This chapter's song is: Outta Here by Esmee Denters
Nudge and Angel were the first ones home; that is, not including Iggy and Dylan. "Max?" Angel called tentatively as she pushed open the front door. "Who's car is that in the driveway? Jason's car is red isn't it? That big black thing isn't Jason's is it?" she asked, dropping her bag on the couch. I glanced out the window, seeing the sleek black SUV in the driveway, parked behind Dylan's car. "Put those away," I said sharply, pointing to the jackets, shoes and bags that they'd dropped. "Don't just leave them. "Stop changing the subject!" Nudge said, crossing her arms. "Who's is it?" she insisted.
I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "It's mine," Fang drawled, coming into the living room from the kitchen. Nudge's head whipped around to his directon. Several emotions flashed on her face all at once; shock, anger, fear, pain, hatred. She took a shaky step back. "Why is he here?" she asked, voice shaking with anger. Angel's reaction was altogether different. Her pale face broke into the biggest smile I'd ever seen and she tackled him in a giant hug.
Fang scooped up Angel's fourteen-year-old self and held her tight. "You're early!" she exclaimed. "I missed you!" she trilled, still not letting go of his neck. He smiled softly. "I missed you too." He murmured. Nudge was shaking her head slowly. "I-I'll go put this stuff away," she stuttered, picking up her and Angel's things and hurrying up the stairs. Fang set Angel down and stared after Nudge for a long moment, a pained look on his face. "I'll go," I finally said, and hurried after her.
"Nudge?" I said softly, leaning on the doorway to her bedroom. She was stomping around and—God forbid—cleaning. Well, if being pissed off made her clean her room, then it couldn't be that bad. Nah. That was mean. "Nudge, sweetie," I whispered, grabbing her wrist and stopping her. "What's wrong?"
"He's back." Nudge whispered, her voice sounded choked and broken. She wouldn't look at me, but I knew she was crying. "Max," she whispered, "He's back. Fang's back." She broke down. Her arm slipped from my grasp as she fell to her knees. "He ca—he can't be." She said, sobbing horribly now. I fell to my knees next to her. I wrapped my arms around her—even her eighteen-year-old self was small and scrawny. "Nudge," I said, stroking her hair. "I know you're mad—I know you don't like him right now… but the thing is, he's back." As if we hadn't already established that. "He's back and he still loves you. Nothing's changed, honey." She looked up at me with teary eyes and I felt my heart break just a little bit more.
"Nothings changed? Max! It's been seven damn years! Everything has changed."
I sighed and stood, then put an arm down to help her up. "Forgive and forget, Nudge," I said, shooing her back downstairs. I followed a few minutes later and I sat on the couch and read as Nudge, Angel and Fang made up and caught up. Around ten, Dylan shuffled in, clearly hung-over. He looked at Fang with foggy eyes, but made no show of recognition. After he came back from the kitchen with a mug of coffee, he realized what was going on. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed, coming into the living room with his steaming cup. Angle giggled and hugged Fang tighter. "I-I thought… has it been twenty years already?" Dylan asked, and I laughed as Dylan sat down next to me. Fang stiffened slightly and his eyes flicked from me, to Dylan, and back again. I raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but he didn't meet my gaze.
"Language, Dyl," I said, nudging him. "And no—it's only been seven," I added bitterly. He sighed and took another sip of his coffee. "Good… I can't be thirty-four years old…" he frowned. "That would make me feel like a major creep considering Lauren's only seventeen." My eyebrows shot up and Dylan seemed to realize what he'd said. "Who's Lauren?" I asked through gritted teeth. "His girlfriend!" Angel piped up loyally from the other side of the room. "You're dating a seventeen-year-old girl?" I growled, turning towards Dylan. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fang sag in relief. "And you took her clubbing?" Dylan fumbled for an answer, but was saved by the bell—or rather, Iggy.
"Whas' all the yelling about?" he mumbled collapsing on the floor in front of me. "Hey, Iggy," Fang whispered hoarsely. "Who's th—Jason? Is that you?" Iggy asked, scratching his head. "You don't sound right, man." Fang frowned. "What? No. Who the hel—it's Fang, Ig." Iggy stiffened. "Impossible—That was actually you that Dylan and Max saw?" Fang nodded, then ran his fingers through his disheveled black hair. He seemed to remember that Iggy was still blind and he cleared his throat. "Yeah, Iggy, it was me."
"That's crazy." Iggy said. "I though—twenty?" Iggy rambled in broken sentences. "Go get some coffee, Iggy," I said, struggling not to laugh. "You need it." Iggy thought over this for a long moment then nodded. "That's a… a really good idea." He said, nodding and trundled into the kitchen. "Did Jason get a new car?" Gazzy exclaimed as he burst through the front door. "It's my car." Fang said frowning. "And who is Ja—"
"FANG!" Gasman cried a huge smile breaking over his fifteen-year-old face. "That would be me." Fang said, waving weakly. "What—why—how…?" What is it with us and the speech impediment today? "It doesn't matter." Fang said hoarsely. "But I'm staying."
Iggy scuffled back in and sat down next to Angel. Gazzy, in turn, sat in front of them and the five began to talk—making up, becoming a family again. Dylan looked at me for a long moment, then squeezed my shoulder, got up, and walked away. I want back to my book, but struggled to concentrate. All I could hear were Nudge's ramblings—she hadn't talked like that since Fang left—and Angel's happy laughs—she sounded just like she did way back when she was still a six-year-old sweetheart. Gazzy was excited and bubbly, and Iggy wasn't the usual harsh, brittle self he'd been for the last seven years.
A drop of water hit the back of my hand, where it rested on the page of my book. I blinked and two more fell. My eyes burned with these silly tears—why was I crying? I hated to answer it, but a voice deep inside my heart insisted. I was jealous—jealous that I couldn't put myself together again like them, jealous I couldn't get over it like them, jealous that I couldn't let things go back to the way they once were. I slammed my book down on the coffee table and bolted from the room, knowing with a deep ache in my chest that their conversation hadn't even faltered—they didn't even know I was gone.