Chapter Text
Basira comes as promised with Jon's remaining things, and all Georgie can do is gape.
Three whole boxes take up the entire backseat, brimming with random things, mostly journals. Mostly journals. Georgie can tell because at a certain point he started buying only one brand of them and they all look the same, only occasionally varying in color-either dark blue or black, with maybe three in a dark maroon.
"Alright, so... that's all of it? All journals?"
Basira shrugs. "Well, a few other things. He had a lot of cassettes. For music, I mean.
Melanie raises her eyebrows. "I didn't think Jon listened to music, like... ever. He seems like he wouldn't know anything outside of dry, dusty textbooks."
"He liked Radiohead," Georgie explains. "A lot."
"Oh. Naturally."
"Those cassettes are probably quite valuable now, actually." Georgie pauses. "I bet we could get a lot on Ebay."
They lug the boxes inside, Basira carrying two and Georgie with the other one. Sasha's inside at the dining room table, quietly reading her book, and Basira tenses when her eyes sweep the room and find her there. She doesn't react, though, and she's carrying no visible weapons. It's progress, Georgie reminds herself, that's what they're all aiming for.
She nudges Basira with her shoulder. "Could you help me get this upstairs? I'll put them in the closet."
"Sure."
It's quiet as they pack everything up, to Georgie's disappointment. She wanted to talk about it some more. Melanie didn't need to hear things over and over again, but she wanted to say them over and over again. Now that the cat was out of the bag, she never wanted to stop talking about it.
Instead, she puts on one of the few hoodies that were saved. It's an old What The Ghost? one that she gave him... God, when the show was first getting attention.
It doesn't smell like him at all, but she wishes it did. If she squeezes her eyes shut and tries hard enough, she can take herself back to when they held each other and shared clothes and she knew what he smelled like. Old spice deodorant and printer ink and beer. It doesn't sound pleasant, and it wasn't exactly, but it's him, you know? She can tell the hoodie is his, too, because in the corner he stitched his name, as was his habit for a while, and the elbows are worn and the drawstring is gone.
She runs her thumb over the stitches and smiles.
"Thanks for bringing these up."
Basira eyes her. "I thought you'd be all depressed about it. Now I'm worried."
"I'm... working on accepting some things."
"Yeah, maybe you should get a therapist." She hums. "I've started seeing someone, after all. About... grief. And anger issues, but mostly the first thing."
Georgie raises her eyebrows. "I can see you with an issue lashing out, but you always seem so calm and in control."
"Yeah, but it's only because I'm angry. Hence, anger issues."
They laugh.
"Seriously, though, that's... that's great. I'm happy for you."
Basira nudges her. "I can't keep living like the world's the same as it used to be, right? I knew that logically, but it's finally setting in. I got Daisy a grave, they're making her a tombstone, I'm gonna... I'm gonna put her in the ground. Her things. Personal belongings. I don’t know what to do with her police stuff, I don’t think she’d want to be buried with that. But I'm going to be free and done."
"Jeez, you really have changed!"
"I know. It's weird. I won't lie and say Sasha's being here isn't... irking me. I just want to strangle her to death, feel her die in my hands, but..." she shrugs. "I dunno. I don't really want that, and I recognize it. I just want Daisy back. I want that... function of dysfunction." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and shuts the closet door. "Because it was good. All the time. We never... everything turned up our way. It was good," she repeats, "and I have to let it go. Because it felt amazing and it was killing people."
Georgie nods, knowing the feeling well.
"Whatever. Want a cigarette?"
"Yeah. Back porch?"
"Sure."
"Are you gonna read the journals?" Melanie asks Georgie as she lies in bed, waiting for her fiance to be done brushing her teeth.
Georgie shrugs. "I dunno. Why?"
Melanie shrugs too, but Georgie knows the look on her face when she has something to say.
"There's a thing in your eye."
"What, like an eyelash?" She reaches in and plucks her eye out, feeling all over it, and Georgie squeals.
"I meant a look in your- Jesus! Wash that thing before you put it back in. You're going to get an infection, and when you do you cannot blame me."
Melanie rolls the one eye that's still in. "If I toss it to you, will you wash it?"
