𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 , 𝐫. 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

eighty one -

EPISODE SEVEN
"not ever"
SEASON 8

DARYL DIXON

grey and i talk in the quietness of her house, our voices contained to the living room as we chase our demons with shot after shot of borrowed booze. one after the other, the matter turns into something harder to talk about, so again and again, our glasses are refilled.

i tell her about leah, how i couldn't find her and that it hurt to look for her—that's why i'm here now. i don't have an answer for why leah left, if it was because of the argument we all had, or something else. so i just shrug my shoulders and finish off my shot.

snippets of grey's talk with her dad this morning come out, although she told me she'd tell me about it another time. she mentions her mom, calling her by her name. it's the first time i've heard her say it.

we sit in the darkness, our shadows eating up each secret and regret we whisper. the rain never picks up, it never slows, it just continues to strum it's steady fall against the roof and porch steps outside.

"the other night," she starts. "you told me you're not a good friend to rick. you insisted, but you wouldn't tell me why. leah knows, doesn't she? that's what she's been wanting me to see, to notice?" she leans forward, grabbing the bottle of vodka off the coffee table, exchanging it for her empty glass she leaves sitting in its place.

"yeah."

her eyes dart over to mine, like she wasn't expecting that answer, "why won't you tell me?"

i don't so much as part my lips to respond. the silence nips at me like pesky snakes waiting to feed off my secrets. they'll bite and bite until i give them what they want.

my clothes shuffle against the chair as i get up. i wrap my hand around the bottle in grey's, my silent way of asking for it. her eyes trail up to meet mine, the pool of chocolate brown and her dark eyelashes, striking against each other—something i'd falter at if i weren't so hung up on defying her.

i refuse to share a word, each syllable shriveling up behind my lips and dying. grey loosens her grip, letting me have the bottle. i stalk backward to the chair, flop down in it, and take a large swig—a swig bigger than the one she took, all the while my eyes don't leave hers.

"you think he's dead? is that it?" she whispers. "but you don't want to tell me because you're my friend."

"i never said that."

"but you don't deny it."

"i don't think rick is dead." i say, louder this time, my words more clear. "it's not that."

she looks down at her empty hands and i wonder if they reflect how she feels on the inside. "you think he gave up?" she asks. "found something easier to fight for? it would've hurt him, so bad he probably thought he was dying, to give up on carl and judith, but maybe wherever he is is just better. better than here."

i lean forward, dipping my head, trying to get her to look at me. i don't stop until my stare becomes too much, too heavy on her, and she caves—finally meeting my hard gaze.

"it ain't the right time to give up on him, grey. trust me. you're gonna head out there in a few days and you're gonna find him."

"me? just me?" something takes over her face. "aren't you coming with me?"

i fill my mouth with another sip, becoming too reliant on drinking each time i don't want to talk. i drink to replace the words on my tongue with something easier to handle than the truth, and she's picking up on that.