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[bellaireland1981]

Stubborn Hearts | 1

Summary: Reader (Firecracker, Sunshine) has been in love with Bradley since she was a young girl. Growing up the two were inseparable, apart from short periods of time when she was on the West Coast with the Kazanskys. One faithful decision by her dad to block Bradley from going to the Naval Academy resulted in a huge rift between father and daughter and left her without Bradley in her life. Now all grown up, she’s called back to the west coast at the same time as her father and Bradley. Her mission, according to her dying godfather, is to mend fences with her dad and Bradley. Can stubborn hearts be healed? 

 (I suck at summaries for real). 

This will have multiple chapters... this is 1 of ?? 

Characters: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mitchell! Reader, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Daughter! Reader, The Dagger Squad, Shay (OC), Penny, Tom “Iceman” Kazansky

Word Count: 5861 

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Death of character, TGM Spoilers, Smut (later on ), Turbulent relationship with parent, Friends to lovers, ...Please let me know if I’ve missed any! 

A/N- This is my first time writing for TGM. I do not own the characters or plot lines from the movie. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY OR REPRODUCE MY WORK ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM! Reblogging is always welcome! Feedback is MUCH loved and appreciated. THANK YOU to @waywardodysseys​ for all support and bouncing ideas!! 

“Sweetheart, it’s time to come home.” Your Godfather and honorary uncle texted you. You knew his cancer was back, but had been living in that state of wishful thinking where you managed to convince yourself he’d beat it again. All that changed in one text.

That was two weeks ago. You’d called your boss and had filled him in, letting him know you were going back to San Diego and weren’t sure if you were coming back.  He’d been understanding, knowing your story and the circumstances that had landed you at his hanger eight years before. WIth an assurance you’d always have a job with him if you changed your mind, you got to work packing up your apartment in Virginia Beach and making arrangements to store what you didn’t need until you could find a new place. As luck would have it, your lease was up the next month anyway and you hadn’t gotten around to renewing it. Truth be told, you’d been thinking of a fresh start for awhile now.

One of the perks of owning your own little cessna was that you didn’t have to depend on commercial flights or timelines. Once you’d made the arrangements to come home, you’d texted your Uncle Tom and he’d found a small local airstrip and hangar for you to store your plane.

“That’s a beautiful little plane you have there.” A tall, lanky man in a worn Navy hat commented after you’d taxied in and shut down your plane.

“Thank you!” You beamed, taking pride in the plane you’d scraped the funds together to buy after college. “You must be Frank?”

“That’s me. Y/N, right?” He said, reaching his arm out to offer his hand. You placed your hand in his, firmly shaking his hand. “You have one hell of a Uncle, Miss Y/N”

“I do indeed.” You smiled sadly, very aware of the limited time left with him. “Is the plane ok tied down here or did you need me to move it somewhere else?”

“Right here is just fine. We don’t get a lot of planes coming through. The ones that are kept here, mostly belong to Naval aviators stationed in the area.” he replied. “The others are owned by myself or other retired aviators.”

“Perfect.” You said, reaching back up to grab your bag. “I’ll just call an uber to come get me. Haven’t had a chance to get a rental squared away.”

“You’re welcome to wait in the office if you’d like.” He offered, pointing towards another hangar that was wide open with various seating arranged throughout it. There was a desk nestled off to one side of the hangar with an ancient looking computer set up.

“Thank you, that’d be great.”  The two of you started in the direction of the hangar. Once inside you opened the uber app and quickly ordered a ride, which would arrive in fifteen minutes. While you waited, you decided to let your aunt know you were here.

Y/N: I’m home. Waiting on an Uber then I’ll be over. How’s Uncle Tommy today?

Aunt Sarah: I would have come to get you, sweet girl! We’re all looking forward to seeing you. He’s having a pretty good day.

Y/N: You’ve got enough on your plate Aunt Sarah, I can’t wait to see you all either. I do need to sort out a car though.

Aunt Sarah: You can drive the Jeep in the meantime. We’re not using it. See you soon! XX

You smiled, slipping your phone into your purse and taking the opportunity to stretch your legs after the long flight. You walked around the hangar, taking in the photos hanging up, and various aviation paraphernalia. You’d grown up around planes, obviously with Tom “Iceman” Kazansky as your uncle. It wasn’t just through him though. Aviation was in your blood. Tom wasn’t your biological uncle. He’d flown with your dad when they were in Top Gun. They hadn’t started out as friends, but had ended up closer than brothers. When you were born, your dad hadn't thought twice about naming Tom your Godfather and Sarah your godmother.  Thankfully he had as it had been Tom and Sarah that had helped to raise you after your mom had died.

“Ride’s here Miss Y/N” Frank called, pulling you from your thoughts.

You collected your bags and started for the car that would take you to the Kazansky home. Your home.

“I meant to ask, Miss Y/N,” Frank said before you got into the car, “I saw your last name on the paperwork, any relation to Pete Mitchell?”

You froze, the smile on your face slipping a bit, “He’s my father.”

The car pulled up outside of your aunt and uncle’s house. After finalizing the payment and tip on your app, you thanked the driver and climbed out of the car, grabbing your bags with you.

You stood looking at the house for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking up the walk to the front door. Before you reached the front step, the door was thrown open and your aunt came out, pulling you into a tight hug. You quickly dropped the bags and wrapped your arms around her, melting into her comfort.

“I’ve missed you so much, Aunt Sarah” You whispered, tears threatening to fall. “I’m so sorry for staying away.”

“Hush, sweetheart,” She said gently, “You’re home now, that’s what matters. We’ve missed you too, baby girl.”

She pulled back, smiling, “Come on inside. The kids are out with friends but will be home later. Let’s get you settled then you can go in and visit with Uncle Tom.”

You followed your aunt upstairs to the room you’d always stayed in when you were home. Truth was, this was just as much your childhood home as your actual one in Virginia. Whenever your dad was sent on longer deployments or stationed on bases you couldn’t join him, he’d send you back to San Diego to stay with your Godparents. On the shorter missions, you mostly just sayed with Carol Bradshaw. Life of a military kid… you were raised by a village.

After you dropped your stuff off in the room and took a minute to prepare yourself, you headed downstairs to your uncle’s office. Your aunt left you to spend time alone with him while she prepared a snack for you.

You knocked on the office door before opening it and peaking your head through. You smiled seeing your uncle hard at work at his desk. Leave it to Uncle Tom to still be directing the Navy, even as he fought a losing battle with cancer.

“So I see you never actually retired, huh?” You teased, hoping your face didn’t show your heartbreak at seeing just how weakened your uncle looked. “Does Aunt Sarah know she threw you a bogus retirement party?”

Slowly standing  up from his computer, he turned to you and held his arms out. You quickly walked into his embrace, wrapping your own arms tightly around him. You breathed in his scent, comforted and grounded in the familiarity.

“Love you” He said softly, his voice weak and rough.

“I love you too” You replied quietly, “I’m sorry for not coming home sooner…or more often.”

He shook his head, stepping back and motioning to the chair next to his desk for you to sit. Once he was back in his seat, he turned to type a message, finding it easier than talking.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sweetheart. I’m glad you’re here now.” He typed.

“I quit my job with the charter company before leaving.” You confided in him, “When I got your message, I realized that my family and everyone I love is here. There is nothing left for me in Virginia except ghosts and regrets. You’re right, Uncle Tommy. It’s time to come home.”

“It’s time to let go of the past. Life is too short.” He replied with a gentle smile.

“How do I do that?” You asked, “It feels like it’s too late. I waited too long.”

“It’s never too late my little bird. Have you talked to your dad? Rooster?”

“I talk to dad mostly on holidays and birthdays. Things haven’t been great since he royally screwed over Rooster. He’s my dad and I love him but I guess when everything went down it just reinforced all of the anger and resentment I harbored getting tossed around all the time as a kid. I know I landed with you and Aunt Sarah or with Carol, but it still always felt like he chose the Navy over me.  As for Rooster… he was so angry after he was denied the academy…I thought he’d eventually come around but he hasn’t and I stopped trying.” Truth was, even years later, the hurt was just as raw.

As kids you and Rooster were incredibly close. You were younger than him by a few years but that never mattered. You did everything together when you were home in Virginia and would spend hours on the phone when you were in California. Bradley Bradshaw had been your first love, which made it even more devastating when your dad had pulled his papers for the Academy. Bradley hadn’t just cut ties with your dad, he’d also left you behind.

“Talk to them both, Y/N. You may just be what they both need. They’ve both been called back to Top Gun. There’s no time like the present, Sweetheart. They’ve both been called back for a dangerous mission. Your dad is the instructor.”

“Does Brad know dad’s the instructor? I can’t imagine he’d be in a hurry to take a mission that had anything to do with dad. Do either know I’m here?” You asked, knowing your uncle had most likely been the one to pull strings.

“I don’t imagine Bradley knows your dad will be involved in the mission. Your dad texted when he arrived in North Island but he’s avoiding me. You should reach out to them both. Giving Bradley a heads up about your dad might go a long way to mend fences.”

“I wasn’t the one that burned the fences in the first place.” You said stubbornly, “Hell, Uncle Tommy, he nuked the damn fences. He should be trying to make things right with me. Same with my father.”

“You’re not wrong, my hard headed girl. Problem is, both of them are hard headed as well.” He looked at you while he continued to type, “Can you live with the way things were left if something were to happen to them?”

