go west ( reddie )

chapter eleven

Eddie wakes up before he opens his eyes. He's dreaming that he's falling and the air is wet and cool against his skin and he's never been afraid in his life, not of anything. He falls, he takes a step, he opens a door, and the world starts to get lighter and lighter around him, a place of cloud, and then he realises that he's awake. He lies there for a minute, eyes still closed, and he pretends he's somewhere that he knows. His bedroom in Derry, staring up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the peeling smiley face stickers Mike had given him one day, A for effort Eddie Kaspbrak . He would be fiddling with the frayed stitching on the hem of the curtain by his bed, pulling it back to see the sky, his other hand resting on his stomach. He would be waiting for his mother to scream at him for some awful reason. An epidemic or neighbourhood politics or because she wanted a foot rub. His insides would be lead. It isn't a comfort. It's just the place where he slept. He opens his eyes and he's in San Francisco, Bev's spare bedroom, and it's summer.

It's a small room, with wooden floors and an old faded rug at the foot of the bed, but he opens the curtains and the light floods in. It's late. He must have slept for almost twelve hours. He feels... good. Better. He doesn't have to drive anywhere today. He doesn't have to do anything. He could crawl back into bed and sleep or sit on the floor, holding himself still, or he could stare at the wall until his vision blurred. He fidgets, turns away from the window, and notices his suitcase, half-open on the floor by the door. He doesn't remember brining it in. He remembers Bev pulling them inside, dancing them around the front room, laughing. He remembers going to bed, pretending to be asleep when Richie came in after his shower, slipping under the cool sheets behind him. He remembers trying not to react when Richie's ankle brushed his own. He crosses the room and shuts his suitcase properly and heads downstairs.

In the kitchen, Bev and Richie are drinking coffee and talking quietly. Richie looks like he belongs there, somehow, just leaning against the bench with his hair in his eyes and a mug held against his mouth.

"Sleeping beauty," says Richie, frowning into his mug. Eddie resists the urge to steal it from him and takes a place next to him instead. It smells like something herbal, lemon verbena maybe. Bev will be drinking her coffee bitter black. "Thought you'd never wake up," Richie continues, still not looking at him. "Thought you'd live your whole life out in that bed."

"Ignore him," says Bev. "He's been up for like, half an hour, at the most." She's watching Eddie sharply, like she expects some kind of reaction. He feels a little bit like the rug's been pulled out from under him.

"Good morning," he says, carefully. "Did I miss something?"

"No," says Bev. "Richie was just gonna call Bill."

"Oh," says Eddie. He doesn't think he can talk to anyone in Derry, not yet. They'll be in San Francisco for two weeks, at least. He has time.

So Richie disappears and Bev pours Eddie coffee into a mug painted like a pastel Easter egg and then leads him into the living room. It's all overstuffed couches and throws, cushions on everything, a coffee table with an overgrown spider plant and various Vogue magazines. Bev takes her place on one of the couches and pats enthusiastically at the place by her side, smile crooked. He's missed her so much. She's wearing white lace tights and a dress made of layered pieces of filmy grey fabric, sheer and sheer and sheer. She has chipped plum coloured nail polish and rings on every finger, silver metal and coloured stones. Steam from her mug drifts up and around her face, making her look indistinct, dream-like. Eddie takes the offered place, tucks his toes under her thighs, knees pulled to his chest.

"How are you?" she asks. "Did you sleep alright?"

"I'm... I'm good," says Eddie, truthfully. "I didn't realise I was so tired."