22. Normal

AS THE LAST bastions of snow give way to warming days, Deling becomes this murky thing—thick mud and sand lining the streets, pencil-grey skies and subsequent rains that too often seem unrelenting. Monday, it pours. Tuesday, it comes down with a mix of hail, thrumming on the windows like pellets rolling around a steel drum. Wednesday offers little reprieve, the drizzle holding constant far beyond the borders of midnight, carrying on well into Thursday.

The rain picks up on Thursday night. I go on a date with Gwynne W., 29, a social media manager, local native, and woman I feel nothing for. As we meet over beers at one of the breweries in East Deling, my mind is elsewhere, thinking about Quistis, wondering if she's watching the same basketball game that's playing on the TV behind the bar. Gwynne asks me a question at one point, but her words don't really register. All I can offer is a blank stare as she awaits my response; problem is, I have no idea what she's said. And not only that—when she catches on to the fact that I haven't been listening to much of anything for the better part of our date, she smiles, puts down a 10G note for her beer, and leaves.

I pick up Harper on Friday, in the middle of a violent storm. She's anxious on the drive back to my place, asking me if we're going to make it as heavy rain collides into the windshield. I do my best to quell her fears, but the thunder roaring through the cab and sky-splitting lightning make it nearly impossible.

I turn up the stereo, beg The Cure to drown out the sound. More lightning, another wave of thunder. Harper yelps. Again, I try to tell her it's okay, that nothing bad is going to happen. My words aren't enough, though, even for me, and I find myself gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter than usual for the rest of the way.

It's only once we arrive back at home that she manages to calm down a bit. I shut the blinds, turn on the TV. We spend the evening almost barricaded in a sense; she's got her cartoons on with the volume up while she plays with her toy trains, and I cook us dinner, checking periodically to make sure she's still keeping herself distracted.

At bedtime, I read her The Sneetches and Other Stories and think about my night at the market with Quistis. If I try hard enough, I can almost bring myself back there—her arm around me, the smell of the firepit embedding in our clothes, the steady rhythm of droplets against her bright red umbrella.

It's an open door that allows my mind to wander, imagining for a moment what it would be like if we actually were a couple. Maybe she'd be sitting here with us, reading children's books, helping Harper find her bravery in the midst of the storm. She'd probably be better at it than I am, too; she's always had a way of hushing other people's anxieties, even when she can't hush her own.

But it's all a fantasy of sorts, and when Harper gasps at another wall-rumbling boom of thunder, I almost lament the fact that there's no one here but me. She asks through tears if there's a way to make the noise subside. Of course there isn't, but I do what I can in spite of my inability, retrieving my Bluetooth speaker, putting on The Beatles. She asks me to stay with her; I do, lying down in her twin bed, holding her close as I stare at the ceiling, textured eggshell paint dressed in the hazy rose glow of her nightlight.

I lie with her for what feels like both forever and not long enough. Eventually, she comes to rest, soothed to sleep her favourite song—Here Comes the Sun.

"'It's alright.'"

—

THE STORM WANES before Saturday morning, but the rain continues on, the same steady showers and watery grey skies bearing down on the city and keeping us pinned under their weight. After exhausting most of the activities I can think of—painting, playing go fish, folding paper birds, building puzzles, reading The Sneetches on repeat—I start to go a bit stir crazy. By the evening, I can't take it anymore; I tell Harper to get her coat on, that I'm taking her out for dinner. On a whim, I invite Quistis to join. She tells me she's sorry, says she's got a date.

I hate that her being out with someone else completely screws with my mind, now. It's not like I told her to stop dating. Hell, I haven't stopped dating, either, nor have I made any attempt to alert her to my stupid, fucked up feelings (however undefined they may be). Regardless, she's been stuck in my head again, looping round my every thought. And just like before, it's the closeness I can't seem to get past; it almost feels a bit like déja vu.

The anxiety is alleviated only by Harper, though it's still there, lingering like a nagging itch, too deep beneath the skin to scratch. I give my head a small shake and try to ignore it as I watch her work away at the colouring page on her kids' menu. For what it's worth, she seems too transfixed on keeping within the lines to be bothered with much else. Her brow furrows, small hand going from crayon to crayon, orange and green wax fills for trees with smiling faces.

