She has not stepped foot into her own family's home since a few weeks after her mother's demise. It has been years, and yet it looks like it's never been touched, never changed. The wind-beaten shutters are still the same color, the porch still in the same rickety shape. The door is unlocked, just as it always was.
She takes a deep breath before she steps in, her hand on the cool, brass knob. She feels like she's facing a demon within her head-on, without weapons, without backup. She shakes off the fear and opens the door; it creaks.
The television is flickering a Simpsons marathon, though it's on mute. Her father is splayed over the couch, his feet in fuzzy slippers dangling over the side. His light snores outweigh the static. She remembers her mother always elbowing him to get him to stop.
Maka considers leaving the key on his chest and simply leaving without a word, but feels she owes him more than that, despite his bitter absence in her life. "Papa?" she whispers, and he almost immediately shoots up from his slumber. She backs away a few inches, one of her hands on her chest.
"Sorry," he grumbles, "I'm just... not used to seeing you here. Or talking to me first. It's... almost exciting." He smiles, just the slightest.
"Don't get wishy-washy on me," she retorts, before she settles on the coffee table across from him. Just enough distance to be comfortable. She smiles back, equally as hesitant as his own.
After another silent moment, she places the key in his hand. "I came to give you this," she says. His eyes widen. "And to apologize for how I acted earlier. You definitely haven't been the best dad to me, but... sometimes I just forget you went through as much as me."
"But you came out a lot stronger than I did, which just proves to me that you'll always have your mother's fire. Which means I'll never have to worry about you, wherever you end up. Though, I have a feeling it's going to be New York. And I still hate your boyfriend even though he helped me. If he ever got you pregnant, or -"
"I talked to Liz," she interrupts before he can get too riled up, "and I understand a lot more. And part of the reason I'm going to New York is Soul, but most of it is simply because it was always where my heart was. And you're right, mama would never want this life for me. This was her dream, and yours. It was never mine. I just carried the weight of it because I thought that was the right thing to do." She bites her bottom lip. "But it's not. The right thing for me to do now is... to do what I want. And this is what I want, more than anything. The love I found is just an added bonus."
Spirit reaches for her hand, and much to his surprise, she takes it. The key sits between their palms. Some of the rust chips off.
"You've saved a lot of lives, you know," her father says. "You've got a soul all full of light. Never lose that."
"You know I never could."
"That's why I'm letting you go so easily." He sits up, stuffs the key into his pocket. "I can't wait to read the articles you put out. I'll read them to your mother." He observes her for a moment, and it's suddenly as if he's in the room with a complete stranger. In a way, she is. He abandoned her in some of her toughest years, in some of the days and months she grew the most. But he's glad to see some of himself reflected in her, in her short temper, her tenacity and in her dedication to what matters. "I wish she could see you now. And I wish she could meet that boy of yours, too. I hate to admit it, but he's a good kid. Good luck out there. And I know I was shitty, but... I hope we can keep in touch?"
"Absolutely," she says with a grin. "You know that no matter what, I always love you, papa."
"Maka!" he wails, and she tries to escape the death-grip hug he entangles her in. "Say that again, please!"
"Absolutely not!"
Maka spends the next few days packing up what looks like her entire life. She watches her apartment grow emptier and emptier, and elation fills her. She puts her family graduation photo and degree away last. She finishes and decides on an order in which to say her goodbyes.
Black Star slaps her on the back, says he'll see her again soon. Tsubaki starts to cry and doesn't let her go for over ten minutes. Marie smiles, says she expects a place to stay when she's up for a trip to New York. Ox gives her a thumbs up with his arm around Kim, who just blushes. She says so long to a few of the other business owners in town, some more locals. The faces begin to blur after a while. Maybe it won't be too difficult to leave.
She tries to say goodbye to Liz and Patti, but finds their apartment as vacant as her own. There's a note with awful scrawl left under their doormat where they used to leave Maka's spare key:
Thank you for all you've done for us, but I think we're even now. Patti and I are taking a long road trip. We've got a lot to see, just like you've got a lot to do. We're gonna miss you, Albarn. But one of our stops is New York. And by the time we get there, we expect a Pulitzer Prize or two. Maybe a godchild if you're feeling especially generous.
- The Thompson Sisters (who are your best friends no matter where we all go).
P.S. Soul's address is on the back of this paper.
