Chapter 9

I'm sorry for the delay, it's been my final year of uni exams this month so a little crazy. But holidays now! Yay!

Another from Chibs' perspective :)

Chibs didn't stick around with his brothers long that night. Enough to eat some of the roast dinner that Venus made, shoot some pool with Tig and Quinn, and go over some financial papers with Lyla that made the dull headache that had been solidifying behind his eyes since that morning, turn into a full blown migraine.

'Thanks sweetheart. That's about all that this hard head can take today yeah? Pick it up again with yah tomorrow'

He kissed her forehead and took his glasses off.

'Alright, but business is starting to pick up again. That's the main thing'

He smiled at the young blond. Even the world weariness in her eyes couldn't take away an inch of her beauty.

'You're doing great lovey. You're great at it. Proud of yah as usual'

'Speaking of being great at ones job...rumour has it an old sheriff has returned'

'Not sure Althea Jarry would appreciate yah calling her old sweetheart'

'Not what I meant and you know it. She's really back?'

'Darlin, I know as much about that woman as you do'

'Well that's just not true. I'm sure there are parts you know much better than I do'

'Now you mention it, maybe yah right' He chuckled.

'She's back in town, other than that I don't know what's going on if that's what yah askin'

'Alright alright I'll leave it, a woman should know when she's not wanted'

'Love you darlin'

X

Back in his small apartment he could finally decompress after a non stop 2 days. It was the first chance he'd had to really be alone since he saw her. Tig and Venus seemed to think he needed to be constantly distracted, which came from a good place but grated on him more than anything else. As though simply not being alone would help his muddled mind work through the arrow that had just been shot back through his world. And if Althea Jarry wasn't an arrow into him, he didn't know what was. They had done a similar exercise when she first left. Although they probably had a point then. In the beginning he had spent a lot of time lying face down on his couch, which not only turned out to be a terrible plan for his state of mind but also for the state of his back. After his couch lying phase he was still lost. When he wasn't working or with his brothers there was nothing. And he couldn't remember what he used to do with all his time. And he kept finding things of hers around. She was always a flighty mess, throwing clothes off when she walked in the door, not caring where they landed. She'd even left a box containing a spice rack she'd bought before spending the night. So he took out his anger on the box more than he'd admit to, kicking it every time he walked past, before finally throwing it on his curb, realising eventually he'd break a toe with that form of grieving. And it got easier each time he found something, but in the beginning it was pretty fucking horrible, a sting up his throat that tasted like bile and cigarettes and betrayal. That was when he decided he needed to go back spending nights with crow eaters. And the problem was they were all perfectly good women, beautiful and willing. But none of them could really talk to him. And what he needed to talk about what how the woman and myth of Althea Jarry had straight up ruined him. Pulled out any vestiges of a sane man that remained after living this life for so long, that made him feel like he didn't belong anywhere.

And that felt a little heavy for a crow eater.

So he'd gone back to spending nights alone, keeping her side of the bed empty with a just in case mentality, as if hopes middle name is maybe and maybe she missed him too, and he'd wake up with his arm draped over her absence. And he'd realised he missed even the beating of her heart next to him. Because it's cadence was something that couldn't be replicated or reproduced. He couldn't sleep next to someone else and pretend it was her. She used to tell him she only slept well next to him, which sounds real nice. But feels pretty fucking empty in retrospect. So not only had she run off, carting his ability to sleep or fuck with her, but also managing to silently steal his passion for music. Memories of her wearing nothing but underwear and a feather boa that that had been left in her cruiser after a prostitution bust in Lodi and brought home, just for laughs. Draping it over her shoulders and drunkenly singing along to an old Stones record. This was the fun side she showed few people. And in all his years he somehow hadn't managed to realise until now, all songs are love songs. And the sad ones are awful but the happy ones are torture. He'd started to really fucking hate the radio. So he kept existing in silence which just lent more noise to the thoughts inside his head. And he kept the club and his brothers heads above water but felt like his was constantly drowning. And he could see everyone around him breathing. He saw her on the news once. Some police conference from New York regarding the massive gang taskforce she was working on. She looked different, and yet exactly the same. Too skinny. Dark circles underneath her eyes. He had to admit it still didn't take away from her beauty. But she looked miserable. And he thought good, I'm glad you're miserable, and he hated himself for that. It only took Tig the time to finish his cigarette before he came in and turned the TV off, yelling something about just replying to a fucking letter.

X

And then she was back. Appearing as fast again as she did the first time. And he wanted to rage against her for being able to blaze and stream back into his life. As though she should know how hard he's been working to get over her and how cruel it was to come back before he had a chance to get a grip on the life she'd torn up before fleeing. And blame her for how his heart stopped when he saw the woman packing groceries into her car. He'd know that spine anywhere. And how it had hit him like a phantom limb, like a ringing, aching numbness, when he saw instant coffee with creamer amongst her purchases. He could smash a perfume bottle and rip and throw away clothes she'd left at his place. But he couldn't strike the way she had her coffee from his memory. She'd never used milk. Perhaps she thought he'd forgotten the details of her life. How she took it strong and black, and added sugar as the day went on. And he can't fathom her as a milk with coffee drinker, and he's starting to think that might be the root of their problems. But she had donned the same jeans and t shirt look as before, perhaps coffee was not something she needed to feel normal. And he wanted to grab the coffee and scream at her that she made him feel like someone scraped out his insides. All because he can't tell if her clothes and shoes are just a front piece to being the woman she was before she left. A part of her play at normalcy. Same town, same job, same woman. if they really are just a front, and she'd been written over by a woman he doesn't know as well he he had himself convinced. And he hates himself for noticing these things, and hates her for leaving in the first place. But he'd never say it. Because he can't forgive her and she shouldn't forgive him. But he can't stand not knowing her better than anyone else in this town. So he throws her disinterested comments and hopes he's successful at looking like he doesn't give a shit, letting his mind catch up to the fucking coffee that has him realising he has no idea how to feel about that. Which seems to be a theme with them. And it's probably the wrong thing to say to her, but he figures he's been saying the wrong things to Althea Jarry for a long time now.

So he drinks in silence in his apartment, mulling over the entire interaction. And the silence he was getting used to, is different once again. She sounded more fragile than he'd like. And he has no right to ask her to stay, no right to beg her to never leave again. The same way he has no right to demand her to turn around and go. But it's the two of them, so something's gonna give.

The sharp sound of a knock at his door tore him from his thoughts.