Closer To The Sun [Poly] [Bi]

4 - Nora

Q.O.T.D – Have you ever cried in an awkward place / at an awkward time? :')

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🌼 . 🦊 . 🌼

This was the sixth time Nora had cried in Callum's bedroom.

Crying ran in her family, like bad decision-making and low blood pressure. Her dad, her stepmother, her half-siblings, her aunts, her grandmothers, and her cousins reacted to everything with tears. Minor argument? Stubbed toe? Frustrating day at the office?

Sobbing.

Her cousin Rory cried every time he left for a long backpacking trip. He cried every time he came home, too. Her aunt Lucy cried whenever a movie had a dog in it. Didn't matter the movie, didn't matter what happened to the dog. Her grandmas cried whenever they looked through old photo books, in between little jabs at once another for losing their hair or gaining a few pounds here and there. Her step-mother cried whenever she didn't get her way. That wasn't biological, as far as Nora knew. That was just her stepmother.

And Nora cried over Callum. A lot. Sometimes it was because he was cruel. Sometimes it was because she was cruel and regretted it later. Sometimes it was because she didn't know what she wanted. Sometimes it was because she knew exactly what she wanted, but was getting less sure that she'd be able to have it.

Nora uncurled herself from the blanket on Callum's carpet. Her arms and legs wore prickly carpet-fibre swirls, red and tight and itchy. She rubbed hands along her legs and sniffed a final sniff. Callum would be in the living room listening to records, or in rec room shooting an angry solo game of pool, or in the pool doing frustrated laps. Sulking somewhere in his massive house, like he always did when she cried.

The MacGowan house had plenty of places to hide from your own feelings, or from anyone else's, for that matter. If Nora's family was overemotional, the MacGowans were underemotional. Maybe they'd sold their feelings long, long ago, for a six-car garage and part-time cleaning staff.

Nora wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and helped herself up, pressing into Callum's wrought metal bedframe. His entire room looked like a catalogue, too influenced by his mother's overbearing taste to feel properly his. The unassuming places where he'd managed to squeeze in some amount of personality – the plastic CD player with the cracked lid, the photos of himself and Nora in the photo booth at their senior prom – were shuffled off into the corners of shelves, or had been carried off to his college dorm room in Boston.

Nora swung open the bedroom door. Living Room Numero Uno was empty. The leather throw pillows sat in silent, polite conversation atop burnished upholstery that smelled like shoe polish. The curtains admitted soft-filtered afternoon light, cut through the middle by the silhouettes of jagged Colorado mountains beyond. There was no sign of Mrs. or Mr. MacGowan; they were off schmoozing wealthy donors at a fundraiser for Chronically Sleepy Orphans or at a car show for old restored German two-seaters or at some gala drinking champagne from elephant tusks.

As she normally did, Nora resolved to wait for Callum in her favorite room of the house, the small alcove breakfast nook that overlooked the pool. It was cozy, and unassuming by MacGowan standards. By now, it was bittersweet: it was the place where Nora and Callum's fights usually started and ended. 

Nora retraced her steps to the breakfast nook, then jumped to see someone sitting there. 

Campbell MacGowan sat in the nook with one leg on the floor, the other pulled up to his chest. A map was spread wide in front of him on the alcove table. His phone clamped down one side of the map to keep it from flapping in the aggressive spring breeze blowing in from the windows, all of which were open. One of Campbell's hands traced lines on the map; the other held back his sandy brown hair from sweeping in front of his eyes. He reached with his tracing hand into a small pile of snacks beside the map.