Her last stop is her mother's grave. Her father recently left her a bouquet: end-of-season sunflowers. Beside the flowers, she leaves the photo that once sat on the restaurant's desk of she and Spirit holding her as a baby on the day of its grand opening, and one picture that Black Star took of Maka trying to show Soul how to wakeboard. Instead of focusing on her feet like she was trying to instruct him, he just smiles and watches the serious expressions on her face. She likes to tell her mother stories in pictures.
She doesn't know the next time she'll be able to leave one.
Maka idles outside of the shut-down restaurant the morning before her long trip. The tourists are long gone now that Labor Day Weekend has come and gone, and the town is so empty it's as if when summer ends, so does the life. Humidity settles on her shoulders, though not as thick as it was in the dead of summer.
She's broken everything else that belonged to her mother. All the dishes are gone, the perfumes, the necklaces, the books. This restaurant is the one she and her father shattered together, though it'll never rest in hundreds of pieces like the porcelain. It'll remain intact until it gets replaced, removed. Then it'll be forgotten, like all the landmarks before it and around it.
She supposes that's life.
She takes the highway at breakneck speed, leaves the scent of the ocean behind her.
It takes Maka a few days to settle down in such a big city. She can barely figure out the maps of the subways, as it seems like so many of them go to the same places. She cannot walk from one place to the other here; Central Park is ten times the size her tiny town was. But she has fun with it, gets lost as many times as she finds herself.
Finally, she takes the slip of paper left from Liz with Soul's address, and inserts it into her phone. It's only a four-block walk from where she stands, somewhere on the outskirts of Times Square. She's tired of the smell of the subways, and the weather is still somewhat warm on her skin. She starts in the direction he might be.
She knows she wouldn't deserve him with the way she kicked him out that day, but somewhere, she wants to try. She swears she still feels pieces of his Soul within hers, some sparks of it.
When she reaches the door to his apartment, it's near-nightfall. She watches a few rats skitter by her, a few blue jays sweep from tree to tree.
Before she can hesitate, or turn around, she knocks on the door. She wrings the paper with his address in her hands over and over until he opens it. He's not dressed for grill-summers anymore. He looks unfamiliar for a moment, until she sees the bladed edges of his teeth in a surprising smile.
"I haven't prepared what I was going to say," she blurts. Her throat and mouth go dry.
"Well, I probably shouldn't let you talk, since you didn't let me." He crosses his arms, blocks the door.
"No, you shouldn't. But I was hoping you'd be nicer than me."
"I know for a fact that I am, so go ahead, speak."
"I'm in love with you, too. And I'm sorry that I didn't give you a chance to explain when you could have."
"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you that I met with your father."
"I'm sorry I kicked you out. I'm sorry I told you I never wanted to see you again, because that'd never be true."
"I'm sorry I look Boo Berry more than Count Chocula."
She puffs her cheeks. "Don't be dumb."
Soul pulls her to him suddenly, and she lets out a small gasp at the force of his embrace. "You told me to tell you my fears once. They changed when I met you," he whispers against the top of her head.
"What do you mean?" she mumbles into his shirt.
"I was so afraid to lose you, and that's when I knew... I was in some real deep shit."
"Poetic." She grips the fabric of his shirt tighter. "But I know what you mean. I was scared of that, too. But... maybe it doesn't have to happen again."
"It doesn't."
"How do you know?"
"I live just a ten minute walk from the New York Times headquarters, first of all. Second, I'm going to prove that I actually really love you every day. Third, I just ordered some really great pizza and I have Hocus Pocus playing."
"Isn't it too early for that movie?"
"Never."
They sit on the couch the same way they once did so easily: her head in his lap, his fingers fiddling with the fringes of her hair. After a while, she notices the photo of Soul and his older brother. Wes is mussing up Soul's hair and he looks mopey, but content nonetheless.
"I want to hear some stories about your brother," Maka says after a while.
"I guess I got a lot to tell you."
"I have a lot to tell you, too." She smiles.
"Well, we have a lot of time. And plenty more pizza places. And way more Halloween movies."
She pulls his head down for a long, slow kiss. "And more of these."
The first place he shows her is the jazz club he works for. The floors are red and black checkerboard, and there are thick, ebony curtains in all corners. The lights are dim, and though the music is soft, it fills the room around them. He's got on his pinstripe suit, and she's donning an elegant black dress.
He holds her hand by the tiny candle on their table.
She closes her eyes and leans back. There's no sand there, but it starts to feel like home just the same.
The next time she leaves a photo on her mother's grave, it's of their wedding.
She never forgets the sound of waves.