“I hate when you make sense.” You grumbled, “When did you become so level-headed?”

“Reaching the end of one’s life allows you to look back and see things you missed when you were busy living.”

“I’m scared to lose you too, Uncle Tommy.” you whispered, “You’ve been one of my only constants and my rock my entire life. I don’t know how to pick up the pieces without you.”

“I will always be your wingman, Y/N, watching over you and giving you a nudge. You’re stronger than you allow yourself to believe. Aunt Sarah will always be here, and this will always be your home. But like I said before, Sweetheart… it’s time to let your dad back in.”

You wiped the tears that had started to fall, looking out the window to try to regain your composure. Tom pushed back from the desk and slowly stood up, pulling you up as he did. He wrapped you in his arms, holding you tightly as you allowed the grief of what was to come  to wash over you. After a few moments when the tears slowed, he dropped a kiss on your head and pulled back enough to smile down at you.

“It’s going to be ok.” He rasped. You knew it hurt him tremendously to talk, but you loved to hear the reassurance anyway.

Your aunt walked into the room, smiling at the sight of the two of you together. She brought a fresh glass of water and some meds for your uncle.

“It’s time for the afternoon meds, my love.” She said, handing him the pills. Your uncle took the pills and grimaced as he tossed them back with the water. It looked like swallowing them hurt him as much as trying to talk did. It broke your heart to see him this way. Your uncle had always been one of the toughest and strongest men you knew.

“I’m going to go re-orientate myself with North Island, maybe go put my toes in the Pacific.” You said, needing time to get your head on straight and process your conversation with your uncle. “Is it still ok if I borrow your Jeep?”

“Of course, Sweetie.” Your aunt replied, “The keys are on the hook by the door. Call if you need anything ok?”

“I will. I love you both.”  You said, “Crappy circumstances aside, I’m happy to be home.”

“We’re happy you’re home too.” Your aunt replied. You quickly hugged them both before grabbing your purse from your room and making your way back downstairs.

You grabbed the keys to the Jeep and headed out to the garage, taking a deep breath to center yourself when you stepped outside.

The drive to the beach was soothing. There wasn’t a lot of traffic since it was the middle of a weekday. You had contemplated driving by the base, but decided that was a task for another time. The ocean was calling you. It’s a good thing you’d never been too far from an ocean growing up, as it was often what soothed your soul the most…apart from Bradley that was.  

You pulled into the parking lot of the Hard Deck, knowing it was still closed until later in the afternoon, but it had beach access. You would just have to pop in for a quick drink when it did open to make up for using their parking lot. You also knew that the owner, Penny Benjamin wouldn’t mind you parking in her bar’s lot.

The walk from the lot down to the beach was pleasant. You kicked your shoes off and left them by a group of chairs, walking closer to the water so you could dip your toes in. The water was cold, despite the warm weather. You looked out over the water past the horizon, breathing in the salty air. As you were turning to head back to the chairs you’d left your shoes at, you heard the familiar sound of F-18s. You looked up in time to see three jets fly overhead. They looked to be flying maneuvers judging by the formation of the jets. They passed quickly and were out of sight before too long. You smiled, welcoming the familiarity in being close to a naval aviation base again.

“Well, that answers the question of who’s Jeep is parked in my lot.” You heard a familiar voice from behind you, turning to see it was Penny.

“I hope you don’t mind. I just came from my uncle’s and needed to regroup a bit. I planned on coming in once you'd opened.” you replied.

“I don’t mind, Kiddo.” She replied, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. Did you just fly in?”

“Yeah. I got here today.” You said, “Uncle Tom texted me a couple weeks ago and told me it was time to come home.”

“I saw your aunt at the Farmer’s Market and she filled me in. I’m sorry, Kiddo. I know how close you are.”

“Thank you” You replied, quietly, “It definitely fucking sucks.”

“Can’t argue that.” She agreed, “Wanna come up and have a drink? Keep my company while I open?”

“I’d love that.” You replied, smiling.

Once inside, Penny grabbed you a beer from the cooler and started getting the bar stocked, the two of you slipping into comfortable conversation. You’d spent time with Penny often growing up. Your dad had had an on again off again relationship with her. You’d hoped he’d eventually get smart and ask her to marry him. You really liked Penny and knew she was good for your dad. She didn’t put up with his bullshit, which was definitely your favorite quality.

“The bar will start to fill up with aviators in about an hour, they usually file in once their training has ended for the day. So depending on who you want to see…or to avoid… you have a timeframe to work with.” She said, giving you a knowing look.

“Thanks, Pen.” You replied, “Honestly, I know I can’t avoid him forever… I just don’t know that I’m quite ready yet.”

“Which ‘him’ are you not ready to face? Your dad or Bradshaw?” She asked, winking.

“Both?” You laughed, “Uncle Tommy told me to stop being stubborn and that the mission they’re back for is a dangerous one. Aren’t they all dangerous though?”

“Yes and no” She replied, having grown up as an admiral’s daughter, Penny knew the score. “I think your uncle is right though, Kiddo. I’d tell your dad and Bradshaw the same thing, but it would fall on deaf ears.”

“What makes you think I’m more willing to listen?” You asked

“You’re here.” She said, leveling with you a knowing stare. “You could have gone to any beach or any bar. Yet this is where you ended up.”

“Touche.” You laughed. “I miss them, Pen. I act tough and I give my dad a hard time… and I’ve got some definite intense emotions in regards to him but he’s my dad. I love him…even when he’s stupid.”

“And Bradley?” She asked gently, “Where do those feelings land in regards to him? I seem to remember a certain someone who thought that boy hung the moon and stars.”

“He left me behind.” You said, “I doubt I’ll ever stop loving the idiot, but he left me. He was mad at dad, rightfully so, but he cut ties with me too like I didn’t even matter.”

“Well, I say give them both hell, Kiddo.” She answered, “Don’t go easy on them by any means, but don’t shut them out if the opportunity arises for amends to be made. Let them know exactly what you think and feel, but be open to what they have to say too.”

She glanced up to the windows overlooking the parking lot, then looked back at you.

“Decision time, Kiddo.” She said, “Your dad just pulled up on his bike. He probably already saw the Jeep parked out there, but if you’re not ready yet, I can let you out the back and keep him distracted.”

You glance behind you, seeing your dad getting off his bike. You’re torn. The part of you that’s still daddy’s little girl, aches to run out to him and throw your arms around his neck. The hurt teenager and adult version isn’t ready for the interaction.

“Thanks, Pen.” You said, “I think I’ll take that as my cue to leave for now.”

“Sure thing, Kiddo.” She replied, leading you around to the office in the back that would lead to the exit. “Just don’t leave it too long. Maybe come back tonight… Shay will be here, you two can catch up. And maybe a certain other Aviator as well.”

“I’ll think about it.” You promised, “Thank you again, Pen…for everything.”

You carefully dashed out of the back, making sure not to slam the door, before heading to the Jeep and jumping in. You really hoped Penny was able to keep your dad distracted and that he didn’t recognize the Jeep. Knowing your uncle, you pretty much figured he’d already let your dad know you were here, but you needed a little more time.

You drove around a little more after leaving the Hard Deck, stopping at Starbucks to grab a coffee before heading back home.

As you were pulling in, your phone dinged with a notification. Once you parked and turned off the ignition, you pulled your phone out of your purse to check the incoming message.

Dad: I saw you high tailing it out of Penny’s, Firecracker. Planning on avoiding me forever?

You sighed, knowing you were caught. It sucked that your relationship with your dad was so complicated. Why couldn’t it be as easy as the one you had with your Uncle?

Y/N: Not forever. Just … for now.

Dad: Fair enough. I love you, Y/N. I’m here when you’re ready.

Dad: Also, in case Uncle Ice didn’t tell you, Bradshaw is in town too…in case you want to avoid him too.

Y/N: Already know... Don’t treat him unfairly, Dad. The fact he was called back to Top Gun means something. He’s a good pilot. He’s not Goose and you can’t wash him out over a stupid promise you didn’t have the right to make.

Dad: Duly noted.

Well, at least you can say you tried. And honestly, that exchange was the longest you’d had in months. Uncle Tom should be proud.

_________

Later that night after dinner, your uncle went up to bed, worn out from the day. You helped your aunt with the dishes and putting away the leftovers. Your cousins were watching a movie, taking their minds off of everything. Your heart broke for them. You were really young when your mom had died, but you remember what the loss felt like. You didn’t wish that loss on anyone.

“You should go back to the Hard Deck, Sweetheart.” Your aunt said, drying her hands off on the towel once the dishes were complete. “If for no other reason than to catch up with Shay like Penny suggested. If you’re planning on staying, it will be nice to reconnect with friends.”

“Why do I get the feeling you saying ‘friends’ includes Bradley?” You gave her a side-eyed look but couldn’t get mad at her if you tried.

“Be careful, have fun.” She said, already knowing you’d give in. “If you need to leave the Jeep parked and uber home, I can take you to get it in the morning.”

“I definitely don’t plan on drinking more than one beer.” You replied, “Two tops if I decide to stay longer. I’ll be quiet when I come back in.”

“I love you, sweetheart.” She said, hugging you.

“Love you too.” You replied smiling.

You decided a change in clothes was needed before you left for the bar. Not that you were dressing to impress anyone… at all. You simply wanted to feel refreshed… besides, maybe there was another hot aviator you could meet.  

