Fresh Start, Julia Childs
Jul 13, 2015 20:12:38 GMT -5
Post by Abe Milton on Jul 13, 2015 20:12:38 GMT -5
Abe Milton let his bags slide to the floor as he surveyed the restaurant, leaning against the cane in his hand. You had to love a small town. Nothing had been disturbed. The sheets still covered the furniture, the thin sheen of dust showing that they hadn’t been touched. No windows were broken, and the wood--while having some cobwebs--was not scratched or touched by paint of idle hands.
It was a better start than he’d been expecting. The older man breathed out, slow, only now realizing that he’d been holding it in the first place. And he felt the weariness settle on his shoulders, bearing him down. It was not the burden of starting again--although that was on his mind, itching at the back like a cut that was scabbing over--but rather the lifting of the burdens he’d held for the last few months.
He was home. And suddenly everything he’d been keeping together, all that control, oozed out through his feet. All those emotions he’d been holding back slipped into his heart and anchored there. His throat grew tight, and his vision blurred. Impatiently, he rubbed at his eyes with a rough jacket sleeve. Now? He hadn’t cried at the hospital when his father had rested his head on his shoulder in weariness, or at the funeral when his stern sister had been bawling her eyes out into the suit jacket he’d loaned her. Now of all times, here at his own home with so much work to do to reestablish himself and his life, he was about to lose it.
Stupid. Not like he hadn’t seen death before. He’d even thought he was dead before--curled up in the corner at some street, gun in hand, heart pounding in his throat, convinced that he was never going to see his wife or family again. He’d lost Amber and that had been worse. His parents had hugged him, consoled him, as he’d just stared numbly. He hadn’t cried then either until he’d locked himself into his restaurant with a bottle of vodka. What was it about this place that brought out everything he kept repressed in front of others?
Probably because while it required a lot of work, it never needed him to be strong. Especially not when it was empty at this, full of potential for people to be bustling and eating and laughing but not yet. Probably because he’d opened it in a strange attempt to stave off death--changing careers and lifestyles to support a last-ditch effort to stop his wife from dying from cancer. Several years later, Abe had to admit that switching to Vegan probably hadn’t helped anything, but that didn’t change the reason. And then he’d kept it up--partially because he couldn’t do anything else, with his CPA out of date and a bum knee that prevented him from going back to the FBI, and partially because he enjoyed it. He liked the work. He liked keeping busy, and he liked the town.
Now, looking around, he wondered if he was being stupid. He could just stop this and go somewhere else. Go do something normal. He tugged off the cover and sank down into a booth and cradled his head in his hands. He breathed again, slowly, and let the pain wash over him. It was okay. He’d been to enough therapy to know that. After a long and painful illness, his mother was dead. He was going to grieve. And there were worst places to do it than surrounded by the trappings of things he loved. He stayed there for thirty minutes, maybe an hour. His shoulders trembled a bit, but there was no one there to hear the sobs. Then he composed himself, lifted a tear-reddened face, and used a cloth to wipe his eyes. He picked up the cane and carefully levered himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, as if trying to balance himself, then let his dark eyes scan the room.
All right. Time to start again.
It was a better start than he’d been expecting. The older man breathed out, slow, only now realizing that he’d been holding it in the first place. And he felt the weariness settle on his shoulders, bearing him down. It was not the burden of starting again--although that was on his mind, itching at the back like a cut that was scabbing over--but rather the lifting of the burdens he’d held for the last few months.
He was home. And suddenly everything he’d been keeping together, all that control, oozed out through his feet. All those emotions he’d been holding back slipped into his heart and anchored there. His throat grew tight, and his vision blurred. Impatiently, he rubbed at his eyes with a rough jacket sleeve. Now? He hadn’t cried at the hospital when his father had rested his head on his shoulder in weariness, or at the funeral when his stern sister had been bawling her eyes out into the suit jacket he’d loaned her. Now of all times, here at his own home with so much work to do to reestablish himself and his life, he was about to lose it.
Stupid. Not like he hadn’t seen death before. He’d even thought he was dead before--curled up in the corner at some street, gun in hand, heart pounding in his throat, convinced that he was never going to see his wife or family again. He’d lost Amber and that had been worse. His parents had hugged him, consoled him, as he’d just stared numbly. He hadn’t cried then either until he’d locked himself into his restaurant with a bottle of vodka. What was it about this place that brought out everything he kept repressed in front of others?
Probably because while it required a lot of work, it never needed him to be strong. Especially not when it was empty at this, full of potential for people to be bustling and eating and laughing but not yet. Probably because he’d opened it in a strange attempt to stave off death--changing careers and lifestyles to support a last-ditch effort to stop his wife from dying from cancer. Several years later, Abe had to admit that switching to Vegan probably hadn’t helped anything, but that didn’t change the reason. And then he’d kept it up--partially because he couldn’t do anything else, with his CPA out of date and a bum knee that prevented him from going back to the FBI, and partially because he enjoyed it. He liked the work. He liked keeping busy, and he liked the town.
Now, looking around, he wondered if he was being stupid. He could just stop this and go somewhere else. Go do something normal. He tugged off the cover and sank down into a booth and cradled his head in his hands. He breathed again, slowly, and let the pain wash over him. It was okay. He’d been to enough therapy to know that. After a long and painful illness, his mother was dead. He was going to grieve. And there were worst places to do it than surrounded by the trappings of things he loved. He stayed there for thirty minutes, maybe an hour. His shoulders trembled a bit, but there was no one there to hear the sobs. Then he composed himself, lifted a tear-reddened face, and used a cloth to wipe his eyes. He picked up the cane and carefully levered himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, as if trying to balance himself, then let his dark eyes scan the room.
All right. Time to start again.
