Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter Eleven:

When I woke the next morning, I was sniffling. The night had ended badly: 1) with Tate and me on the roof of one of the upperclassman's house and then 2) coming home to sob and sniffle and sulk in Mom' arms, while she tried to apply her motherly wisdom to the problem.

Neither had worked out well.

I sat up in my bed and stretched, listening to the pops and cracks inside my back. My hair was down around my face, messy and possibly tangled, the brown locks and strands still a shock to me. I was so used to blue that waking up the brown hair was like waking up in Drew's skin seeing through her eyes. I shuddered and flipped the covers off my legs, shifting until my legs were over the edge of the mattress. Cold wood flooring greeted the warm skin of my legs and feet. Chills and the smallest hint of burning cold shimmied over my skin and through my nerves.

Standing and quickly padding to my desk, I opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of fleece socks, stuffing my feet into them. My room looked unusually cozy, with its shady curtains and my hiding spot and the pictures that I have accumulated over the years. Everything yelled "Stay", but that was the complete opposite of what I needed to do.

I needed to get out of this room, out of the darkness and the familiarity; to go outside and sit in the sun, and try to figure a way to remake what has been wronged. Pushing my hair from my eyes, I turned from my desk to the door, making my way out into the hallway, where the sounds of early morning news and the coffee maker mingled in the harmony of the middle-aged woman's Wake Up ritual.

I could also hear voices, a male and a woman, talking. One was definitely Mom's; I could identify her monotonous rasp anywhere. The other? That was another story. I hadn't heard that voice in forever, and have lost the name to the man it went with. When I made it into the kitchen, Mom was sitting in her usual place at the dining table, a mug of coffee held in her hands.

Across from her, with his back to me, was a man. He had dark tousled hair, and from the way he raised his hand to his face for three seconds, he had glasses. He was dressed in a polo shirt, a light grey color, and black slacks, his feet tied into black oxfords. I glanced at Mom, but she was talking amiably to this man, laughing with him when he laughed about something she said.

I made my way farther into the kitchen, pretending I didn't know they were there until I turned away from the cabinet with my bowl for breakfast. Mom turned in her chair, "Oh, Pen! Guess who just dropped by?" She turned back to the man, and I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to put a name to the face.

He had clear skin, as smooth looking as ivory. It was tanned, a light-ish shade of brown, subtly handsome on him. His eyes were as green as emeralds and his smile was stretched forcefully on his lips. The man didn't move from his seat; he seemed uncomfortable, like my scrutinizing gaze was burning his skin. I blinked and walked to the pantry, pulling down a cereal box.

I trained my eyes back on him. Where have I seen you before? I thought to myself, angry that I had forgotten his name. His smile slipped from his lips as he took me in; I was wearing a pair of Drew's shorts, colored with the old Marvel cartoons, worn to the perfect softness. I was wearing a grey form-fitting shirt from my own "closet", one of Drew's old ones that I long since called mine.

My feet were bare and my hair was brown.

My eyes widened when I realized who he was seeing. This man was staring at Drew. This man was Peter Castalow, her long ago lover, the man from the Pre-Drew era. He was seeing my long-since-deceased sister standing in front of him. To my unfortunate surprise, her ghost still haunted him, and I wasn't helping the situation. I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.