant caramel color in that lighting. She looks at it for a long time, but stops when she feels herself reaching for the pillow again.
The homesickness has hit her hard the past few days since she arrived at her parents' house. She's stayed inside most of the time, only going out to the drugstore once to buy a few choice items.
She can hear her mother moving around in the kitchen, opening and slamming the fridge door and various cupboards. Val is the absolute last animal Ash feels like dealing with right now, but it had dawned on her the moment she set foot back in Cheetah Rapids.
Her parents are all she's got. She wanted to escape the mess in Calatonia. Now she's here in Iowa. There must be some reason she came, right?
Love? Probably not that. She isn't getting much of it.
Guidance? Eh. She hasn't really found a whole lot of that either.
Attention? Something different? Something familiar and comforting?
Those will have to be her reasons.
Ash drags her feet along the old, crusty carpet in the hallway. The shades are still drawn over the windows in the kitchen, and the only source of light is from the old ceiling fan overhead. The crooked table is bathed in a foggy yellow light, like a lantern crowded with moths.
She slides down into a chair and looks at her mother. Val is popping a couple of bread slices into the toaster. A complaint instinctively slinks into Ash's mind, but she pushes it away. Anything is better than the shitty, cardboard-flavored frozen meals that have made up her diet in the past week.
"Morning, Mom," she says.
Val pulls out a half-eaten stick of butter from the fridge door and drops it carelessly onto the table. It lands with a clang that beats again on Ash's poor eardrums.
"Morning," her mother mutters.
A few minutes later, the toaster coughs out the two bread slices, both of which are thoroughly singed on both sides. Her mother may as well have taken a flamethrower to the entire goddamn loaf.
The toast is hard as a rock when she bites into it, and tastes like her namesake— ash. She spits it out and sits in silence as her mother takes the other slice and glides a glob of butter over it with a knife.
"If you aren't gonna eat, how about you go and get the mail?" Val asks.
Ash pushes her chair back and heads over to the front door, rubbing one eye as she goes. Her father is asleep in the armchair in the living room, jaws parted to allow a loud snore to escape. The older-than-her TV is still on, flickering from one scene in an old rerun to the next.
She makes her jaunt down the front walk a quick one. To a bystander or passerby, she's probably nothing more than a brown blur. Her hand darts into the mailbox, fingers close on the stack of envelopes, and she's back up the walk and inside the small house.
She pauses in the small foyer, leaning against the closed front door and sifting through the mail. One envelope snags her attention. It's thicker than the rest, and it has her name on it.
The handwriting is vaguely familiar, but there's no return address.
She jogs back through the kitchen, tossing the rest of the junk mail and bills onto the table. She breezes into her room and locks the door behind her.
She tears into the envelope, ripping the paper mercilessly as if it were a morsel of food and she hasn't eaten in five years.
"What…?" she mumbles.
Its contents, a note and a small bag, tumble out onto her unmade bed. She picks up the note and reads.
Hey Ash. I don't know why you left, but I hope you're happy where you are. I remember you telling me Iowa is where your parents live, so I know you're safe there. Even so, if you want me to come, I will be there as soon as I can.
And if not, then I hope I see you soon. Don't ask how I got your address— it's kind of a long story.
But I just hope you're doing OK. Rosita seems to know something the rest of us don't, and she's keeping her lips zipped. Kind of makes me even more worried.
I miss you. A lot. I miss your smile and your eyes and your kisses and your voice. I'm not good at writing these love letter thingies. Sorry.
I'm also sorry about something else. It's my fault your lucky pick is gone. I guess that's an old problem now, but I figured now might be a good time to give these to you. I hope you like them and put good use to them, because I got the highest quality I could find. I think they're the same kind as your old one.
Yours,
Johnny
Ash's hand is trembling when she reaches for the bag and opens it.
Guitar picks. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty guitar picks, all green and shiny and new.
oo0oo
It didn't take long for the police to track down Ash. All it took was giving them her cellphone number, and they were able to locate her phone in a remote part of Iowa. Johnny remembers her mentioning her birthplace being in a remote part of Iowa.
Instantly, he had relaxed. All the stress and tension had melted off his muscles, dripping away like condensation. Sure, he's still hurt that she's gone. But knowing that she's safe and with her family makes him feel a million times better.
Now he's standing in the post office with a small baggie of guitar picks in his hands. He had bought them the day after their fight, when he'd snapped her lucky pick in half. It's honestly a damn miracle Ash never discovered those pieces— probably Ms. Crawly swept them right into the trash without a second thought. He's never been more grateful for the old secretary's obliviousness.
Ash isn't answering Johnny's calls. That is still a major problem, of course. Just because the police department's technology tracked down her phone, it might not mean she's okay. But how could she not be? She's Ash!
Strong, resilient, stubborn, fearless Ash. It had killed him so much to see her crumble like that in his arms.
He never wants to see that happen again. She's supposed to be the strong one. He's supposed to be the big softie. He can be a shoulder to cry on, but that doesn't mean he has to like his unofficial job title.
He grabs a large envelope from a stack on a shelf and slides in his handwritten note and the bag of loose guitar picks. He swipes his tongue along the edge of the envelope, sealing it, then scribbles the address the cops had tracked her phone to. 53 Hedge Avenue.
He steps up to the mailbox and squeezes his eyes shut as he slides the envelope inside. He hears it drop to the bottom of the pile, echoing with a hollow thud that sounds similar to the thudding of his heart.
A day or two later, he takes his truck for a drive, because it's nearly one hundred degrees and too hot to bear doing much else. As he's coasting along a remote coastline road, fingers light on the steering wheel because there's no cars either way for miles, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
He yanks the car over to the narrow shoulder and checks the device.
Ash.
He picks it up in a split second.
"Ash," he says through gritted teeth. "What the hell— where have you— how did you—?"
"I'm okay, Johnny." Her voice is softer than her fur, and heavy like syrup, as if she's just woken up from a long nap.
He presses back into the seat. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Johnny." He can practically hear the smile in her words. "I'm coming home."