December Street

4. The world was, surprisingly, a happier place.

“Over. We’re over. O-V-E-R! Do you even understand what I’m saying, you jerk?! Damn you! Get out! OUT!”

Morgan shoved a box of Hayden’s things towards him. His handsome face lurked far too close to hers, but the box cut into his chest and made him stumble back. Morgan’s eyes glared into his fiercely; in the background Rachel winced and mouthed, Sorry, but anyone could tell she wasn’t.

“Listen, Morgan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it –”

“Didn’t mean it.” Morgan’s voice swung dangerously low. “You didn’t mean what? To cheat on me for six months? You didn’t mean to sleep with that Carolina and tell me that you’d never slept with anyone before?”

“Yes! I didn’t meant to lie to you –”

“See, even you admit you’re a player. Now get out. Of. My. Apartment!” Morgan screamed at the top of her lungs, pushed Hayden out, and slammed the door shut as hard as she could. She whirled around and dropped to the floor, exhausted.

Rachel crouched by her. “Morgan?”

“I’m fine.” She was, surprisingly enough.

Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately - Morgan barely remembered the night before. It had been a blur of excuses and something with Paul Darcy escorting her to her car. Saying something about ‘maybe she needed fresh air’ and then waiting until he’d gone back into the bar and driven home and cried a bit.

Then, Rachel had come home with Charlie and another young woman who looked decidedly like Charlie. Morgan recognized her on sight, and when Charlie introduced her as his sister Carolina, things got twice as worse. Carolina, the girl that Paul was after, and Carolina, the girl Hayden had been having sex with. She had kicked both Charlie and Carolina Bingley out and didn’t even feel remotely guilty about it.

Her history test – the one she had been studying so hard for the night before – had gone off without a hitch. And now that this horrible Friday morning was done with, she wanted to curl up in her bed and go to sleep.

“Morgan.” Rachel’s voice was soft and quiet and warm. “Morgan, I’m going to take you home.”

Quietly, Rachel led her sister down the steps of their apartment, out onto the Boston street, and into the car. Rachel drove onto the freeway and out of Boston, looking determinedly straight ahead at the road, driving almost subconsciously. The Boston skyline stretched out for miles before them and Morgan was so unhappy to be going home – truly home, the one city where she would always be accepted – that she wanted to cry. Curl up and cry. It was either that or sit up and smile at everyone around her while keeping it bottled up inside – so, really, what did she have to lose?

They drive on; the freeway slowly lost lanes and became a twisty two-lane highway that led out into a countryside full of big houses and forests and innocent childhoods that are remembered in fleeting wisps. As Rachel exited off the freeway the turns became more and more familiar; Morgan knew this route like she knew her own name. Along the backwoods of Massachusetts they drove and were delivered safely into the arms of a sprawling house set against a backdrop of trees and a quiet neighborhood. Rachel just got out of the car them as Morgan the Ghost Walker made her way up the porch steps.

“Morgan!” A petite blonde with Rachel’s coloring and Morgan’s facial structure burst out of the house. “We didn’t know you were coming home this weekend! Hey, Rachel!”

Morgan walked into the house and barely heard her twin say to their younger sister, “Abby, Morgan needs a bit of rest. Come walk with me? And is anyone else home?”

But Morgan could have answered her question already because as she walked inside there wasn’t anyone there. The house was empty, although the remnants of people remained: her father’s newspaper, her mother’s knitting, and three empty glasses of orange juice sat on the table. But contrary to the evidence, footsteps echoed throughout the house and her father’s white hair swum in her line of vision.

“C’mon, poppet,” he said, slowly and quietly, and led her up the stairs. “Let’s get you home.”

He led her up the stairs and his voice was calm and quiet, precisely what she needed. “It will be okay,” he said, and smoothed down her hair, brown like his had been. “Maybe not now, but it will be okay.”

And as she collapsed into her old bed in her room, she seemed to be more home than ever. And happier than she had been before.

The tears fell easily that night.

A/N: Wow. Um. I’m sorry I haven’t updated since God-knows-when. Real life keeps one busy, unfortunately. Good news – summer is exactly one month and one day away, and then I’ll have a semblance of a life again, although it might be a while before I post chapter 5. Good news: I do have all of December Street written, all ten chapters, so that is not a worry.

I’m not Jane Austen’s ghost. I don’t live in England, the eighteenth century, and regrettably have no books published. My eternal thanks to my wonderful friend Pixie, who helps in so many more ways than being a beta reader for December Street. In any case, happy reading...oh, yeah, right. Please review!