Just Another Day

Turtlecove is far behind him, two states back and five months distant, and the sign a San Diego cop handed him, is folded up in his glove compartment. Merrick meant to throw it away every time he stops but always seems to forget to.

He's in New Mexico now. Mexico- where he went first, sinking into the desert-toned pallor of its sky and driving its endless rutty roads, only surfacing when he'd woken up one morning thinking he never wanted to leave – was interesting. New Mexico is not.

It's a boring state. Flat, brown, unrelieved by mountains, chasms, and spotty towns that scar it. He meant to push on to the far corner of the state today, meant to go sleep knowing that in a few days he'd be crossing into country that he knew. He was going to return to Louisiana.

He had to stop though. He didn't think he would, but he did because he realized once he was there in Louisiana – he would have to do something. What, he wasn't sure. But he knew he'd have to quit living the way he is now, just driving, drifting, and not really thinking about anything beyond tomorrow.

He stopped, got a room and then drove around till he found a bar. He almost stopped at the brightly lit and shining establishment beckoning at the end of the town's 'business district' a grand name for a collection of four office buildings and a sign, but he realized he didn't have to. He isn't part of that world.

There's another bar because of course there is always one, even in small towns. It's darker, smaller and its parking lot is more crowded. He rubs his neck absently as he walks inside, kneading, with one hand on either side, and then stops for a moment and smiles. The bartender is not interested in chitchat; his only comment is a brusque, "What d'you want?"

Merrick order a beer and stares at the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar, noticing that New Mexicans seem to prefer whiskey over vodka.

His beer is placed in front of him and the bartender waits with an outstretched hand. Merrick pays him and then looks around while he drinks. There's nothing much to see. A group of people at the far end, clustered around a TV. The bar itself is merely serviceable—dark wood, layered with a finish, and dotted with chipped glass ashtrays. Over at the other end, a girl with red hair sits, looking down at the bar, and for a moment the sight of that hair, the way it shines and somehow manages to both reflect and capture light at the same time, makes Merrick's breath catch.

But then the girl looks up and Merrick is able to breathe again. The face is nothing like the one he knows; the features are softer, rounder and younger. Pretty, actually and he can notice that.

The girl puts one hand down on the counter unsteadily and says something that makes the bartender laugh out loud, shaking his head as he turns away. Merrick has always wanted to be funny. He gets up and walks over to the girl. "Can I get you another one?"

Bad idea, buying a girl who could be underage a beer in borderline seedy bars in states he really meant to just drive through, but so what. The girl turns to him, looks at him with a hazy gaze. "I don't know. Can you?"

He smiles at that, and the girl smiles back, shrugging her shoulders, a supplet flexing that Merrick notes because the girl's shoulder are pretty broad. So Merrick sits down and says, "Can we get another beer over here:"

The bartender turns back to look at him, clears his throat. Merrick sighs and puts a ten onto the bar. The beer appears in front of him and he slides it over to the girl. "Here."

"Yep. Here it is," the girl says, picking it up with the careful over-coordination of the drunk and drinks.

"So," Merrick says, when the glass is returned to bar. "What's a-?"

The girl laughs, "Are you trying to pick me up? Because if you are, I got to tell you, I, uh, have a boyfriend. Mostly. No! Wait. I mean, always. It's just that," she lowers her voice a little, and Merrick watches the girl's eyes gleam and thinks that once, he was probably a lot like this girl and wore his heart on his sleeve. He resolutely ignores the little voice that says he hasn't changed that much. "There were some—special—circumstances. And also, I'm kind of coming off the ultimate bad relationship. I had this thing—kind of—with someone and it ended badly. So you know. Damaged good and all that. Am I still talking?"

Merrick laughs, "Me too." And then, "bad relationship type thing, I mean." He says slowly, years of caution shrieking at him not to say what he feels. But he isn't going to be that person anymore. Someday, maybe, he's trying.

"Oh year?"

"Year."

"How badly did your end?"

Merrick shrugs, "bad." Merrick had come home from work to find Shayla gone and their apartment cleaned out. He looks over at the girl, who is staring down at her beer. He sometimes thinks about Shayla staring at him, with such love in her eyes. He thinks about a lot of things, sometimes. "Memories are hell to live with."

Now the girl looks up at him. "I'm Trista," she finally says.

"Merrick," he replies and Trista smiles. Doesn't try to shake his hand and Merrick likes that. He did a lot of things he hopes he'll be able to forget someday.

The tables are rickety and old that wobble from side to side alarmingly for what, as far as Merrick can determine, is no reason at all. He and Trista sit down at one and talks a little, mostly about nothing. Merrick learns Trista is just "passing through" town and answers the same way when he's asked. He smiles when he realizes it's the truth, that he is just passing through, and Trista stares at him like he's crazy, asks, "What's so funny?"

It's just that I'm really passing through."

"And?" Trista replies, raisin an eyebrow. "Cause that's not really all that funny. Or at all," she grabs a handful of 'free' peanuts out of the bowl that sits on the table, eats them, and then grimaces. "Spicy," she mutters. "Figures." She eats another handful and then looks up at Merrick waiting.

So Merrick tells her a little bit, tells her that he lived in Turtlecove. "Still not getting the joke," Trista says. "But whatever. How come you left? The bad relationship thing?"

"Sort of."

"I wish I could leave. But even if I could it wouldn't be-" Trista pauses, looks at her glass. "I need another beer."

Merrick goes and buys her one and another for himself. When he gets back to the table and hands Trista her beer he stays, "Still wouldn't be what?"

