The Way To Aja

Chapter Two: An Old Friend

 Thirty minutes later she had showered, shaved her legs and brushed her teeth and hair so that she was somewhat presentable. Annar had left to go fishing in Akureyri, and had taken his old, tomato colored truck void of seat belts so that she could have the little navy sedan for the day. With nothing to do, Rorry walked up the stairs that she had not dared set foot on since she had arrived two nights ago, Max hurrying up after her. The upper story of the house was carpeted, and Rorry's baby pictures were hung on every wall. Upstairs, there was a little bathroom with navy blue walls and white trim that was used much more frequently than the downstairs one. There were also two bedrooms, Annar's and hers.

Rorry's dad hadn't said anything about her not going upstairs and not sleeping in her bedroom. He understood that it was hard for his daughter to come back home after all these years. Rorry took a deep breath, her hand settled on the doorknob, staring at the loopy letters that spelled out her name. Sucking up the courage, Rorry quickly pushed open the door. Nothing happened. Nothing had changed, at all. Maybe that was a bad thing, Rorry didn't know. The room was exactly the same as she had left it the day after her 18th birthday.

The walls were white, photographs of her and her best friends hung everywhere. On the wall behind the small twin bed was a huge gay flag that was a sixteenth birthday present from Kyan. The bed in the corner had a dark green comforter, which Rorry remembered that when she had left she had made exactly like this. The cherry wooden desk against the wall was completely clear. An old black, scuffed up longboard rested against the wall in her closet. Most of her old clothes still hung in there, including her beloved old pride sweatshirt which she had forgotten in the hurry of packing. Rorry pulled it on over her plain white bra and stripped her leggings off, replacing them with an old pair of faded jeans with rips that exposed her pale legs.

Rorry moved on to examine the pictures of her and the 'gang.' Most were of her and Kyan running around grassy cliffs near the ocean, where relentless waves beat the shores, through open grassy valleys in front of glaciers, and on long black beaches where Pelicans flew and the wind roared. Her hair had been brown then, and long, and his, pitch black and wavy. In the pictures, both teenagers were laughing with wide grins, and in one they sat side by side with Max in between them, as Rorry leaned her head on Kyan's shoulder. Most of the rest, though, were of the whole gang in high school at little diners in Akureyri and on road to Reykjavik that went all around the island.

There were also pictures of Rorry, her mom, and Jack from the first two times she had gone to visit them. They had been awkward, brief visits and Rorry had missed her home and friends more than anything. She had never wanted to go, to leave the place she loved with the people she wanted to be with, and end up in a strange country she had no connection to, just to see a woman who left when she was eight years old. Annar had insisted, though, and her mother had never been the wiser.

One picture in particular made her smile: a twenty-one year-old Vik was escorting her to her first date with Allie Shander, a strong and blonde bicyclist, by carrying her sixteen year-old self on his shoulders. Rorry had always been much smaller than her friends, which meant she was nearly half the size of the giant Vik. Back then, Vik's had been very attractive, with short and styled hair. Rorry had never noticed his rugged looks though, and had often wrestled with him rather than standing off to the side in awe of him like Saissa and Rye. Rorry had only dated Allie for a few weeks before she decided that there was no actual real feelings between the two.

Rorry pulled out her IPhone and cautiously typed out a message to Rye, who still lived in Akureyri, asking is she wanted to get tea from Hopper's in town. A minute later Rye texted back, See ya in twenty? Saying that she'd be there, Rorry ran down the stairs, slung the green lanyard of keys around her neck, and sloppily pulled on black socks before shoving her feet into black vans. Rorry dashed into the bathroom again, checking her appearance and grabbing her black-tinted sunglasses off of the sink counter. Not that the sunglasses were needed - it was October in Iceland. But Rorry figured that they might hide the grief and exhaustion in her eyes, and the black bags beneath them, from one of her closest friends, and the rest of the world.