Georgie puts her hand on her hip. "Absolutely not, just get out of bed and do it yourself."
Melanie kicks her lightly in the shins as she walks past, barging into their too little bathroom, mumbling mean to me as she starts running the water to get it lukewarm.
"I just think," she starts, "it's not good for you. To read them." She shakes the eye off and pops it back in, shuttering. "Eugh. Anyway. My point. I think it's keeping you stuck, you know? And now that you have all that stuff from after you broke up... you're just gonna torture yourself with it. You tortured yourself enough with what you had, right?"
She scowles silently.
"What, you want me to get rid of them?"
"Maybe? I mean, in what healthy context would you be reading them?"
…
Whatever.
"I'lI figure it out," Georgie mutters as she folds herself into bed, plugging her phone on the table next to them. When Melanie settles in, she rolls over and wraps her arms around her. She nuzzles her face into her neck and breathes, giving her a squeeze.
"Love you."
"You keep saying it like you're gonna lose me," Melanie says like a joke. "I'm not going anvwhere."
"I know."
Melanie grabs her hand and kisses it. "Just giving you a reminder. You forget that I was in therapy for a while, and it worked wonders. Not just on my coping mechanisms, but my communication skills!" She grins as if she's incredibly proud, but mocking herself at the same time. "G'night."
"Mm, g'night."
Georgie moves back to her half of the bed so they have enough free range to fall asleep, but her eyes don't droop shut. Instead she just stares up at the ceiling, watching the swirling patterns your eyes make when it's dark. Is this what Melanie sees all the time? Some people describe blindness as white and bright. She's never asked.
She's right. She has to get rid of the journals. It's the most logical answer.
They're no good for her, and she's known that the whole time. But getting rid of them means that all she has left to remember him by is just gone, she'll have nothing. And what if one day she can have that healthy relationship with his things, and there's nothing to go back to?
Putting them in the basement, that she can understand and maybe even live with. But the tone in Melanie's voice suggests that she means to really get rid of them.
Maybe that's too far. Right?
Any decision is regrettable, and it's huge. There's no way she can save any of them in a way that means they wouldn't always live like an elephant in the room, but there's no way she can get rid of them without a profound sense of loss, as if a chunk of her heart was cut out and thrown away.
How can she live with either choice, anyway?
People die. They move on. They leave your life. But their things you can keep forever as mementos. It's almost as good as having them.
Wanting Jon is ridiculous. It makes zero logical sense. But she does all the same, and saying it didn't make it go away, so why should burning his things?
Stupid. It's stupid. She should just get over it all.
But she lies on her back and her racing mind doesn't settle down.
The Admiral meows and paws at his dish and Georgie rises to feed him- it's amazing he's still alive. In her heart of hearts, Georgie thinks he's going to live forever, and she wouldn't be surprised if that turns out to be true.
He rubs his back against her leg, mrowing, and practically vibrating with excitement as she cracks open his can of wet food.
Across the room, a conversation starts to warm up, and her heart swells.
Everything's gonna be alright.
"So.." Melanie sneaks up behind her on the porch one evening, sneaking a kiss behind Georgie's ear before sitting in the opposing rocking chair. "What're the boxes doing out here?"
Georgie purses her lips, watching the forest line. It's quiet here, or that's what she thought when they first moved in. Now she listens to all the little noises- the rustling of dry leaves on the ground, the wind in the bare branches, the crunch of squirrels running through. She hears the house hum, but it's a gentle hum, a happy hum. Lights and AC and the refrigerator. Electronic, not supernatural. She can relax.
It's good out here, she's starting to realize. She's not just saying that she's lucky, she's understanding this.
It's a big, beautiful house with her loved ones in it. It's everything she ever dreamed of.
Everything anyone past thirty dreams of, really.
"Basira and I talked about it. I'm going to burn them."
Melanie raises her eyebrows. "Oh, so when Basira says it-"
Georgie huffs at her. "Oh, it's not like that. You got me thinking. She... convinced me."
She pauses. "It's just- she had Daisy's things, too."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Georgie taps her feet. "I set up a fireplace. And there's some gas. I think... I don't know." She picks up one of the books, the one that followed when Jon moved out and was stuck going to A meetings- the only way they let him out of the psych ward. She flips through it and starts to read.