Pulling out what you’d already had a chance to unpack, you decided on a pair of distressed jeans and a lightweight gray racerback style loose tank, the front slightly tucked in. You slipped on your black sandals before heading into the bathroom to do something about your unruly wavy hair and to apply light makeup. In the end, the only way to tame your hair was to just pull it up into a loose messy bun, with a few front pieces left out  to frame your face. Finally satisfied, you grabbed your purse and headed out.

The bar was much livelier than it had been when you were there earlier. Several cars were parked in the lot and you could hear the music from the jukebox as you walked in from the parking lot. Once inside the door, you could see it was indeed full of Naval officers. Spotting Shay sitting at the bar talking to Penny as she poured drinks, you made your way over.  

“Twice in one day!” Penny teased, “Must be my lucky day.”

“Just couldn’t stay away, Penny” You replied, “The beer is too good here.”

“Y/N!” Shay exclaimed, after turning to see who her aunt was talking to. “When did you get back? How long are you here for?”

“I got back earlier today, actually.” You replied, smiling at her contagious excitement. “I’m here… indefinitely.”

“It’s so good to see you!” She beamed, “It’s been way too long. What have you been up to?”

You settled onto the barstool next to her, shoving your purse behind you so it was out of the way. Penny slid a Corona over to you, winking, before heading to the other side of the bar to fill orders.

“Up until a few days ago, I was flying charter flights for a company out of Virginia Beach.” You responded, taking a sip of your beer. “I haven’t really decided what my new plan is. I’m kinda playing it by ear I guess. What have you been up to? It’s literally been, what, since college since we’ve managed to be here at the same time?”

“Something like that!” She laughed, “Too long, regardless. I’ve been good though! I moved here to be closer to Aunt Penny once I graduated college. I’m working at a medical office by day and still writing at night and on weekends. I have a publisher who would prefer if I were only writing, but I’m not ready to give up the stability of the full time job yet.”

“That’s awesome, Shay! I’m glad you’re still writing.” you replied happily, “I can’t wait to read all of your New York Times Bestsellers one day soon!”

“That’s the dream!” She replied.

“Penny, my dear, another round of beers please!” A smooth, southern accent sounded next to you.

You glanced over to see a tall, blonde aviator, dripping in confidence, with a dimpled smile to match. You could acknowledge the fact that he was indeed hot, but knew instantly, he was far from your type.

“And another round for these beautiful ladies here as well, put it all on my tab.” He winked, openly checking you and Shay out.

You rolled your eyes, glancing at Shay, who just laughed and shrugged. You weren’t one to turn down free drinks, but you’d promised your aunt you wouldn’t be drinking a lot tonight.

Penny placed the drinks in front of you, passing the aviator’s whose callsign was apparently Hangman his own drinks. “None of your games with these two, Hangman, or you’ll be buying for the entire bar. These ladies are family.”

“Loud and clear ma’am!” He smiled, his dimples becoming more pronounced. “Can I get names to go with your gorgeous faces?”

“Does that normally work?” You asked, amused. He wasn’t your type, but you liked this guy. Cocky yes, but you could see yourself befriending him.

“It’s not a perfect record, but it’s not bad.” He shot back, shrugging. “I’m Hangman. Or Jake.”

“Thanks for the drink, Hangman.” You replied, “I’m Y/N.”

“You’re welcome, Darlin’” He said, unable to keep from flirting too long. “And this exquisite lady next to you?”

“You’re smooth.” Shay laughed, “A shameless first… not hard on the eyes. I’m Shay.”

“Shameless perhaps” He drawled, eyes clearly wandering over Shay as he replied, “But sincere.”

“I guess we’ll see about the serenity of it.” She teased, “But thanks for the drink.”

“Bagman, stop harassing them before your ass gets the bell rung on you.” A female voice said approaching behind Hangman. “I don’t mind drinking on your tab, but I feel it’s part of the girl code to protect unsuspecting females from you.”

“I was just being friendly, Phoenix.” He replied, feigning hurt. “I was making friends.”

“Sure… friends” she replied, rolling her eyes and grabbing one of the beers from him before glancing over at you. “I’m Natasha, or Phoenix.”

“Y/N” You replied, then introduced Shay as well. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too!” She replied, “I’m usually surrounded by pure testosterone, so happy to balance it out when I can.”

“I can only imagine.” You laughed, understanding the male dominated field she was in. “Feel free to come hang with us anytime.”

“I’ll take you up on that!” She said, “But for now, I have to deliver this one back to the group with everyone’s drinks.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you ladies around.” Hangman said, “Enjoy your night.”

As they walked back to a group in uniforms, you and Shay looked at one another laughing.

“Well that was entertaining.” You said, “He’s full of character.”

“He’s fucking HOT” Shay said, her eyes following where he’d walked off to. “If you’re not interested…”

“All yours” you replied, “Friends with that guy is probably all I could handle. And…to be honest, there’s really only one Naval aviator I would ever even consider dating but it’ll never happen. I have enough on my plate right now anyway.”

“Who’s the special one you would date?” Shay asked, intrigued. Before you could answer, the jukebox suddenly cut out and everyone around started to cheer and head to one side of the bar.

You could hear the piano above the cheering. The opening chords to Great Balls of Fire, distinct and burned into your memory. You look quickly at Penny, who, catching your startled look, nods before tipping her head towards the piano.

You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain

Too much love drives a man insane

You broke my will

But what a thrill

Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!

The sound of Bradley singing took you back to when you were younger. Endless hours of karaoke together or him playing piano and singing just to entertain you. Your heart clenched hearing his voice again. You knew there was a Bradley sized hole in your life, but you hadn’t fully realized how large it was until the moment you heard him again. You zoned out listening to his smooth voice.

I chew my nails and I twiddle my thumbs

Real nervous, but it sure is fun

Come on, baby

You're driving me crazy

Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!

The bar erupted into cheers, everyone yelling his name. You were so lost in memories you didn’t register the jukebox being plugged back in and music starting, everyone returning to their drinks and conversations.

“From the look on your face, I think I know the answer to my previous question.” Shay said, her attention focused on you. “You ok, Y/N?”

“Yeah.” You quietly replied, pulled from your head. “I’m good.”

“Back door is always an option, Kiddo.” Penny said, gently, “Just say the word.”

“Thanks, Pen” You replied, “I can’t keep running forever though. I’ll be ok.”

“Ok, well, look alive then” She said looking over your shoulder, “It’s showtime.”

You gulped in air, anxiety rushing over you. You could feel every nerve ending firing in response to a surge of adrenaline flooding your system. Your whole body felt like it was on fire.

“Breathe, Y/N” Shay said quietly, her hand on your shoulder to steady and ground you.

“Hey, Penny!” Bradley called cheerfully as he reached the bar, “Can I get another beer please?”

“Coming right up, Rooster” She replied, reaching into the cooler for a bottle of his preferred beer.  

“Thanks!” He said, before taking a drink and glancing over your way.

You kept your head turned towards the bar and eyes firmly on your own drink, determined now to look over. You were frantically trying to keep from hyperventilating.

“Sunshine.” He said, using the nickname he’d given you long ago, the shock at seeing you evident in his voice and in his eyes when you finally glanced up at him. “It is you… you look…good.”

“Hi, Brad.” You replied, finally looking up. He was dressed in well worn, fitted jeans and his signature Hawaiian shirt open over a white tank. Aviator glasses perched on his nose. “So do you…the mustache suits you.”

“Thanks. I rather like it.” He said, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the next. You hated it. Things had always been so easy between the two of you, this new distance hurt almost worse than just not seeing him at all.  “What brings you back to North Island? Last I heard you were flying tourists and bigwigs around on the East Coast.”

“So you’ve kept tabs on me then?” You asked, curiously.

“Iceman would occasionally let it slip when I’d run into him.” He explained. So he hadn’t cared enough to actually ask about you. The realization stung.

“I’m back because Uncle Tom said it was time to come home.” You replied, turning your eyes back to the beer bottle in front of you. “The cancer is back and the docs said he wouldn’t beat it this time.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He said sincerely, “I know how close you’ve always been to him.”

“He’s not the only one I was close to.” You said quietly. You glanced up to see guilt race across his face before he schooled his features. “Brad… you should know..”

“Look, Y/N,” He interrupted, “It was good to see you, but I need to get back to my friends. I’ll see you around maybe.”

As he walked away, it felt like you’d been kicked in the gut. The wind knocked out of you. The realization hitting you that Bradley didn’t even see you as a friend anymore. You swallowed the lump lodged in your throat, pushing the half full bottle of beer away. You needed air. It felt like the bar was closing in around you.

“I’m going to go ahead and go.” You said gathering your purse from behind you, “It was good to see you tonight, give me a call when you’re free and we can hang out again.”

“Y/N” Shay said, “Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

“I’ll be ok, but thank you.” You replied, “I just need air and to get out of here. Please let Penny know I’ll stop by again…maybe when the bar is closed.”

“I will.” She replied, “I’ll call you tomorrow. We can get some lunch.”

Nodding, you carefully got off the bar stool and headed quickly for the door, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, just needing to escape. Once outside you took a deep breath, gulping in the much needed air to your lungs.  You could still hear the music from the bar playing and the loud voices of drunk sailors and aviators, but outside, it was easier to cue into the sounds of the waves and the breeze moving through the trees. The sound of the waves crashing helped to soothe you enough you no longer felt like you were hyperventilating. No longer in danger of passing out due to lack of oxygen, you decided it was safe to make your way home.

