Staring through the car window at the front of the house, Danny wonders, not for the first time tonight, if this isn’t overstepping some kind of boundary. There was no plan, he’d just driven, aiming for somewhere, anywhere.
The front of Rachel’s old house is mocking him, and he’s embarrassed that he came here at all, a house inhabited now by strangers. He wants Rachel’s soft hand at his cheek, apologizing for something she can’t fix; he wants Grace’s soft words and tight hugs, so he can fall back into a world where it’s just him and his daughter and everything is okay.
They’re both actually in Jersey, Rachel admonishing him for leaving so soon, tail between his legs. She’d never say that to him under present circumstances, just had that sad look in her eyes, but he knew. He was a coward, and he still is a coward, even as he quietly drives away, the ghost of what might have been following him to Pali Highway.
He drives until he’s almost out of gas, then fills the tank and drives some more. He’d left after only four days, when he could no longer bear the cold in his bones and the pats on the shoulder, whispers of “thanks for bringing him home” and “you did all you could, you know that.”
He’s tired, body and spirit, aching all over from words that have no truth and actions that have no meaning.
He’d wanted to fall asleep under the stars, warm and solid concrete at his back, digging into his scalp until he felt everything and nothing. That place, it would always mean something to him, and he’d almost done it, but his restless thoughts keep him from letting his eyes close.
The sun is rising by the time the camaro is running on empty again, and this time he sidles up to a different house. This one contained some intention, no blind driving anymore. He’s still angry at himself for doing it, but he can’t really go anywhere else.
He rests his head on the headrest, thinking the words over. He should go back to his place, he rationalizes. Dwell in the dark of his new house, where Grace will be in three more days. Instead, he’d come here, the smell of the sea penetrating the car, the trees half hiding the home swaying in the light breeze. He can go somewhere else; he just doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t get what he wants, though. Never does.
Hands rub his face, and he gets out of the car on a sigh. It’s out of gas anyway, he’d never make it back to his house as it is. He made his bed, now he has to lie in it.
Hopping the fence, he walks slowly to the chairs perched in the grass, the yard motionless and serene. It won’t be soon - the sun’s almost up, it’s about time for a morning swim. Sliding his shoes and socks off, he sits back in the chair, limbs tight until he forces them to go akimbo; maybe if he pretends he’s relaxed, his brain will actually buy it.
He sits for a long time, thinking about nothing. Toes clench and unclench in the grass, the waves lap at the shore in the distance, seagulls arrive at the sand to look for crabs. He thinks of Chin, the heartbreak he wore on his sleeve for weeks. He thinks of Kono, shut down to the world after her career crumbled before her eyes. He thinks of Mary, gently pulled out of the trunk of the car, Steve holding her close -
Tucked into a ball in the adirondack chair, he cries quietly into his knees, the ocean and the sunrise his only witness. There’s no sense of time save for the lightening of the morning, and he doesn’t really care; he’s allowed to fall apart, so long as he can bring it all back, shove it down when he needs to go. And he can, he will. But not now.
He falls asleep like that, tucked against Steve's chair, face dry after a while, the ocean a metronome his exhausted brain can no longer fight. His last thoughts are of Matt.