Harper's a lot better at focusing than I am; she keeps colouring right up until her food comes. After that, though, it's quick work of her macaroni and her subsequent begging for dessert, to which I relent. We share a too-big chocolate cake, her grin widening beneath the growing mess of icing all around her mouth. As the dessert dwindles to nothing, her face contorts into a look that's reminiscent of Rinoa; I've seen the expression a thousand times before, the way her eyes narrow as they hone in on the last remaining strawberry. I nudge it to her side of the plate with my fork. She lets out a small squeal.

Once she's satisfied that she's cleared every last crumb, I clean her up and pay for our meal. She looks tired, eyelids as weighty as the rain outside, though when I question her on it, she meets me with denial. There's a smile, a yawn she tries desperately to hide, a thank you for cake. Small fingers that weave through my own as we head out the door.

Despite my distraction, despite the nagging itch, I feel oddly okay. It's the first time in awhile that I've been able to leave a restaurant without tension, or some sort of expectation. There's no worrying about what kind of car I have, no wallowing out of my depth, no wondering whether or not I've said the right thing.

Not to mention I've got a girl I actually want to go home with. She tells me she loves me from her carseat as we head back through the downpour. Somewhere along the drive, she falls asleep.

—

AFTER HARPER'S IN bed for the night, I take an edible. I know, I know—it's another escape method, but without her to focus on, the itch grows and burrows, deeper than before. I badly want to scratch it. How awful would it be to text and ask how Quistis' date might've gone? Would that sound desperate? Needy?

God. I. Am. Pathetic. Part of me wishes I could smoke a joint and feel the effects instantly, blot out whatever fresh mess I've got brewing. But—and I realize this makes me sound extra sad and shitty—I ran out of weed the night of my date with what's-her-name in East Deling. I decide instead to take a second edible, put Splinter on the record player, wait.

It takes about an hour for it to kick in, but once it does, my escape plan backfires. I sit on the couch, completely locked down while Sneaker Pimps plays on, and I wonder if the walls that were once rumbling from thunder are now closing in. Is it weird to say I'm freaking out a bit? I'm lost in my head, I'm worried I'm stuck here, I'm worried about Quistis, I'm worried about my feelings getting out of hand, I'm worried, I'm worried, I'm worried.

A Xanax would fix this—no, don't even go there. Breathe. I just have to ride this out. It's been a long time since I've been so catastrophically stoned. Fucking edibles. The music isn't helping, either; all that downtempo trip-hop is pulling me down even further, and it takes a massive effort on my part to actually stand up and turn off the record player. Right away, I should feel relieved by my accomplishment, but what follows is even worse—empty, plain silence, so stark in its nothingness, a vacuum sucking me out to nowhere.

I can't handle it. I need new sounds, something to fill the void, something to stop my thoughts from flailing around in a panic. I turn on the TV. But even that quickly presents its own problem. See, sometimes TV can be so goddamned much. Right now, I can't even comprehend what I'm supposed to be watching. There are just all these scenes flashing by, cunning people wearing wry looks, dry workplace squabbling, a couple in love.

Love. Fuck. Just like that, I'm back to worrying about Quistis. What if the guy she's with tonight is the one? Then what? Is that the end of our friendship as we know it, right after she just told me not to leave her? Well, shit. Maybe that's how it should be. Better to fade away now than give me the opportunity to ruin everything. She'll find her happiness, move to Galbadia Heights, get hitched, have a couple of kids of her own. And I'll be happy for her, too, knowing that she's avoided whatever hurt I might've dealt her—

—Hell. What is this? My brain is stumbling along tangents, making up scenarios that send my anxiety into overdrive. I can't stay on this fucking couch any longer. I get up again, head outside, sit on the patio. A cigarette lands on my lips almost automatically. I light it up, inhale slow, exhale slower. It helps. Mixed with the cold and the sound of rain, I manage to regain a bit of my footing, and I settle clumsily back down on the ground.

I stay out well past the end of my smoke. The initial intensity of the high eases into something more manageable. I let go of some of the tension in my jaw.

I don't know what the hell's wrong with me. Well, maybe I do, but I really don't want to admit it, at least not yet.