“Fuck you Bradley Bradshaw.” You said, the breeze carrying your words out to sea.

You walked to Jeep, ready to put this day behind you. With your back to the bar, you didn’t see Bradley had stepped out of the bar and was watching you walk away. He’d seen you leave, had watched you walk out of the bar looking like a kicked puppy. The remorse caused his stomach to churn. As your taillights faded away out of the parking lot, Bradley trudged to his Bronco, deciding to call it a night.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun fanfiction #miles teller

[ereardon]

Come Back [Chapter 6][Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x OC]

Summary: Eight years ago, Bradley Bradshaw was just a college boyfriend who broke your heart. Now, he’s back in your life after a coincidental reunion, and he’s adamant about starting up a friendship. Will it be possible to be just friends with Bradley, or is he inevitably going to end up ruining everything you’ve spent the better part of a decade rebuilding?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x OC [Nurse Maggie Brooms]

WC: 3.7K

Warnings: Cursing, angst, fighting

Series masterlist

Bradley was different in California.

You were used to the dense woods and Southern tendencies of Charlottesville. 

But Bradley, despite loving UVA, always seemed a little out of place. At the bar wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he stuck out compared to every other guy in there, all clones wearing a Vineyard Vines button down and Chubbies with a pair of loafers just ratty enough to show their generational wealth status. 

So when he invited you to California for spring break of your senior year, you leapt at the opportunity. Not only did it mean a week away from campus and the looming threat of graduation. 

But it would be a chance to see Bradley in his comfort zone. 

Your mother insisted on getting you a hotel right on the beach, and a rental car, despite the fact that Bradley’s childhood home was in San Diego. She wanted to control where you stayed, and as always, you let her. Bradley stayed with you at the hotel, saying he didn’t want it to go to waste. A part of you knew that he wasn’t ready to share his memories yet. You respected that. 

Bradley looked happy. At peace. Driving with the top down of your convertible rental, you watched as he let one hand fly out the side, whipping down the freeway over the bridge toward the beach. 

Later, at dinner, saw the easy way he smiled and joked with the waitress, how he didn’t even squirm when you reached for the check and dropped your Amex gold on the table. 

He felt like a different person. You could literally see the stress lift off of him. 

It made you wonder — what did that mean for the future? 

You had two months. Neither of you had talked extensively about what your plans were after graduation. But you really only had a few options. Move home, find a husband, get married, be a housewife. Your mother’s preferred option. Or yours: find a job you loved and strike out on your own. Leave the South and its unspoken rules and formality. 

But Bradley. You didn’t know where his head was at. And you were terrified to ask. 

You loved the way the ocean lapped against the sand, and how one morning Bradley woke you up to watch the sunrise with him, his hand gripped tightly in your own, his hoodie soft and baggy over your swimsuit, the way he held you in his lap on the Adirondack chair on the hotel patio.. 

You loved the way the air smelled fresh and salty and how everyone seemed to take their time. It wasn’t like back East where everyone was in a rush, for no reason at all. 

Slowly, over the course of the week, you understood why Bradley felt like a different person in California. You did, too. You were more casual, more fun, more carefree. The weight of expectations had fallen off somewhere on the flight over. 

You were left to rebuild yourself. And you wanted that so desperately. 

“I love it here,” you whispered to Bradley on the last night of the trip. The two of you were laying in bed, his arm wrapped around you while you traced a finger up and down his bare abdomen. 

“Yeah?” 

You looked up at him. “I think I want to move here after graduation.” 

“Leave Virginia?” he asked, shocked. You had never lived anywhere else. Your family was generations deep in Richmond. It was almost unheard of that you would move somewhere else. 

You nodded. “It’s time to get away. Get out from under my parents.” You skimmed a finger over his jaw. “What if we move in together?” It came out in a whisper. 

Bradley shifted and you sat up, crossing your legs on the bed and facing him. “Here?” he asked, sweeping his arm out, gesturing toward California as a whole. 

“Why not? You love it here, that’s obvious. I need a fresh start.” You leaned forward and took his hands in yours. “I love you, Bradley. I want to make this work.” 

“Don’t you think we’re too young?” he asked. 

“I’m not saying let’s get married,” you replied, frowning. “I’m saying let’s move in together. Start a life somewhere. Together.” 

“You’d move here for me?” he asked quietly. 

You tipped your head, placed your hand on his knee. “Bradley, I don’t think you understand. I’d go anywhere for you. With you. I love you. That’s a permanent thing in my book.” 

Bradley pulled you into his arms, gently turning you until you were lying on the bed and he was hovering above you. He peppered kisses along your neck up to your ear, and finally pressed his lips against yours, one hand coming out and brushing the hair off of your face while his other arm kept him supported on the bed. “Let’s do it,” he said quietly. “Let’s move here after graduation. I don’t care if we don’t have jobs or things planned out. I just need you.” 

You wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling him in closer. “You have me. Nothing is going to change that.” 

Bradley leaned in and pressed his lips back against yours. You felt him pull the sheet away, press himself against you. You opened your legs, an invitation. 

You had decided a lot that night. 

That Bradley was your future. And that you were his. 

You had expected that decision, that night, to change everything. 

And it did. 

***

Despite your better instincts, you checked in on Bradley a few days after his twenty-four hour flu. Maybe it was the nurse in you. More likely, it was the part of you that for some reason refused to give up on Bradley Bradshaw. 

Either way, that’s how you found yourself out to dinner with the exact people you had embarrassed yourself in front of at the bar a few weeks earlier. 

You had dressed more modestly this time in a simple sweater and midi skirt and a pair of sandals. Taking a deep breath, you entered the restaurant to find that everyone else had already arrived. Bob spotted you first and blushed and you had to smile through the discomfort of remembering the last time you had seen him, your hands all over him in your sloppy state. 

Bradley spotted you next, jumping up from his seat and meeting you halfway. 

“Hey,” he whispered, kissing your cheek lightly and you let him. He put his hand on your low back and steered you toward the rest of the team. “You guys remember Maggie.” 

You blushed and took the empty seat next to him, which unfortunately was also next to Jake, or Hangman as the team called him. 

Jake flashed you a brilliant grin. “Hey there,” he said, Texas drawl on full display. “How are you sweetheart?”

You went to roll your eyes but realized you still needed to get back in the good graces of Bradley’s friends. Why, you weren’t sure, but a part of you craved their acceptance. 

“Fine,” you said, snapping open the menu. “How are you?”

He laughed and tossed an arm over the back of your seat. “You’re an uptight little thing, aren’t you?”

Bradley shot him a death look. “Hangman,” he said and his voice came with a warning. 

Jake lifted his hands up, palms facing you. “Sorry. I’ll just be over here, minding my own business.” 

You looked down at the menu like you hadn’t already scoured it at home and picked out your top options. You would wait and see what everyone else ordered before you made your final decision. 

“So, Maggie, we heard you pulled a Clara Barton and nursed Rooster here back to health.” 

You looked up and squinted. “Rooster?”

The table erupted in laughter and Bradley leaned over, sliding his hand easily over the back of your chair and whispering in your ear. “It’s my callsign. Kind of like a nickname for pilots.”

You nodded. That explained the weird names. Phoenix, Fanboy, Hangman. Your eyes floated over to Bob. “What’s your callsign?” you asked. 

He blushed and hung his head. “Bob.”

“Bob is your callsign?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He looked so sweet and nervous you wanted to wrap him up in a blanket. “I like that,” you said and he perked up, tips of his ears turning pink as he smiled beneath the wire glasses. “At least you don’t sound like a barnyard animal.” Bradley and Jake howled and you shot Bob a small smile. 

A waitress came by to take orders and you watched how easily Bradley pulled you into conversation with his friends. His hand remained on the back of your chair, fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder, but you never asked him to move it. 

What you didn’t notice was the rest of the team silently taking in your body language with Bradley. How you stared at him for a moment too long after he told a joke. The way his eyes followed you when you told a story, so focused that he didn’t even flinch when the waitress dropped an empty tray a few feet behind your chair. 

By the end of the meal, you had gotten over the embarrassment of getting absolutely smashed and having to be carried out of the bar. They were a genuinely nice group and you could see why Bradley was willing to be friends with them outside of work. 

“So we never did hear why you two broke up,” Jake said, signing the check. The group had decided it was his turn to pay, something about a pool game bet gone awry. 

You froze and could feel Bradley stiffen next to you. Across the table, Phoenix raised her eyebrows in intrigue. 

There was a silent beat before you opened your mouth. 

“Just didn’t work out,” you said finally. “Senior year of college, you know how it goes. We had different paths.” 

You turned to look at Bradley. There was a pensive look across his tan face. The moment his eyes locked onto yours, you felt the room shift. There was an apology there, without any words passing between you. 

No matter how many times he said he was sorry, it still hurt. 

“Yeah,” Bradley said after a moment. “We were young.” 

You swung back around. The rest of the table was quiet. Jake had his head cocked to the side, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I should go to the bathroom before we leave,” Coyote said, smacking his hands on the table and pushing his chair back. You nodded and stood as well. 

“Same here.” 

In the bathroom, you splashed cold water on your wrists before lifting your gaze to the mirror. Sometimes you avoided staring into the mirror for too long. It was too easy to pick at your flaws. 

As you pushed open the door, you spotted Jake leaning against the wall, toothpick clamped between his lips. He raised a hand, grabbing it before giving you a smile. 

