Chapter 4
and if you don’t love me now,
you will never love me again,
i can still hear you sayin,
you would never break the chain
- the Chain, Fleetwood Mac
*
“Not to diss your tea,” Nat says, as she comes down the stairs. “But I need grease.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Lottie’s idea is a diner two blocks from her house. It’s a little rundown, with yellowed menus and muck on the floor. Nat doesn’t feel out of place ordering a mound of hash browns and bacon. Lottie orders more tea and drinks, two-handed, occasionally setting it down to pluck at her collar. Nat watches her, amused.
”What?” Lottie asks eventually.
”You’re not fooling anyone with that turtleneck.” Nat’s smile turns devilish. Lottie had thrown on a modest sweater before they left. It’s too small, almost ill-fitting.
Lottie just rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”
But she blushes a bit, too. A blotch of pink appears and spreads easily along the apples of her cheeks. Nat keeps watching her, caught on the detail.
”Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you wear that shirt four times this week.” Lottie continues. Nat blinks and looks down at her plate—stabs a potato, chews. She has to actively remind herself to focus on what Lottie is saying. “You can bring clothes over, if you want. Or you can borrow mine.”
”I don’t think we have the same style, Lot.”
“Really? I think you could totally pull off the pink.” Lottie teases. Her smile is playful. Beneath the table, her foot tips lazily onto Nat’s own.
”Fuck off.” Nat grumbles.
Lottie laughs too loudly for the near-deserted diner. Her eyes crinkle when she does it. Her nose scrunches. Her mouth forms a sweet curve. Nat grabs her fork and prods at her plate, more forcefully than is necessary.
”You’re right, though.” She says, after Lottie’s done laughing, and she’s done… recuperating. “I guess I’ll stop home later.”
“I could come with you.” Lottie offers.
Nat thinks of home—her actual one. She thinks of the rough, unkempt trailer park and the cramped little space she grew up in. She tries to imagine Lottie there, amongst it all. It makes her want to cringe.
“No, that’s—alright.” She answers tightly. “Thanks, but I can manage myself.”
Lottie nods, disappointed but understanding.
*
Nat drops by after breakfast.
It’s all just as she left it. The dingy lamp that always flickers, the crowded coffee table, the overflow of mouldering garbage—empty beer cans, unwashed plates. Her mom, curled up on the couch, out cold. Nat watches her for a moment, traces the rise of her breaths. Nothing’s changed. Yet, as Nat slinks around, she can’t help but feel as if something’s different. It’s strange. She hadn’t realized how claustrophobic she’d felt here, how stifled, like a rabid animal, fighting tooth and nail for its corner.
Quietly, she begins digging through her room. It’s still messy, cluttered. She picks up a magazine. Sets it down. There’s very little that she actually needs.
Most of her shirts make the cut. A few pairs of jeans, too. She stuffs her shit carelessly into a duffle bag, alongside her soccer equipment. Then, she checks her hiding spots: liquor beneath the bed, cigarettes tucked into her underwear drawer, some old weed in the back of her closet. She takes it all. It feels necessary.
“Natalie?”
It’s only her mom—but she hates herself for the way her body draws taut, unsettled.
“Yeah. It’s me.” Nat steps out of her room and finds her mom struggling to sit up, clearly dazed. “I’m back.”
She clenches her jaw, waiting. She’d hoped to avoid this. Her dad is at work. Her mom normally sleeps through the day. Bad luck, but what else is new?
Her mom blinks. “Back? From school?”
”No. I was at a friend’s.”
“Oh… that’s nice.” Her mom mumbles noncommittally, moving on to sort through the crap on the table.
Nat doesn’t stick around to see what she’s looking for. She leaves without a goodbye, not stopping until she’s hit a solid sidewalk again.
*
She doesn’t go directly back to Lottie’s afterwards. Instead, she finds an alley to pace in—somewhere to get her shit together. She feels restless, agitated. Her fingers are too unsteady to get her lighter going on the first try. She smokes compulsively through what’s left of her cigarettes, running on autopilot.
Part of her had wanted to see him.
She’d wanted to say—she’d wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Fuck him for being a piece of shit father and fuck him for ruining her and fuck him for making her so goddamn afraid all of the time. Just fuck, fuck, fuck.
*
Nat doesn’t say hello when she slips into Lottie’s living room. She knows it’s bad manners. She knows it’s dumb to think she wouldn’t be heard, especially in combat boots. But she knows all of these things distantly, through the fog in her head. She’s got a bit of a buzz going.
Well, more than a bit. Everything feels nicer now. Clean and easy to swallow.
”Nat?”
Lottie’s couch is so soft that she doesn’t bother to respond, just collapses. Lottie will know it’s her, somehow.
”Nat—oh, you’re back.” Lottie approaches her pleasantly. “You got all your stuff?”
”I got my stuff.”
”Was everything alright?”
”Yep.” Nat wants to sleep. The couch here is so comfy, not like back at home.
”Nat?”
”Mhm.”
”Are you drunk?” Fingers prod at her side. Lottie tries to flip her over, maybe get a look at her face.
Nat stays put, closing her eyes. “No.”
She just wants to take a nap. Why doesn’t Lottie understand that? Why doesn’t anyone?
”Nat.” More prodding. Nat twitches away, frowning, though Lottie continues, sounding vaguely concerned. “Are you on something?”
“Am I on something?” Nat snaps. She wants to sleep, damn it. “That’s rich. I’m not the one hoarding pills.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Nat leans into it, nuzzling the cushion. She hears it when Lottie walks away, but it’s okay. She can sleep now…