—

THE SKY FINALLY breaks on Sunday, the audacity of stark blue skies, bright sun almost like a glitch. Laguna hums along to some Steely Dan song he's got playing over the outdoor speakers as he rakes up leaves from the matted grass. I help him along, dragging tines across the ground and pulling debris into ever-growing heaps throughout the yard.

The smell of wet, dead leaves embeds itself into everything, but especially into Harper's clothes as she jumps from pile to pile, trying her best to bury herself in a supposed game of hide and seek with my father. For his part, he's happy to play along; he pretends to glance off into the distance, poking lightly at piles with his rake while she tries desperately to hush her wild giggles.

It's another one of those weird things. As much as I want to just sit in this moment, I can't help but feel like an imposter again. Surely this normalcy isn't meant for me, surely I must be living inside someone else's life. Right? I mean, how can someone like me—a SeeD, someone who has done unspeakable things, someone who is still so broken by his past—be allowed to experience something as simple and as ordinary as yardwork?

I'm nervous. There's this dread bunched up in my stomach, telling me that any minute, I'll wake up and I'll be back at Garden, boxed up inside those grey walls, exactly where I should be—a spiralling Commander Leonhart with the whole of his future predetermined. No daughter, no father. Nothing but a hollowed out husk, ready to take orders and regurgitate as needed.

I pull in a cutting breath, shut my eyes. I fully expect to see the too-clean marble floor of my office when I open them back up again. (Am I really this much of a basket case?) God. It takes yet another sharp inhale before I dare to crack my gaze. Only the grass stares back. I let my breath go.

"Squall?" Laguna sounds concerned. I glance up to see him staring at me with a half-raised eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

"You alright?"

I look over to Harper, still diving into piles of leaves, then back at him. "...Yeah."

"Want something to drink?" he asks. "Beer?"

"Water," I say, "...please."

He nods and retreats into the house just long enough to get us a couple glasses. When he comes back out, he motions to the patio table, sets the drinks down. I lean my rake up against the wall and sit down next to him on one of the cold wrought-iron chairs.

"There's something in your head," he says.

I'm not sure I've ever known him to be quite so direct. I guess that's just another mark of how much closer we've gotten over the past few months. There's no more need to keep his thoughts veiled, no more walking on eggshells.

Now the real question is this: do I answer him openly and honestly, or do I try to deflect? Despite everything, my instinct still wants to run to the latter; it's just a lot less to deal with right now. The former, well. You know what that is.

It's just that I feel like I owe him something other than another dead delivery of "I'm fine". And more than that—maybe I owe it to myself not to run every time someone gets closer than I'm comfortable with. I swallow down a sip of water and hope that it somehow flushes away my anxiety in turn.

"Do you ever feel like…there are things you want to do, but can't?" I don't look directly at him. Instead, I stare at the condensation as droplets bead up on my glass.

"How so?" Laguna asks. "Like with work?"

"Like with everything," I say.

"Still toiling with the question of what to do with yourself?"

I nod.

He smirks. "Elle tells me you're dating."

Here we go. I try to bury my sigh, but it still comes out louder than I'd like. "Yeah. Attempting to, I guess."

"Well, I have a whole trove of stories about that." He sits back into his chair and clasps his hands behind his head. "Let me tell you, at least you're young. When you get older, everyone has more baggage."

More baggage. As if there isn't enough already. "So you're saying it's hopeless?"

"Hell no." He laughs. "At least not for you. If you're me, well…even if you do get lucky, things seem to malfunction more, and—"

I wish I could just shrink up into nothing right now. I've sat through plenty of unpleasant conversations with my father—particularly when he gets too riled up about Estharii politics, or overshares the results of his most recent physical (always with the wonderful reminder that one day, I too will have to get checked up there)—but this. Fuck. Just the word "malfunction" in this context makes me cringe.

"—Then there was this girl I met during the war, and she—"

Is he still going? I know I wanted to try my hand at an open and honest conversation, but this is beyond open. I do my best to tune him out, hone in on Steely Dan, bite the inside of my cheek, ignore the details—oh god, the details.

I can't take it anymore. "Can you please just…not…talk about that?"

He stops. His face turns the slightest shade of red as he realizes that he, once again, has gone more than a bit too far. "Well, what do you want to talk about, then?"