“Hey there cupcake,” he said and you groaned, forcing a laugh out of him. “God, you’re sassy. I see why Bradshaw likes you so much.”

“I think the men’s room is that way,” you said, hooking your thumb over your shoulder. “If you’re lost.” 

He shook his head, inching nearer. You were dwarfed in a cloud of his cologne, it was borderline overpowering. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For asking about you and Bradshaw. Your history. I could tell by the way y’all tensed up that it’s still a touchy subject.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, drawing Jake’s eyes to your breasts momentarily before he shifted back up to look at you. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “Nobody likes to talk about breakups, so not sure why you would ask in the first place.”

He smiled. “You keep saying it was a long time ago, that it’s in the past. But it isn’t really for you, is it?” “What do you mean?”

He reached out and brushed some hair behind your ear. “I can see it in the way you look at him. You still care.” 

Jake’s green eyes centered on yours. “I loved him once,” you said quietly. “We needed each other. It's hard to forget something like that.” 

Jake dropped his arm, turning halfway to let you past him. You spotted Bradley standing at the table beyond Jake’s shoulder, his back still to you but you could tell he was laughing at something someone else said. “I think you still love him,” he replied and you looked up with shock. “And I think he loves you, too.” 

With that, Jake centered the toothpick back between his lips, taking off toward the bathroom. 

Back at the table, you grabbed your purse and Bradley put his hand on your arm. “Do you want to get a drink?” he asked softly. “We could go out, or my place. Up to you.” 

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.” 

You followed him in your car back to the bungalow with the blue door. It was a lot cleaner than the last time you had been there. No clothes on the ground or stray dishes on the coffee table. Bradley headed toward the kitchen and you followed on his heels. 

“Wine?” he asked. “Vodka. Gin. Diet Coke. I got it all.” 

“Wine,” you said, watching him select a bottle of red from a shelf and uncork it seamlessly. “Do you remember that dinner I took you to with my parents? Family weekend, junior year.” 

“How could I forget?” he asked, pouring you a glass and sliding it over. You turned the bottle in your hands. Leonetti Cellar 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon from Walla Walla Valley. You raised your eyebrows. That was a really nice bottle. He had come a long way from scoffing at the taste of a pinot noir. 

“I see your taste for wine has changed,” you murmured and he smiled. 

“Yeah, one of the Admirals got me into it. Although I can’t say it was worth what I paid.” 

“Well, I like it.” He took a sip of his glass. “Then it’s worth it.” Bradley turned his gaze on you and you felt like you were sitting in a spotlight at a comedy show. He could be so intense and say so little at the same time. “That’s not the only thing I remember from that night,” he whispered. 

“Oh yeah?”

He walked around the counter until you were only a few inches apart. Your hand was shaky on the stem of your wineglass and you placed your hands in your lap. “I still think about it, Mags.”

“What, the sex?”

He laughed softly, putting his glass down next to yours and running one hand down the side of your face. “That, too.” 

“I’ve had better,” you quipped and his eyes widened. “You can’t seriously think you were the best fuck I ever had. After all this time?” 

He dipped his head and you let out a laugh. 

“Oh my God, you really do have an ego.” 

He shook his head. “No, I know that I was young and inexperienced and didn’t know what it took to really please you.” 

“You had slept with half a dozen girls by then, minimum.” 

“But I didn’t care about any of them the way I cared about you,” he said and it made your breath catch in your throat. “Maggie, I have never loved anyone the way I love you.” 

You caught the grammatical slip, but you were worried that it wasn’t an error. “Bradley,” you whispered softly. 

“Let me finish, please,” he said and you nodded. “You telling me you loved me that night meant more than anything in my life up until that point.” He paused. “Even now, it’s still the singular best day of my life. I don’t think you understand how much it meant to have you say that.” Bradley ran a finger through his hair and took in a deep breath. He was so close you could almost feel his heartbeat in his chest. “You’re the only person in my life who has ever seen me for who I am and loved me despite it all, Mags. I should have spent my entire life dedicated to loving you. I should have spent every minute figuring out how to make you feel a fraction of the amount of love that you gave me that night.” 

You looked up at him. “So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t realize what I had,” he whispered, pressing one large thumb to your cheek, “until you were gone.” 

You turned your face away, sucking in a deep breath, but Bradley’s hands came out to cup your neck, pulling you back to face him. 

“I lost you before,” he whispered. “And it was my fault, it was all my fault. I hurt you, and I’ve spent years trying to atone for the way I treated you. But you’re here, now. And I don’t want to fuck this up.” 

You closed your eyes briefly, felt the wet tears start to roll down your cheeks, over Bradley’s fingers where he held your face tightly. “Back then I thought you would be the guy who would never hurt me.”

You watched the pain flicker over Bradley’s face as your words sunk in. 

“And I hated to learn how wrong I was.” 

The flood gates had opened. You tilted your head down, letting the tears spill across your cheeks and Bradley’s fingers. He let go of your neck, pulling you into his chest, winding his arms around you. You folded into him easily, molded to his embrace. It was so familiar and intoxicating and you were mad that it felt so comfortable to touch him again. 

“Baby,” he whispered, pulling back and wiping at the tears below your lash line. 

“Don’t call me that,” you said, standing up from the stool and walking across the room, putting distance between yourself and Bradley. As if that would solve all of your issues. 

“Maggie,” he begged, stepping closer. “I still love you. For eight years I’ve never once stopped loving you.”

“Stop,” you said, putting out a hand to block him. “Just stop, Bradley. We can’t do this. We’re not twenty-two anymore. We have lives. We’ve moved on.” 

“That’s what I’m saying,” he said, exasperated. “I haven’t moved on, Maggie. I have thought about you every day for eight years. I don’t care about anyone else, I don’t want anyone else. I just want you.” 

“You had me!” you screamed and it stopped him dead in his tracks. “You fucking had all of me. I was ready to give my entire life to you. And you wasted it on some slut.” 

“Maggie.” His voice was a strained whisper. It was the same tone as the day you saw the text on his phone while he was in the shower and confronted him. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t fucking call me pet names,” you yelled. “You lost the right to love me eight years ago.”

He shook his head. “It was a mistake. I was wasted and I’ve regretted it every day since.” 

“That’s it? You regretted it?” You put your hands on your thighs and tried to catch your breath. “Bradley, you walked out of my life that day and I never even got a reason.”

“There was no reason!” he yelled and the magnitude of his voice shook the house. You looked up in shock. You had never seen Bradley like this. Like he was overcome with anger and fear all wrapped into one. “I was fucking wasted and she was there and in the blink of an eye I ruined everything I had ever let myself want, Maggie. I thought I didn’t deserve you. That’s why I left and never looked back. I didn't deserve you. And you fucking deserved better than me.” 

Bradley leaned both hands on the wall, hanging his head, before pushing back and smacking the wall with an open palm. You heard the slap as it echoed around the small living room. His palm was pink with exertion, but when he looked up all you could focus on was his face. How drawn his features were, the tears flooding his lash line, the anguish that somehow etched its way into every inch of his skin.  

“Maybe I did it because I wanted better for you,” he roared. “Because I knew that you should have more than I could give you.” 

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” you bit back. “You did it because you’re a selfish asshole. You wanted someone new. Someone sexier. Someone smarter.” You sniffled. “You did it because you wanted to ruin things for us so you didn’t have to go through the fucking hassle of breaking up with me.”

“Maggie,” he begged, taking a step forward and you moved back instinctively. He dragged his palms over his face. “Why would I break up with you? You were my whole fucking world.”

“I knew you didn’t want to move to California with me,” you sobbed. “I saw your face when I suggested it. You didn’t want me here. You were desperate to graduate and make me just a part of your past.”

“No,” he said, crossing the room so quickly you didn’t have time to react. His hands burned where they touched your arms, his voice shaky. “Baby, no. The only thing I ever wanted was a life with you. Was I terrified? Yes, absolutely. But I never for a fucking second doubted how much I wanted you.” 

“You’re the one who left, Bradley,” you whispered. “The one who never looked back. Not as I lay there on the floor, sobbing for you. Begging you to stay. Desperate to make it work. You just stood there and watched me collapse and did nothing to explain yourself.” “Maggie,” he choked out. 

“What about that showed that you loved me?” you asked. “What about you letting me find out that you cheated on me by reading some girl’s message on your phone screen was you declaring that you wanted to spend your life with me? What kind of man just walks out on his pregnant girlfriend without a care in the world?” 

Bradley’s eyes flashed and his fingers dug into the tops of your arms. “What do you mean pregnant girlfriend?”

“I was two months pregnant when you left, Bradley,” you said quietly. 

Tag list: @abaker74 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @luckyladycreator2 @marantha @tayrae515 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @bradshawsbitch 

#bradley rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #rooster fanfic #rooster imagine #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #jake hangman fic #hangman fanfiction #hangman top gun #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster x oc

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡-𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎

The heat in Virginia is different than the heat in California. San Diego is hot--very hot, always hot. And it is a wet sort of heat, like the air is clouded with ocean water. Everything smells like warm sea salt in the summer. Virginia, though--it is disparate. It is a muddy sort of heat--not unlike the heat of Kansas summers. There is no dry season here, just like Kansas, so the heat is wetter, muggier. There is no such thing as sea-salt air here. It just smells like the earth: like mud, like leaves, like fresh-cut sweetgrass, like dusty gravel, like bloodroot and butterfly weed. 

