Saving the Reject | Michael Clifford | Editing

t w e n t y t w o ;

Charli

"There's money in the safe," Dawson was saying as he pulled the handle of his suitcase up.  "Be smart with it, and try not to use it all.  Rent is due on Sunday, so the check is on the counter.  I'll call you on Sunday to remind you about it."

With an eye roll, I said, "You're acting like you've never left me alone before."  A sympathetic look gave an edge to his normally smooth features. I'm not talking about that, I wanted to tell him.  You made a mistake, that's all.

He reached out for a hug, sighing.  "We'll be back in a week," he promised.  I didn't say anything; nodding against his shoulder was enough.  He squeezed me until I groaned, unable to breathe, like he had always done when we were younger.  Those times, like this one, were never bitter.  Dawson and I had always had a good sibling relationship.

Just as I felt him begin to loosen his grip on me, we were almost knocked sideways by the tiny-but-mighty girl; Emmy had taken a detour to the restrooms, but had apparently reappeared in time for a last group hug.  My beautiful little family.  It saddens me to think that in a few short months, I'll be leaving them.  Rather, they'll be leaving me.

"Keep me updated on the dress!" I called out to Emmy as she walked with Dawson towards their gate.

"As long as you can keep it a secret from this one!" she responded, flicking her thumb towards Dawson.

"Don't worry," I giggled.  "I've been doing it all my life!"

"Hey!"

Emmy and I, separated by the wide hallways of the Newcastle airport, laughed together at Dawson's exclamation.  We all knew it was to be taken light-heartedly.

In such a short span of time, I have had two airport goodbyes.  Luckily, this one wasn't nearly as difficult.  Would it have been if it was the same airport?  Undoubtedly.  Was it worth the two hour drive back home, even at eleven o'clock at night?  Absolutely.

I was in the parking lot by the time my phone went off, the noise frightening an almost-asleep woman sitting at the bus stop as I passed her.  Seeing the call was from Calum, I answered, prepared for a drunk voice to answer me.  "Hello?"

"Hey, did something happen between you and Michael?"  I was surprised - not that his voice didn't sound tainted with alcohol, but by the forwardness of his question.

"Not that I'm aware of, why do you ask?" I asked, pulling myself up into the driver's seat of Dawson's truck.

"When he came home after picking you up, I wasn't sure if he was going to punch a wall, or burst into tears."  This shocked, confused, and concerned me all at the same time.  "He didn't do either of those things, though; he just locked himself in his room.  He hasn't come out since."  I was tempted to say something, but Calum continued.  "And when you didn't come over to tutor, I figure something had happened.  Why didn't you come over?"

"I had a family thing," I informed him quickly.  "He's still locked up in his room?  He hasn't come out at all?"

"I tired to get him to come out before I called you, but he just told me to fuck off.  Do you think you could come over and help me get him to come out?  He's freaking me out," Calum pleaded.

I groaned, leaning my head on the steering wheel, still sitting in the airport parking lot.  "I can't, I'm in Newcastle."

"Why the hell are you in Newcastle?"

"I had to go to the airport.  I'm leaving now, though.  I'll try to get there as soon as I can."

*        *        *        *        *        *

Five minutes from their house, I called Calum again, but he didn't answer.  He must have fallen asleep, and from what Michael has told me, Calum's a heavy sleeper.

I parked behind Michael's car, and not exactly wishing to wake everyone in the house, I went around to the side of the house, finding Michael's window, covered only partially by his black curtains.  My multicolored hair companion sat on his bed, leaning against his headboard, with his head in his hands.  He wasn't asleep, that I knew - but he seemed unstable.

With a slight pain tightening in my chest, I mustered up the courage to tap on his window.  It wasn't loud, but it was enough.

His green eyes were bloodshot when the connected with mine - not from alcohol, though.  I wasn't sure which situation would be better.  His tall figure slipped off the bed, going to the window, and pushing it open.  "Charli?" he asked, his voice hoarse.  The sadness in his voice all but broke my heart.

I said nothing, nor did he; he helped me into his room through the window.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I whispered to him.  We sat side by side on the edge of his bed, our legs so close to brushing against each other.  His gaze was on the ground; mine was on him.

A slight shake of the head answered my question.

I understood not the cause of his sorrow, but the effect.  People are right: sometimes it is better to talk it out; but sometimes it's better just to have someone there, someone who knew the comfort silence brought.  For me, it had been Dawson.  I'd be happy to be that someone for Michael.

A moment of stillness past, as I watched Michael's hunched shoulders, as they gently moved up and down with each intake of breath, like the sound of waves, something we couldn't hear from this part of town.  I cautiously moved an inch towards him, filling the gap of empty space between us.  My movements were slow, prepared to retract if he showed any displeasure.  But he didn't, so I proceeded to wrap an arm around his shoulders, and, with once last glance at him, I place my head on his shoulder.  It surprised me how comfortably I fit there.

It also surprised me, how naturally Michael rested his head against mine, shifting his arm, positioning it around my waist.

"How did you know?" Michael choked out.

I sighed a little.  "Calum was worried when you wouldn't come out of here."

"He shouldn't be worrying about me," he said under his breath, and I wasn't sure if it was directed towards me or not.

"It's better to have people who worry, than to have people who don't care what happens to you," I said in a hushed tone.

Michael lifted his head from mine, sensing the deeper meaning behind my words.  But as I looked up at him, our noses nearly brushing, he said nothing.  He simply allowed my to get lost in his troubled, green eyes.

"You didn't have dinner, did you?" I asked him after a while.

He smiled, chuckling quietly.  "You're worried about that right now?"

"Skipping one meal can easily lead to skipping others," I told him seriously.  "I know."

It was still fresh in my mind, the appetite I had lost and never regained.  The food given to me was always then given to the empty stomachs around me.  I remember them denying it, saying how I needed it as much as they did.  I remember telling them that I had had food at school, but how that was merely an excuse.  The food the school provided me with I had given to the other lost children as they looked for a home, but found the underside of a bridge.

"Come on," I said, knowing Michael was attempting to read my mind, hoping to find the reason behind my darkening eyes.  "Let's go get dinner."  I stood, holding out my hand for him to take.

But awhile longer, he sat there, looking up at me with a small smile.  "Charli, it's nearly two in the morning."

"And your point is?"

He shook his head, taking my hand and pulling himself up - but as he stood next to me, ready to walk with me outside, he didn't let go of my hand.  His shifted his hand in mine, locking our fingers together.  A blissful feeling ignited my bloodstream, not leaving that kind of shock you get when your grade school crush brushes your hand, but a warmth that spread through my body, and stayed.  "I've never met someone like you before, Charli Sparks."