I shake my head. "Literally anything else."

"Okay…" He leans forward onto his elbows. "Then tell me this. How are things with Garden now that you've come off your suspension?"

I shrug, take another sip of water. "It's…alright."

"Come on."

I let out a flattened version of a laugh. "Okay, it's not alright. I hate it. But it's all I know."

"You really still think that?" Laguna's shoulders roll forward a bit as he slumps his head onto a waiting palm. "I don't know how you can be so dismissive."

Dismissive, huh? "What do you mean?"

"You know." He waves his free hand, spinning round an imaginary loom. "You have this obvious passion, and yet, you choose to do nothing with it."

"What passion? Drinking?" It's mostly a joke, but Laguna doesn't bite.

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm talking about music."

"I see." I frown. "I don't have any real talent, though. I just enjoy it."

"Exactly." The lines around Laguna's smile become more pronounced, crows feet deepening. Grey-green eyes brighten as he continues on. "You enjoy it. You can hear it."

"Yeah, so?" I don't get his point. "That doesn't translate to a job, though."

"Sure about that?" He pauses, fidgets with his water, the glass spinning round and leaving wet ringlets in its wake. I can tell he wants to say something he thinks I'll object to. It takes him twirling his drink from one side of the table to the other and then back again before he continues. "You know, that vinyl shop on Commercial is still up for sale. You could run it. Really."

I cast my eyes to the iron tabletop, trace a finger along its ornate floral pattern. "I know you think that, but I'm not—"

"—Stop. Look at me."

I do.

"Squall, believe me when I say it takes courage to quit. It really does. And I know you're thinking it's too hard to leave something stable when you've got her depending on you." He motions to Harper, still playing in the leaves, but his gaze doesn't stray from mine.

"I—" What can I say that won't sound outright disappointing? I can feel the intensity of his stare growing, pinning me to my chair. He's got this soft-and-yet-not expression that I imagine any concerned parent would wear when their kid is stuck. I try again to explain myself. "—I just…can't, you know? I can't throw away her future on some whim."

"You're not throwing her future away," he says. "I can help you. I…" He pauses, tries to think of the right words. "Squall…you have to… God, I hate this."

"Hate what?"

"I don't know. Hell." He's fumbling, but his resolve doesn't deteriorate. There's another pause; it holds long enough for him to build up the bravery to tell me what I suspect he's been meaning to say for a long time. "I hate that you're so quick to reject anything that might possibly be a good thing for you. It's like you convince yourself that you're not good enough, or that you're destined to screw it up. But you don't know that unless you try."

The words land hard. And he's right, of course. Actually, I don't know if he quite realizes how right he is. The truth is, I'm scared. Scared of change. Scared of failing. I mean, sure, I've entertained the idea of quitting Garden, fantasized about it even, but it's fear that's kept me in place, fear that's prevented me from moving on.

And it's that same fear that manifests in all these other poisonous ways, far beyond matters of my so-called career; it's why I'm afraid of Rinoa taking Harper away; it's why I won't allow myself to make a move on Quistis; it's why I feel trapped with just about everything.

Laguna is still staring at me, looking for an answer. I don't have a good one to give. Finally, I tell him, "I just don't think I can risk it."

He sighs, this big dad sigh that I've only ever heard him use with Ellone and me. There's a shake of his head, his chin falling to his chest as his eyes rip away. I'm sure I sound stubborn, maybe even like I'm shutting down. I don't want to come across that way, but I don't know what else to do, what else to say.

It feels like forever before Laguna finally speaks again, but when he does, his words come out low. "Squall, have you ever thought that maybe the real risk is staying put?"

—

AFTER DROPPING HARPER off at Rinoa's, I go to the dispensary, buy myself enough weed to last me through the week, head home, roll a joint. The night feels empty (or maybe I'm just drained). Damn Laguna for giving a fuck. I spend the dying hours of Sunday high, thinking about what he said, wondering why I'm so afraid. Is the fear even rational? Maybe I've just lived with it for so long at this point that it's become normal.

Sleep is equally tumultuous; I dream of Garden and SeeD and wasting my years as this perpetual fuck up for whom I hold only resentment. Waking up Monday doesn't make it any better, either. The morning feels not like a new day so much as a continuation, and it takes a cigarette, two cups of coffee, and a healthy amount of scraping at the bottom of the barrel before I can even muster the willpower to turn on my computer.