It smells, somehow, more like home than Kansas ever has. That is the first thing I notice when I breathe my first breath of Virginia air, its heat coating my lungs thickly. 

We are in a rental car and it smells of fresh leather and vacuumed carpet in here. The windows are cracked and that sweet, muddy heat is seeping into the car and mingling with the air conditioner that’s blasting on our faces. I think if my father was here right now, if he was the same person he was before my sister died, he would whine about having the windows down and the air conditioner on. But Bradley is the one who cracked the windows--and when he did it, when he first inhaled that rich, metallic scent of his home state--I could feel his spine tingling from the front seat. He deflated with a sort of sweet relief.

“Too hot, baby?” 

He asks this with his eyebrow raised, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.  

I shake my head softly, pushing my sunglasses up my nose. I can’t stop smiling--haven’t been able to since our plane touched down, bouncing on the tarmac.  

“Just fine, Bradley,” I tell him, trying to ease the tinge of concern twisting his tone, “I’m excited. Get excited!”

His hand is on my thigh, splayed over my naked leg. He’s trying to rub a freckle off my skin with a persistent thumb--or that’s what it feels like. It feels the same way it always does, feels like there’s a pit of honey dripping down, down, down into my belly. Feels like we’ve been doing this for a long time; feels perfect. Now he pats my leg a few times, not soft but not rough, like I’m a trusty steed. Atta girl.  

My hand was resting over his, but then he’d rolled the windows down and I’d watched his sweet face slack in bliss and now my fingers are locked in the curls at the base of his neck. He’s leaning his head into my palm slightly, just so, more malleable under my touch.

“Don’t know why,” he breathes, leaning further into my palm, looking down his nose at the road, “we’re going to an empty house.”

Indian Summer by The Doors is playing now.  

His aviators are low on his nose, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sings softly, and he’s kissed by the California sun. Still--even now, even after our months and months together--I wonder if he has his own private sky. He must engulf himself there when my back is turned, when I am out of the house, when he goes right and I go left. Because his skin is the most perfect color, even and glistening.

“Won’t be empty when we’re in it,” I sing softly, tugging on his locks. 

He chuckles, shaking his head softly. But there’s a slight smile gracing his lips now.

He was covertly nervous on the flight early this morning. Just a bouncing knee, a tapping knuckle, a fluttering eyelid. He didn’t say it, but I knew. I have known him for almost a year, but it has felt like a lifetime and then some. So I know that he wasn’t really nervous about flying --how could he be?  

I’ve heard that some pilots have trouble flying commercial because it’s out of their control, but I know that isn’t the case with Bradley. No, not really. I know that what he was really nervous about--what he is still nervous about right now on this winding gravel road--was going back home.

I first brought up the idea of going to Virginia in May. 

We took the Bronco, the soft top unfolded, and I sat in the middle unbuckled. It was strangely becoming a habit each time we were in the Bronco. It was that pull he had over me--the one that had been there since the very start of it all, the one that reduced me to a compliant puddle at times, the one that had only intensified in our time together--that made me scoot in next to him. He didn’t even have to say anything anymore. After he closed the passenger door behind me, I would be waiting for him in the middle of the bench.  

When he slid in beside me, tall and tan and perfect, he grinned and slung his arms over my shoulders. That sweet peppery scent, the one that perfumed our sheets and bath towels now, overwhelmed me for a moment as I gazed up at him.  

“Don’t know if I’ll ever get over it,” he said, shaking his head softly.  

I let my hand fall to his thigh, resting gently over the rippling muscles beneath his blue jeans. My American boy.  

“Get over what? My brazen disobedience of traffic laws?” 

That was when he curled his arm around my neck, his hand cupping my chin as he brought his thumb to my smiling lip. He stroked there very softly, careful not to smudge my lipstick that he’d watched me so carefully apply in the bathroom mirror.  

“I was gonna say you wearing that lipstick, sitting in my baby,” he said, his minty breath tickling the apples of my cheeks. 

He pressed down on my lip and I puckered, placing a soft kiss on the pad of his thumb. My kiss stained a tart-colored lip-shaped tattoo there.  

“But we can go with your thing if you want,” he finished, shrugging faux unceremoniously.  

And when I leaned up to kiss him, he closed the space between us before I could. He had been waiting for me to move, waiting for my eyelashes to kiss my cheeks, waiting for my lips to part, waiting for my chin to tilt. He tasted like toothpaste and gum, his lips very soft and smiling against mine.  

I was the one that pulled away--had to because my cheeks were flooding and I was starting to get that ache between my thighs, the one Rooster had a sixth sense for. He was still cupping my jaw, his fingers pressed into the fat of my cheeks, his thumb still red from my kiss. He pressed his forehead against mine, his nose brushing mine.  

“Think they’d be mad if we bailed?” 

I knew he was chiding. He wouldn’t miss Phoenix’s birthday, wouldn’t miss the squadron’s first celebration since August. Rooster was a good friend, loved his friends.  

I squeezed his thigh, humming, pretending to think about it.  

“But then how would she get the gift I so dutifully picked for her?” 

I was chiding then.  

He narrowed his eyes slightly, licking his lips, taking the bait.  

“It’s supposed to be our gift,” he said.  

He moved to start the car, his arm falling off my shoulders. He plucked his aviators from their holder and slipped them on in that effortless way of his, turning to grin over at me. The sun was still setting and the sky was a warm gold--but it looked like it just shined for him.  

“Yes, I’m sure Phoenix will look at the wrapping job and know that you contributed,” I teased.  

Rooster put the car in reverse and started out of the driveway, his hand resting on the passenger seat headrest, cheek turned so I could see his scars glowing in the May evening light.  

“Hey, I can’t be good at everything,” he defended, biting a smirk as he put the car in drive and turned the wheel, “that’s your job.” 

I leaned into him and his arm fell over me again. It felt like the most natural thing in the world as we started down Mulberry Street, no buckle over my lap but safe in his grip.  

“I’m starting to think you have a crush on me,” I told him, leaning forward to turn the radio on.  

He laughed--that pretty, perfect laugh. It made my fingers warm.  

“What makes you say that, baby?” 

I shrugged, knowing he had one eye on the road and the other on my form as I turned the dial, surveying the static for a good song. I was still smiling a teasing smile.  

I stopped on a station that was in the middle of playing You Make Me Feel Like Dancing by Leo Sayer.  

 Then I leaned back into his grip, his hand holding my shoulder, drawing lazy shapes there.  

“I think it’s all the sex,” I told him.  

Then we were laughing again and it was good, perfect.  

The past year had felt so entirely perfect that it made me dizzy to think about. Laughing in the Bronco, the top down, warm evening air kissing our tan skin, Leo Sayer playing, unbuckled but secured; it only felt natural to be that blindingly happy. It took us both a few months to become accustomed to the feeling, to submit to it. But somewhere between drinking cherry wine on the yarrow flower-perfumed patio on Thursday nights and dancing in the dim morning light on the entryway tile, it happened. We fell forward, fell in, tumbled then found purchase with each other.   

It was a warm night--not unlike the warm July nights of our first summer together--and the sun had set in a pool of orange-gold and sunk beneath the glittering ocean with a deliberate sort of grace.  

The Hard Deck was just as full as it was the first weekend I had reclaimed my title as Jukebox Queen. Bodies packed onto the dirty, makeshift dance floor like sardines in a tin can, peanut shells crunching over lug-sole boots and platform heels. Everyone smelled like beer and sand and sweat and cigars. It was a good smell--one that made me think of my late summer romance, one that made me think of falling in love between picnics and prosecco. It made me think of Maggie, too--everything did still.  

It was the first time the entire squadron had been in the same state since late August of 2019, after the Uranium Mission.  

As soon as Rooster and I stepped into the bar, pushing our sunglasses to our hair in tandem, we were being called home to the pool tables. Familiar faces dotted around the green velvet, strong arms signaling us to come their direction, open mouths beaming.  

Rooster’s hand was in my jean pocket, which was making me flustered, but I was too dithered to care--if not because I was so head over heels, mind-bogglingly in love with him then because my friends were in the same state as me for the first time in months.  

“Y’ready?”  

Rooster asked as I lead the charge, navigating the crowd with him trailing beside me, casual and cool as ever, throwing a grin in every direction.   

“Born ready, Bradshaw.” 

Everybody was there--dressed in civilian clothing. Bob was closest, standing beside a stack of chairs with his arms crossed over his white t-shirt. I almost gasped when I saw him--very tan, cheeks scruffy, his hair grown out just to his ears.  

“Faye Ledger, get your ass over here!” 

Bob was the first person to wrap his arms around me--we collided like magnets, clicking into place, Rooster’s hand falling from the pocket of my shorts in a silent sort of nudge.  

“Robert from Major Authors,” I called to Bob, turning my head in his shoulder, grinning against his neck, “that haircut is pushing it!” 

Rooster slyly, very discreetly, tapped my bottom one time as he bypassed our hugging forms. It was something he did often whenever he knew he wouldn’t get caught. A pat when he was in my office, as he passed by me in the lounge, while I was taking cookies out of the oven.  

Without even seeing, I knew he was wrapping Phoenix in a tight hug.  

“Phoenix won’t let me cut it,” he laughed, pulling back, holding me by the shoulders.  

“Let me take you in,” we said at the same time.  

I held his forearms and they felt bulkier, tougher than the last I’d seen him. He looked bulkier, tougher in general; his hair highlighted by the sun, his skin kissed golden, his cheeks peppered with scruff, his eyebrows darker, his eyes brighter. He even seemed taller to me.  