“‘I'm back in my dorms. She still has the flat. I wish it worked. I didn't even try to kill myself, but I wish I had. I couldn't do it, but why couldn't we have kept pretending? I love her so much, but if I see her I think I'd kill her. In America they have guns, but over here, I can just buy knives from gas stations. One day I might just slit my wrists and go for good.’” She looks back over at Melanie. "Everything in here just reads like that. And I want to know when and how it turns around and why it went back to shit again and I want to know." She bites the inside of his cheek. "But that's where the Eye got him too, right?"
"Yeah." Melanie crosses her arms over her chest as if defending herself. "So you want to burn the motherfuckers?"
"No! ...Yes. I want-" She squeezes her eyes shut. "I want to eliminate the option of that lingering over me all the damn time. I want to move on. So- so I'm going to pour gasoline all over those boxes and light them up to the sky."
"Now?"
"Maybe in like a week, not all at once-"
"'Georgie-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know.." The wind sweeps a chill through. "Wait for Basira to get back, yeah? She has Daisy's police files and uniform. She's moved on, too."
She wishes that Basira could've talked it through with her. That she didn't just go off on her own and instead stuck around. She's convinced she could've domesticated her, but maybe that's just not how she's wired or what she needs. But that's not Basira.
Leaning back in her chair, Georgie closes her eyes and takes out a cigarette and flicks the lighter.
She takes a deep drag and then remembers she's not by herself. She starts to apologize, but Melanie laughs before she can even start.
"Honey, you're not as good at hiding this as you think. I'm blind, not stupid."
Georgie shakes her head, smiling. "Of course."
The back door swings open and Basira puts her hands on her hips and sighs, stopping on the steps.
"Let's light it up."
The fire sets an orange glow against the house, crackling and reminding Georgie of all the high school rich kid parties with huge backyards and acoustic guitars and the poorer parties where they went down to buy weed off a homeless guy who always had a trashcan fire going. If she closes her eyes she's transported back there, but she doesn't want to go back there. She likes it where she is.
They started with Daisy's things. There was much less of it. The two of them were both minimalists- according to Basira, Jon and Daisy's friendship kept them each sane for a while- but Jon had years of things. Daisy only had some police reports, notes, and a uniform.
Basira clutches a piece of yellow paper in her first and watches the fire for a moment before thrusting it in, the final goodbye.
"Alright," Melanie says, squeezing her hands, "ready to start on Jon's stuff?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm- I'm ready."
She picks up that first journal, the one she started and couldn't bear, and chucks it in.
The plastic exterior warps and melts, bubbing and turing black before it reaches the papers on the inside, which light and curl up and burn to nothing but ash, reaching up, up, up and away into the sky.
Then the next one. She hasn't even read through it.
And another, and another until the box is small enough to fit on top of the fire. She bites her lip and can't choke back a sob, and Melanie rubs her shoulder, making a sympathetic face.
"I know I didn't like the guy," she starts, "and I still don't, even though I'm not angry, I... I'm sorry. And for what it's worth, I- I wish he hadn't died. And I miss his stupid face."
Georgie sniffs as she keeps tossing books on. The flames are taller than they are at that point, the flame a white-hot heat on their faces, not the kind of hot that brings out sweat but the kind that makes you squirm and smother, but there's nothing you can do.
Miserable heat, but she's grateful to it all the same.
The next box goes on and in a bit, so does the other box. And then the assortment of Jon things that she had before Basira came up, the stuff he left at her apartment.
"I kept the CD," she tells Melanie, "but I can't- I'll still revisit this, too, whenever I'm feeling low."
"Do you think he would've wanted them to stick around? To be remembered?"
"Yeah," Georgie says, looking down at her feet... "But it's not his life anymore. He's not here. Maybe he's dead, maybe he's somewhere else, but- There's nothing I can do to affect him. But he can still affect me. And I'm taking control of my own damn narrative."
"Heeeeell yeah," Melanie cheers, and Georgie laughs. She swears she sees a faint smile on Basira's face, too.
She tilts her head back, looking up at the sky. The fire roars. The stars wink down at them, and she winks back.