Moonlight Mile - 3

[ahopper84]

Title: Moonlight Mile
Author: Amber (ahopper84)
Chapter: 3/?
Rating: R/NC-17
Genre: Romance, angst, drama
Warnings: none yet...
Summary: Hanson the band is no more; Taylor walked away from that life a long time ago, after having a hand in its destruction. But when Zac suddenly reappears in his life, looking to reconnect, maybe Taylor can learn to forgive himself, and find that some things happen for a reason.
Excerpt:“I think I had enough passion for a lifetime, before. It feels good to just… be.”

A/N: Okay, wow... almost a year later. But 2016 is going to be the year of finished projects for me, so in that light, here's the long-awaited next chapter. Hope you like it!



“You coming in?” Zac asks as he kills the engine. I nod and step out of the jeep; my joints pop as I stretch my arms above my head. It’s been awhile since I’ve sat in a car that long, and this one isn’t exactly friendly to folks as long-limbed as me. I follow him into the small convenience store, making a beeline for the coffee.

“Thirty on pump six,” Zac tells the attendant. He asks for something else, too, but in a lower voice. My curiosity is piqued and I glance over, just in time to see the clerk hand over a pack of rolling papers. My eyes widen, and a knot of worry builds in my stomach. Does he smoke? Does he smoke pot? Is that something I should have known? Once again I’m reminded how much time has gone by, and how little I actually know about him.

I finish making my coffee and join him at the counter. He hears me coming and pockets the papers before handing over his credit card.

“Not getting anything?” I ask, not trying to pry, but I hate the way the question comes out.

“Nah, I’m good for now. I figure we’ll stop somewhere for lunch soon enough.”

“Oh… okay.” I shift from one foot to the other, sipping my coffee while we wait for his receipt to print. I can’t tell if he knows I saw the papers, but I decide not to mention it, at least not right now. As I get into the car and wait for Zac to finish pumping the gas, I think about what I witnessed. I’m not bothered by the idea of smoking pot in general, but when it comes to Zac, it worries me. Still, he seems fine. Maybe I’m just overreacting, my brotherly instincts kicking in after years of disuse. I make a mental note to ask him about it later, when the time feels right.

A couple hours pass, and the time hasn’t felt even close to right. We’ve stopped at a diner, some family-run place that’s probably been here since the highway was first built. The food is better than I expected, but I’m not focused enough to really enjoy it. There’s a tension between me and Zac that’s been building all day, an uncomfortable silence. I wonder if he’s regretting his decision to invite me.

“So, you like teaching?” he asks, and I smile, grateful at least one of us thought of something to say.

“Yeah, I really do. So many of these kids, they’re so talented. It feels good to help support that.” I think of my students, especially the ones that I won’t be seeing in the fall. There's always a hint of sadness, of letting go, but I try not to dwell on it. Still, being faced with Zac and everything I personally let go, only amplifies the feeling.

“At least you’re still doing something with music,” Zac says, a wistful tone to his words. “I tried for a little, but…” he trailed off, shrugging.

“But what?”

“Just didn’t feel right,” he answers, staring down at his empty plate and pushing around a few stray crumbs. He looks up at me through his bangs, and I almost wish I couldn’t see the sadness there, but I do.

“I know what you mean,” I say, nodding, because I do. Why else have I let my own talents effectively go to waste? Nothing felt right about playing without my brothers. Even playing for myself hurt, hence the badly neglected piano gathering dust in my living room.

“But hey, I’ve got my art. It’s nothing major, but it’s still a creative outlet.”

“You were always so good at it, too,” I told him, remembering the little comics and drawings he was always working on. “I’m glad you have something you’re passionate about.”

“And… you do too, right?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “With the teaching?”

I wanted to lie, to gush about how much teaching meant to me, but… I can’t. It pays the bills and keeps me somewhat sane, but any sense of passion deserted me years ago. I shrug and hang my head, staring down at my mostly untouched sandwich. I feel a hand on my arm and look up, and see such sadness in his eyes, such pity. But why should he feel sorry for me? I’m the one that dug my own grave. I steel my expression, try to smile, and shake my head.

“It’s fine, though,” I tell him, hoping my voice sounds more convincing to his ears than it does to my own. “It’s good. I think…” I pause, taking a breath. “I think I had enough passion for a lifetime, before. It feels good to just… be.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a complete lie, either. He studies me, as if trying to see how much to believe, but in the end he sighs.

“I guess I can understand that. Things got… pretty wild, back then.” He laughs, and his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. I feel my own cheeks heating up, and I wonder if there’s any memory in particular he’s thinking of.

“Yeah… they really did.” My mind drifts back, to nights filled to the brim with music, drinking, dancing… Girls, boys, and other intoxicating substances… Things that never should have happened, and things I wish had.

“But… it was fun. We had some good times. Right?” His hand is still on my arm, squeezing gently. And for some reason, the reassuring gesture works, if only a little.

“Right.”

He pulls his hand back, and part of me wishes he hadn’t. I mentally kick myself again for getting so worked up at even the slightest physical contact, especially considering who’s giving it. Am I so pathetic that a hand on my arm makes me want more?

We sit in mostly comfortable silence as I pick at my lunch. Zac pays the check before I can even offer, and not long after that we're back on the road. We make small talk for a while, nothing of real substance but it fills the empty space. I learn that he still loves classic rock, and has amassed an impressive record collection. I tell him about the dog I watched for a couple months while a friend was out of town, and how I've been considering getting one of my own.

A hundred or so miles later, he flips down his visor and pulls out a CD, then slips it into the player. He shoots me a glance, his lips curling in an uneasy smile. I tilt my head, waiting for the music to start, and wondering just what he’s got up his sleeve. As soon as the first notes flow from the speakers, my jaw drops.

I don’t feel myself today
Just a figure in a big monopoly game
Struggle is the price you pay
You get just enough just to give it away
I’m sinking but I’m floating away
Throw me a line so I can anchor my pain
The fabric is about to fray
The fabric is about to fray

“Zac… that’s…” I stare at my brother, who is definitely blushing. I listen to my own voice, filtered through the rough recording, and it’s like looking through a rip in time.

“I got a hold of the masters. Not everything, but I copied what I could.” His voice is thick with an emotion I can’t quite place - something like regret, but with a defiant edge. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding, and look down at my trembling hands. The song plays on, the words like a ghost of a memory.

“Thank you,” I say, and my voice breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, and I look over, confused. Why would he apologize for something I just thanked him for? “I know you probably don’t want to think about… back then. I just thought…” He pauses to chew on his bottom lip. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking lately. About what happened.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Partly, I guess. I just wanted to… I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trying to relive the past or anything. I just…” He pauses, catching his lower lip between his teeth again. I’m drawn to the motion, unable to look away, and I don’t know why.

“I missed you,” he says, almost too quiet to hear, but it echoes in my ears as if he’d screamed it. He said it before, when he showed up at the high school yesterday, but today it carries a different weight. He says it as if it’s supposed to explain everything, and part of me feels like it does, but in a way that’s just out of my mental grasp. The picture is there, but I can’t make sense of it.

The song changes, and this time it’s Zac’s voice I hear, a little higher, a little rougher. I look up at him and he looks back, his cheeks red, but he’s grinning. He turns to face the road again, drumming on the steering wheel and singing words I haven’t heard in over a decade. I turn the volume up and sing along with my brother, past and present. I know we’re far from finished, but I’m relieved that the tension between us has dissipated, for now at least.