“Love this,” I whispered, running my hands over his stubbled cheeks, “you’re such a man now. Look at you!” 

He grinned, pleased with himself, blushing only slightly. 

“Look at me? Look at you,” he told me, grabbing my newly cropped hair in one gentle hand, “you’re bald!” 

It was an over-exaggeration, of course--one that made me bite my lip and smile. I had cut my hair shorter so that it laid against my collar bones instead of the base of my spine. ��

“Howdy, kid!”  

A third voice said this.  

Hangman was standing beside us, grinning, breaking up our reunion with ease. He looked bigger too--except his hair was not grown out and his scruff was minimal. But still--his body seemed heavier, leaner. The buttons on his shirt gapped over his broad chest.  

“Tally,” Bob whispered, eyes widened.  

Hangman and him laughed together then and I was smiling, peeking between Bob’s right fist and Hangman’s lower lip, wondering if there was any sort of remnant of the beach bonfire on the last Saturday before the mission. But no--both of their skin was unblemished, just like their camaraderie. 

“Gimme some love, sugar plum!”  

Hangman’s arms were wide open, his blue eyes crinkled but shining in the low light of The Hard Deck. I was still grinning when Bob released me, when Hangman closed the space between us and wrapped me up in his arms. He held me very tight, alarmingly tight. He still felt like a marble pillar, studier than anything in The Hard Deck. That was just the way Hangman held me--the way he’d held me in the women’s restroom on the carrier when we thought Rooster was gone, the way he’d held me on the tarmac when he’d saved the day, the way he’d held me on my brick porch before he left for his next posting way back in early September.  

“How you been?” I asked him, patting the vast expansion of muscles rippling beneath his shirt, “North Carolina treating you alright?” 

He pulled back, his teeth whiter than printer paper, looking absolutely pleased. He smoothed his hand over my hair, careful not to bump my sunglasses, tugging on the cropped ends.  

“You know I’d rather be here,” he said, “but I’m the only aviator with two confirmed kills, so they treat me like a God. Which, you know--I am.”  

Before I could respond, Bob pat his back, biting a grin.  

“Same old Hangman,” he said, ambling back to the table to greet Rooster.  

Hangman was searching my face, eyes falling from my hair to my mouth and to my nose and ears and cheeks.  

“You look good,” he finally said, raising his eyebrows, “still in love with Bradshaw or have you come to your senses? My time to shine yet?”  

I pushed his chest, cheeks reddening.  

“Madly and deeply,” I told him, “sorry ‘bout it.” 

He opened his mouth again, still smiling, but then I was tugged from his grip into a softer one. Strong, yes--but scaled down. And it was when I smelled the Nivea and good shampoo that I melted into the hug.  

“Can’t hog all the Faye on my birthday,” Phoenix called to Hangman, holding me close to her.  

“It’s in my nature,” Hangman called back before winking at us.  

“Happy birthday! Thirty-two doesn’t know what’s coming.” 

“Good because neither do I,” Phoenix responded, “and your man was zero help.” 

Most of the first hour continued on like that; hugging, grinning, complimenting, scouring unfamiliarities, tugging, laughing. It was a most gleeful reunion, one that began around the pool table, everybody falling back into place like old times.  

Rooster fell into place beside me after his second round of pool, while I was conversing with Bob and Phoenix about their station in Florida. Rooster wrapped an arm around my waist from behind, kissing my hair casually without interrupting my sentence. And without missing a beat, without breaking conversation or eye contact, I let my hands fall over his and squeezed softly. We were good at that then--touching each other in the way couples did, an arm here, a squeeze there, a sly glance.  

Bob was smiling in that Bob way, like he was coyly confident about something, like he was happy about something that I was happy about. Phoenix was more obvious about it, softly shaking her head with the smallest of smiles on her pink-painted lips.  

“Can you go more than ten minutes without touching your girlfriend or will you implode?” 

Rooster set his chin atop my head and I could feel his grin. I’m sure he could feel my deep blush, could feel the string between us tighten.  

“You wanna find out?” He lipped back.  

Bob was blushing. I shook my head at him, rolling my eyes at Phoenix, at Rooster. But we were all still smiling--how could we not be smiling?  

“I do,” Coyote called from the pool table.  

Hangman nudged him, grinning, laughing.  

“Can you go more than ten minutes without touching your boyfriend or will you implode?” Bob quipped, pushing his glasses back up his nose.  

Hangman and Coyote were stunned into silence for a moment, frozen with the pool cues in their grips, as Payback and Fanboy sputtered beside them. Rooster was even impressed, nudging Bob. Phoenix was smirking and I knew it was because she got Bob all the time then--that she knew what had changed, what Bob had found in Florida besides scruff and a tan.  

After the Happy Birthday song, after the cake was doled out, after pool games had been won and lost, after drinks had been drunk and shots had been had--that’s when almost everyone in the entire bar was dancing, corralled by the Dagger Squad, who were perhaps the drunkest and rowdiest crowd in the bar. Of course they were operating under the guise that it was all for the birthday girl, the one turning thirty-two, the one everyone had missed so dearly: Phoenix. 

It was Hangman who handed me a quarter first, dropping his blue eye in a wink. I was standing beside Payback and Fanboy then, nursing my usual, watching Rooster lose a game of pool to Coyote and Phoenix.  

“I reckon you owe me a dance,” he said very coolly, chewing a piece of gum, his jaw flexing, “y’know, since you’re always breaking my heart.”  

I rolled my eyes, inspecting the quarter so I wouldn’t have to look at his eyes glowing in the crowded room, so he wouldn’t see how red his words made me.  

“I’ll dance with you,” I said, meeting his gaze, “but just remember: this is charity.” 

That made Payback and Fanboy sputter again.  

We were all, except the designated drivers, a little tipsy by then. My ligaments were becoming chewing gum, my vision a little watery, my smile red and wide. Everyone was getting looser, happier, cozier.  

“Hangman, you’re losing your touch!” Payback called, shaking his head.  

“Having to pay your women to dance with you. What’s North Carolina doing to you?” Fanboy finished, his beer sloshing as he gestured towards us.  

There was that impenetrable ego. I was certain that even a jackhammer could not chisel away a bit of it. It was something I admired deeply--also something I attributed to his asshole-outbursts, like the bonfire.  

Grinning, giddy as ever, Hangman gave a small shrug.  

“Laugh all you want, but I consider myself a purveyor of women’s rights,” Hangman said, grabbing my wrist so I was holding the quarter in the air before us, “closing the wage gap one Faye at a time.” 

Before I could even respond, a chuckle closed in my throat, Hangman was tugging me towards the jukebox and into the buzzing bodies crowding the dance floor.  

I glanced very quickly at Rooster, Rooster who somehow became more and more gorgeous every minute of every day that passed. His hair shining beneath the yellow lights, his smile one of admiration, his chest rippling beneath his Hawaiian shirt.  

“I’m gonna pay for that one, aren’t I?” He asked over his shoulder, catching my wide-eyed gaze, my gaped mouth.  

“Most definitely,” I laughed.  

When we reached the jukebox, I slipped the quarter in. He took his usual stance, leaning against it, resting his head against his fist as I carefully began to peruse the selection. It was how we’d stood when I’d reclaimed my title, when I’d outdrank him. It made me pink to think about that night, every part of it; the dancing, our quiet conversation, the man at the bar who mistook me for Maggie, the car ride home, Rooster touching me for the first time.  

“So, how’s it going really?”  

I rolled my eyes, glancing at him. I was surprised to see that he seemed genuine. He was searching my profile, dusting over me like he’d forgotten what I looked like, his mouth flat and more serious than before. It wasn’t quite as intense as Rooster’s gaze before the mission, when I’d had to rip my face away from his. But Hangman was looking at me with a certain softness he was void of when he spoke to other’s. I knew that. I knew that so much. 

We had not fallen out of complete contact. The Dagger Squad had a group text that received a fair amount of attention and we frequently video called each other whenever we could. And I kept up with everyone on my own accord--sending Coyote my cookie recipe whenever he messaged me at midnight, watching sci-fi movie trailers Fanboy sent, sharing a Pinterest board with Bob, mailing a good bottle of Hungry Hawke wine to Phoenix. Hangman was in the mix too, somewhere between him sending shirtless selfies and song recommendations I’d pretended that I hadn’t already heard.  

“Things are good,” I said honestly, smiling softly, “like stupid-good, if we’re being honest.” 

He swallowed, taking a sip of beer, surveying the crowd around us. He took a deep breath and I knew what was coming next.  

“So, you’re happy then?” 

I nodded, furrowing my brow slightly.  

“Unfortunately, I am. Very, very happy. So happy that I don’t even mind going into work anymore.” 

Hangman pretended to gag and I elbowed him. As if he minded going into work, as of he didn’t love it. He broke into a smile again.  

“How’s that promotion suiting you? Like having your own office?” 

Of course I did. Who wouldn’t?  

“Oh, sure,” I said, still filing through the song choices, “and now Rooster and I are office neighbors.” 

Hangman finally looked at me, somewhere between revolted and bemused. He stared hard at my cheek and I pretended not to notice.  

“Y’never get tired of the guy?” 

That was when we looked up together, looking out and over the crowd to Rooster, who was laughing with his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. He looked so gorgeous, so perfectly in place there at the pool table beside his friends.  

