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And I’m not doing this for them.
I’m doing this for me.
I’m doing it for the kid in Orlando who they couldn’t help. My band’s fan. Tom Souter is only nineteen-years-old. He deserves so much better than this.
There’s a doorbell, but I look at it and quickly decide to knock instead. I think it feels more adult. Of course, my thought process makes no fucking sense–there’s no maturity difference between knocking and using the doorbell. But as I feel my knuckles rap on the door, the sound echoing on the heavy wood, my stomach churns with anxiety.
And then…nothing happens.
Nothing at all.
A bird chirps somewhere in the distance, a gust of wind picks up and sways the branches off a tree over the roof. The windchime sounds tinny and metallic, not at all sweet and melodic like it did before. And I take a step back, ready to hold onto the railing and fucking bolt because I’m getting the dreadful feeling that I shouldn’t be here at all.
For any reason.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and fuck, this feels like the worst one.
I stay away for a reason. For a myriad of reasons.
I take a step back when I hear footsteps coming toward the door. I can’t just leave now, they’ll know I was here and that will be even worse. The sound of the steps isn’t familiar.
When the door opens, I can see why.
The person in front of me is a complete stranger. A man, maybe in his late sixties. It’s hard to tell how old he is. Tall, tan, with silver hair and dark eyes. “Good morning,“ he says warmly. “Can I help you?“
I try to speak but I can’t swallow down the knot in my throat. I try to clear it, but it’s pointless. God, I’m so thirsty. Why am I so thirsty? But maybe this is good. This means this isn’t my mother’s house and this was all pointless and I can just go home and…
And then there are footsteps behind him too. I recognize those.
“Trine!“ I hear from behind the person opening the door. His eyes open in recognition as he moves aside. My mother is wearing what she always wears at home; overpriced loungewear, a robe that could pass for a coat with a black trim and a dramatic neckline. The only giveaway that it’s not purposeful fashion is the fuzzy green slippers she’s wearing. She approaches me, taking my hands in hers. Her fingers are freezing. She meets my gaze, and for a second, I think she’s going to burst into tears. She doesn’t. She flashes me a smile instead. “What a lovely surprise. You could’ve called, but…“
“Sorry, Mom,“ I say. “I…“
Really don’t want to be here? No. That seems rude. She’s not being rude.
“I don’t mean to impose, but something happened, and I need your help.“
She knits her brow in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?“
“I will be. With your help,“ I say. “Can you help me?“
I expect her to ask me questions; to question me on why I need her. But she just tightens her grip around me instead, her fingers firm against my skin. “Of course, darling. Of course I’ll help you.“
And maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s stupid.
But fuck. Icompletelybelieve her.
LUKE
Trine is clearly upset. This is obviously hard for her.
I can’t see her that well, but I can hear her from where the car is parked and the voices at the door are hushed and urgent. I worry about her. There’s a part of me that wants to go to the front door and make sure she’s okay. But I do no such thing, choosing to stand back instead, the only shade the one provided by the tree branch over the carport.
Misha leans against the car, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing. Rei watches from next to me, his palm shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight. None of us are used to this fucking weather down here and it’s alot.
I don’t know how long we can stand here, waiting for something to happen. I don’t know if Trine is okay and I want to check on her.
But I know better than that.