I'm halfway through my third cup and brewing another pot by the time Xu and I have our huddle; she updates me on what happened over the weekend, and then sends me a half dozen new reports to review, as well as the budget for a six-SeeD mission in Timber.

By 11:30, I'm already exhausted. Even at my worst, I used to be able to find at least some sort of rhythm with my work, but since coming off my suspension, I've had absolutely no drive, no desire, to the point where the bare minimum act of going through the fucking motions feels like a massive effort.

I sit back in my chair, wandering mind leading my eyes over to the record player as my inbox continues to pile up with more and more bullshit. How hard would it be to just say I'm sick and leave for the rest of the day? Would anyone even notice? Care?

Apparently so. It takes only thinking about bailing for my phone to light up, Garden's admin number flashing across the screen. I want to let it go to voicemail. My teeth clench, fingers fidget for a cigarette that isn't there. Goddamn it.

"Hello?"

"Hello Squall, how are you?" The Headmaster's voice sounds flat in spite of his greeting.

I pull my eyes away from my record player and force them back to my laptop screen. "...I'm fine."

"Glad to hear it," he says. I can practically see him nodding from behind his large mahogany desk, arms folded as he leans over the speaker. "And how's the little one?"

My forehead drops into my free hand. What is this? Yet another stupid impromptu check-in? "She's good. Sir, what are you actually calling about?"

A laugh. "Always to the point with you, even now, hey? Listen, I would like for you to come in on the first of the month."

I try not to let the annoyance seep into my voice. "Any particular reason?"

"We're overdue," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "There are some things I want to discuss with you as we look to the long-term."

Long-term. Hell. I'm having trouble wanting to be here for the rest of the day, let alone anything beyond that. It takes all my remaining energy to get the next words out. "Okay. I'll get it booked."

"Wonderful. Looking forward to it."

The call ends as blandly as it begins, and I immediately head out for a smoke. I really don't want to go back to Balamb, especially not to talk to the Headmaster about my supposed future. I'm pretty sure it's a test, a way for him to gauge my commitment, to see if the shackles are tight enough. I pull my cigarette back faster than I'd like as I try to push down the stress that's building up in my throat.

The remainder of the day is a complete write-off. I abandon my computer, dig through my record crate, put on Splinter (which is listenable again now that I'm not overly-stoned), and lie down on the couch. All I want to do is sleep, or at least get some semblance of it, but almost on cue, Garden keeps demanding more, the notifications on my phone buzzing away, as incessant as a nervous tic—emails, chat pings, tasks on my calendar going overdue.

Only one notification is actually useful, a single tile amidst a sea of work, reminding me that it's Zell's twenty-ninth birthday. It's already evening in Balamb; I'm sure he's at his parents' place with Penny and the new dog, about to sit down for family dinner. I send him a quick happy birthday message, to which he responds with a "Thanks man!" minutes later.

I feel a bit guilty that I haven't thought of him in awhile, and haven't spoken with him in even longer, but I guess that goes with the territory of growing up and apart. He and I have just been on such different paths for years now, divergent to the point where our commonalities have all but faded in the rearview mirror.

See, I think for him, SeeD has always been this force for good, both out in the world and close to his heart—he genuinely still feels like he's making a difference. And good on him. I would never do or say anything to try and take that away. If anything, I wish he could say something to me that would make me feel more like him.

But I think that's impossible at this point. Zell chose Garden, and he landed there not as a tiny child, but as a teenager. I've always been jealous of that fact; by virtue of his family, he got to decide his fate in a way I never did. To me, Garden was always this forced issue, the path that I had to take because it was the only one in front of me. And having that autonomy stolen away, even though I was young, is what ultimately created this fertile ground for my resentment to grow.

I wonder what my life would've been like, had I been offered a chance at a so-called normal life. Would I have ever met Laguna? Would I have fallen for Rinoa? Would we have had Harper? Would my friendship with Seifer be what it is today? And would I still share this closeness with Quistis? It's hard to say. All I know is that having the people around me that I do now—my family, my friends—makes me think maybe this path, despite all the pain, all my faltering, has still been worthwhile.