Trista takes a sip—a gulp, really- and looks right into his eyes. Merrick almost flinches because there is a lot of pain in Trista's gaze. It's been a long time since he's seen that kind of naked emotion. "Even if I left, it wouldn't be enough to make me forget. There are things that I've done, and even if I didn't mean them, didn't really know about them, -" she breaks off, takes another huge gulp of her beer. "I see all of it every time I close my eyes, you know?"

"I do."

"You know," Trista says slowly, "I think you really do."

They drink the rest of their beers in silence. "So," Trista says when their empty glasses are on the table. "Bad relationship, tell all."

Merrick smiles, there's not way he's doing that, but still. "I loved her, but she didn't love me the way I loved her. I thought that maybe, with time, she might, but she never did."

"Oh." Trista says. She smiles and looks down at her glass. "Do you miss her?"

"Sometimes."

"Me too, and that's whats the worst. Because I know wha—who-he is and what he did and I still find myself—I know think that maybe if I'd known beforehand and talked to him that things would have been different. You know?"

"No," Merrick says, because he doesn't. He wishes he did, though. And then, because Trista is looking at him, kind of shocked and sad at the same time, at the idea that Merrick doesn't even have the hope that he could have changed things and because he hates pity, he says, "I should get going."

"Right, whatever," Trista said, her gaze going far away and blank. "I'm here with some people anyway. Well, not here, but you know. They're probably worried, one of them might be, anyway."

Merrick smiles at that and swallows the rest of his beer. It doesn't clear away the bad taste in his mouth, doesn't get rid of his last memory of Shayla, smiling down at him, like she knew what Merrick wanted more than he did, and was still going to deny him anyways, just because she could.

"Maybe things could have been different with Shayla then, huh?" Trista said, smirking a little.

The flatness of his voice startles Merrick. "Trista-"

"Oh-" Trista said and then stopped, all expression falling off her face. "Oh," she said again. She is staring at the door and Merrick turns around to see what she's looking at. There's another boy there, tall, dark-haired, glaring in their direction.

"That the someone that might be worried?" He asks looking back at her.

Trista laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "Uh, no," and then Merrick hears someone walking towards them, turns to the side and the boy from the door is standing at their table.

"Well," Trista says, sliding down in her chair a little, and smiling up at the boy standing over her, "what a surprise. The Exalted One is here. Let the lecture commence."

"Shut up," the boy said. "I've been looking for you."

"Really? For me? Tyler, I'm honored."

Tyler shoots Merrick a cautious glance, and Merrick rolls his eyes. "Why don't you take it down a notch or five there, Mr. Intense. Aren't you a little young to act like everyone is out to get you?"

Tyler's gaze sharpens and for a moment he looks almost threatening. Almost, but Merrick smiles his smile, the one he knows looks impersonal and savage, and Tyler turns away. "Trista," he says, "We really have to go."

"Relax. Merrick's not with the FBI or anything." Trista laughs. "Wait, wait, I didn't ask, actually. Merrick, are you by chance-" Trista's voice drops to a stage whisper "a government agent? Or a demon?"

"What? Demon?" Maybe he shouldn't have bought her that last beer. He looks up tat Tyler. Tyler's jaw is clenched so tight that it looks like it might snap.

"We're from Cleveland," Tyler said, as if that explained everything.

"Oh," it doesn't.

Trista laughs again. "Jesus, Tyler. Go away."

"I'm going outside." Tyler said. "Everyone else is meeting us outside town in ten minutes. So hurry up."

Tyler leaves and Trista visibly sags, slumping over the table, one hand braced on either side. "Shit."

Merrick kind of wants to say something but also kind of doesn't, because in a world where orgs tried to take over, sometimes, you just don't want to know more than you are told. Trista looks up at him. "Not going to ask?"

"No."

"You're smarter than I am," she said. "I've got to go."

"Me Too. I'll walk you outside."

He's not going to ask, but he is curious. Trista smiles, "OK" and then says, "I take back the smarter than me comment, by the way."

In the dim glow of the streetlight outside the bar, in the way shadows fall across Trista's face, Merrick thinks he can see the woman Trista will grow into, maybe. She's still young enough to have choices stretched out in every direction. And she has beautiful blue eyes. He homes that perhaps, one day, he will see them again.

"So," she said, "Thanks for the beer."

"Trista," Tyler says sharply, his voice loud in the quiet, and Merrick looks over at the other dark haired boy. Who is waiting at the fare edge of the parking lot, hands balled up in fists by his sides. Merrick extends his middle finger in the air, mentally saluting a few people he's left behind. It's juvenile, what he's doing, and he knows it, but it is a lot o fun.

Trista snickers and Merrick looks back over at her. "Nice friend you've got there."

"Sometimes you can't pick your friends."

"Sometimes." and he leans over, touches Trista's face gently with one hand. Soft warm skin, it's nice to touch someone with no intent other than just making contact. It's the first time he's done so for no other reason than he wants to in ages. "You'll learn to live with your memories."

"Year?" Trista sways toward him, just a little, and Merrick can actually hear Tyler's indrawn breath, even across the parking lot. Apparently Tyler and Trista have some issues they need to address.

"Yes." Merrick says, and kisses her, just once, gently, chastely, on the lips. Pulls away and goes to his truck and gets inside. Looks over to the spot where Trista was standing and sees that she's already gone.

He drives back to the hotel. Before he gets out of the truck, he opens the glove compartment and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He opens it and smiles a little. After a moment, he puts it away and locks the truck, and head inside.