For christyZ and someWhereinRoma. I know the last chapter was just a bit of lead-up, but I appreciate the fact that you reviewed it anyway. Hopefully this chapter will better meet with everyone's approval...

9

I was playing my guitar when the doorbell rang, or theoretically anyway; I was playing with it, at least, attempting to force all the familiar chords into something, anything new, something that might absorb me and take me the hell out of myself because really I couldn't stand to be inside my head anymore (and forgive me, I'm sure it's not easy for you either). I set it aside gratefully, because I had a headache and also because I panic whenever I get writer's block and worry I'll never write another song again. My mind quickly turned to the mystery of who might be visiting, and naturally I could only imagine one candidate. Part of me was pleased, part of me was terrified, but the most practical part of me was recognizing a major problem: I was still wearing his shirt and he would obviously recognize it and then I would look crazy, crazier than I was (or just as crazy as I was which was quite enough).

I stripped it off quickly, looked around for a place to stash it, and settled for stuffing it in the refrigerator (this is a great hiding spot; no one ever checks the fridge for incriminating evidence). Wearing only a camisole and jeans, I went to answer the door, forgetting all the rules learned in 10 years of living in Los Angeles to the extent that I didn't even bother looking through the peephole before opening it.

Disappointingly, the person standing there was not at all who I'd expected, and for a moment I couldn't imagine who she was. She was tall and slim with shoulder-length red hair, wide doe eyes and a sweet, eager smile, and she was holding a covered baking dish in front of her. My immediate reflexive thought was Stalker! (what? Sometimes my stalkers bake me cupcakes) but then I looked a little closer. I imagined her with an unflattering bowl cut, braces and acne, and that image plugged itself into one of my high school memories of watching a friend carefully sterilize the door handle of our 3rd period English class.

"Emma?" I exclaimed, shocked, and my smile returned full force. "What are you doing here?"

"May I come in?" she asked. Her voice was just as childish as I remembered, which had seemed far too childish when we were young but now somehow complimented her appearance and graceful carriage, and I stepped back to allow her to enter.

"Of course, of course… What are you doing here, how did you know…?" I lead her to the kitchen, gesturing to the counter. "You can set that there if you like. What is it by the way? It's so-" I stopped suddenly, surprised by the catch in my voice, surprised by what I was about to say. "-good to see you."

And it really was. I had been a loner in high school, hadn't been genuinely close to anyone, but Emma had been the nearest thing I'd had to a best friend. Her OCD, which she'd always simply referred to as "slightly unusual habits", set her apart from the rest of our peers as much as I set myself apart by choice. When I'd left, she'd been the only one I ever imagined I might miss, the only one I ever imagined might miss me, and the only one I ever sent word to after I was gone: one postcard, three months later, with a picture of the Santa Monica pier and the message The weather is here… Wish you were beautiful. Which seems like an insult, now that I think about it, but actually it was a line from a song I'd once played her that had made her laugh.

She set down her dish and turned to me with another soft smile, this one sympathetic. "I read about your mom, and I thought you might come back, thought you might need someone to talk to."

I felt a sudden strange stinging in my eyes, one which I vaguely recognized as heralding tears, but I blinked quickly and the sensation faded. It was just so like her to notice something like that, to be worried about me even though I'd spent the last ten years not thinking about her at all. And it had been so long since someone had worried about me.

"That's really… Really nice," I answered after a moment, when I was sure my voice wouldn't waver.

"Well, that and I was really curious," she admitted, laughing. "I mean, look at you! I always knew you'd make it, Honor. Norah? I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call you now."

Neither was I, really. Somehow both names felt like a lie, or like only part of the truth. "Honor is fine. And how did you know? Does everyone know? I kind of always thought…"

"What? That you'd disappear off the face of the earth and no one would notice?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Yes, actually. I shrugged, and the look on my face said it all.

"Oh, Honor," she sighed, shaking her head. "You know that's not true."

"If you say so," I murmured. "But what is this you brought? Would you like to sit down? I'm sorry, I'm being a terrible hostess."

Emma smiled and began to sit, then stopped herself, shooting me an awkward look. "Do you mind if I…?" She made a vague gesture to the tote bag she carried.

It made me sad to realize that the obsessions that had governed her life ten years ago were still a part of it. "Of course not. I can't vouch for the cleanliness of anything in this house, though I did have it cleaned professionally before I came."

She withdrew a paper packet and opened it carefully, removing some kind of wet nap that smelled strongly of lemon and bleach and rubbing it over the seat of the chair and the headrest, and I almost smiled because I hadn't thought about it in forever but now I remembered that single-minded intensity with which she used to disinfect her chair and desk before each class. Back then she used a mixture of bleach and alcohol in a spray bottle; she'd apparently updated her tactics for the 21st century.

"Even professionals miss certain areas," she said, clearly somewhat embarrassed, as she sterilized and wiped down the kitchen table as well.

"I'm sure that's true," I replied, but what I really meant was Don't worry about it, no judgment.

"There!" Satisfied with her work, she returned her supplies to her bag and sat gracefully. "And I just brought some paprikash casserole, because… Well, because that's what you do" in Ohio when visiting someone recently bereaved.

This time I did smile, a little nostalgically, because it really was so Midwestern, and while I wasn't entirely certain I fit the definition of "bereaved", I also hadn't had paprikash in any form since I'd been in LA. The heavy dish of chicken, sour cream, paprika and, when baked in a casserole, egg noodles or tater tots, was probably illegal there. And also probably should be, considering the calorie count, but as I'd been on a diet for ten years…

"It smells delicious," I said sincerely. "Will you stay for dinner? You can clean anything you want, however you want to, before you have to eat off of it," I added.

"In that case, yes." She grinned, and I grinned back, and really it felt good.

TBC