“Never,” I said to him, smiling at the way Rooster gently clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, “who could get tired of him?” 

Hangman sighed.  

“He is pretty dreamy,” he agreed, “you know, in that puppy-dog-in-the-window, last-kid-at-soccer-practice kinda way. If you’re into that, I guess.” 

I bit my lip, containing my grin.  

“And what about you, Bagman? Gracing any ladies with your presence these days?” I asked, eyebrow quirked, “For more than a night, I mean.”  

Hangman cackled.  

“Nah,” he said, “I prefer California girls.” 

He was being cheeky--I could feel his heated eyes, his watchful gaze.  

Pressing down on 092, I turned my body towards me, still biting a grin. When my eyes found his, his spine straightened slightly and his shoulders stiffened just a tiny bit. The beer bottle was pressed close to his grinning lips, his eyes half-shut.  

The opening notes of You’re So Vain by Carly Simon flooded the bar.  

“Good thing I’m from Kansas,” I said sweetly.  

His eyes widened as he registered the song. He cackled into his beer bottle and it sounded hollow, breathy. His eyes crinkled when I reached my hand out towards him.  

“Now or never,” I told him, “you son of a gun.” 

It took less than a minute for the squadron to follow suit, everybody’s eyes heavy and half-shut, everyone’s grins spreading, hair waving in the hot air of the bar, stomping over peanuts and stamping in puddles of beer and warm vodka. And Hangman got me to himself for a short while on the dance floor, only able to spin me one time before Rooster tapped in, dipping me and peppering my face with sweet kisses.  

“Missed you,” he mumbled against the blushed skin of my cheek, “not used to sharing you these days.”  

Even Bob was on the dance floor without having been serenaded by me and Rooster. It was a good, funny thing to see how Phoenix and him operated together after they’d been flying with each other for over ten months; they were closer than before. I knew what bond backseater’s and stick jockey’s developed, knew that there was a deep mutual trust between them and it had only grown since Bob and Phoenix had left Fightertown. All she had to do was ask and he was dancing with us all night. It made me warm, watching them dance, watching her push his glasses back up his nose after he bought her a shot. 

We danced for a long, long time. My hands smelled like copper and tequila by the time Rooster pressed his face against mine, mustache tickling my ear as he pushed my hair from my face, and asked if I was ready to leave.  

It was well into the wee hours of the morning when Rooster and I made our rounds, kissing everyone’s cheeks, burying our noses in each other’s necks as we hugged. Everyone was moaning for us to stay, but my limbs were growing heavier and heavier by the minute. It was a sweet, melancholy goodbye. Silly, too, since we were all meeting for brunch the next morning. 

“Happy birthday,” I said to Phoenix, who was perhaps the drunkest out of everyone, “take some ibuprofen before you go to bed!”  

She smiled that dazzling smile, her thin, pretty lips wrapping around her pearly teeth. Her hair was falling around her flushed face like brunette curtains, her eyes glassy and slacked.  

“It is a happy birthday,” she said, slurring softly and holding a finger up at me for emphasis, “and I’m Phoenix, remember? Rises from the ashes and all shit.” 

And when Rooster and I were finally outside in the darkness of the night, it felt so quiet, so cool. I had to stop for a moment, dipping my head back, letting my face angle towards the stars, my eyes heavy. Rooster was beside me, fingers lazily entwined with mine, twirling the Bronco’s keys around his index finger. His ‘Tramp’ keychain thudded against his palm with a sweet, heavy thud.  

“S’so nice out here,” I told him, grinning, breathing in the salty air around me with a quiet desperation.  

For a long moment, I just drank in the night; lazily blinking at the black sky, counting the waves as they rolled in endlessly, cherishing each blinking star, pressing my heels down against the sand-sprinkled asphalt.  

“Waxing gibbous,” Rooster noted. 

It made my heart swell that he could note the phase of the moon--something he hadn’t been able to do before. It made my mouth fill with cotton and feathers and everything that was soft and sweet.   

I knew he was smiling without even looking at him--felt the stretch of his cheeks and the glimmer in his eyes. 

“What’d you just call me?” 

He didn’t respond but when I finally let my head fall forward, when I finally met his gaze, his face was more sober than it had been before. His hand had fallen out of mine so he could stand before me. He was just watching me, his eyes glazed, his mouth twitched into a funny sort of sad smile.  

“What?” I said softly.  

He shook his head slightly. From inside, there was still a great deal of noise. The jukebox was still spitting out tunes I’d queued before leaving, the squadron was still buying each other shots, boots were still stomping the floor, peanuts were still crunching, people were still yelling over the music, bodies were still dancing. But out there, between Rooster and I, it was quiet except for the world moving around us.  

“My parents would’ve really, really loved you,” he said quietly.  

He said that often.  

Of course, he’d told me our first month of knowing each other that he was disappointed, angry that I would never know his parents. But in the months we’d been in a relationship, in the months we’d been living and working together, it happened more often and more seriously.  

One time he said it while we were showering together on a Tuesday in October, when I was humming a Loggins and Messina song as I lathered my hair. Chinese food was en route, cherry wine was chilling in the fridge, and he’d gotten me a new Mazzy Star record that we were going to play. I was happy, that accidental kind of happy--the one that just oozes into the bloodstream and infects the rest of the body easily, completely. He had been watching me from under the stream, lips twitched, eyebrows sloped.  

Another time he’d told me when I’d picked him up from the bar after a night of drinking with Maverick and Hondo, when I was nestled into the driver’s seat of the Bronco in one of his t-shirts and a pair of slippers. He’d said it when we opened the door, drinking me in, his face somewhere between somber and sober as his eyes fell from my hair to my toes. He’d leaned there against the door for a long time, softly shaking his head, biting his lip.  

Again when I danced in the parking lot of a Whole Foods late on a Sunday night, paper bag brimming with chocolate chips and baking powder and brown sugar hugged against my chest, as Rooster crooned playfully. He’d started singing as we stepped out the door--Knock On Wood by Eddie Floyd--and I had started bobbing my head, which encouraged him to sing louder until his voice was booming in the lot and I was prancing around him. We were falling apart at the seams, laughing until our ribs were aching, our hair soft and our love even softer. And he’d pushed me up against the car, the paper bag crinkling between his broad chest and my own, and gazed at me beneath the street lamps with adoration swimming in his shining eyes.   

Almost every time I let him pull me onto his lap--at The Hard Deck, sitting on the piano bench in the middle of the evening rush or just at home on the sofa or at the kitchen table. Whenever he caught me as I would be walking past, circling his arms around my waist, pulling me out of whatever task I’d been attending and subduing me with solid thighs and shoulder kisses. He liked it when I submitted in those small ways--when I let him take care of me, hold me, cherish me.   

Always when I befriended waiters, bartenders, checkout staff, dressing room attendants, strangers. One time, after a barista and I clicked particularly well over our shared love for Neil Young and drip coffee, he’d silently led me to the sunlit sidewalk outside and just watched me there as the blush faded from my cheeks. And then he had brought my knuckles to his lips, whispering against them as the afternoon ticked forward around us. 

I always followed his sentence with the same phrase--it was the most honest thing I could utter, could admit.  

“And I would’ve really, really loved them.” 

But that time he didn’t melt into my arms. He didn’t step closer to me and wrap his arms around my waist and bury his nose in my hair. He just kept watching me, his eyes becoming glassy.  

“Take me home,” I said, whispering. 

And I don’t know why I said it--I don’t know why I felt like it was the right thing to say. I don’t know if it was what he wanted me to say. But looking into his glassy, amber-colored eyes I recognized that sweet sadness. It was how I’d felt--naively so--when I first thought of taking Rooster home for Christmas. I wanted to him to see, to understand every bit of what I’d lived--wanted him to hold it in his palms. And maybe that was what he wanted from me too, wanted me to hold it carefully, nurture it. Maybe he wanted me to digest his past as hungrily, as voraciously, as he’d digested mine. Maybe it was only fair, only time.  

He blinked, twirled the Bronco’s keys once more, gaze faltering and landing on my shoes. I knew he misunderstood what I’d said and I had to swallow hard to keep myself from calling out to him. He started for the car again, dejected, before I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and pulled his body back to mine. I cupped his cheek and he was soft under my palm.  

“I mean your home,” I said, trying to sound as sober as I suddenly felt, “take me to Virginia.” 

He was surprised, blinking a few times, eyebrows furrowing slightly. He was searching my eyes, maybe trying to gauge my sobriety, but I blinked back at him with a wide open face. I smiled, thumb ghosting over the white scar on his cheeks. 

“I mean it,” I told him, coming close and pressing my chest against his, “wanna see where you grew up. Wanna see your childhood home.” 

He was beginning to smile, the corners of his mouth tugging up.  

“I wanna see where you came from,” I continued, stroking his face softly, “you know, just to make sure you weren’t really made in that lab after all. I’m still not entirely convinced.”  

We laughed. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him, our bellies kissing. He turned his cheek to stealthily kiss my palm before shaking his head lightly, biting his lip as he held my gaze.  

“You sure?”  

I nodded easily, vehemently.  

“‘Course I’m sure. Never been more sure about anything.” 

“Faye,” he whispered, “it might not be easy.”  

We were both thinking about the Christmas before--how hopeful we’d both been about my family, how rejected I’d felt, how sobering the encounter was. But there was no room for that in that conversation; we were already wound tightly with a giddy sort of excitement. And beneath that excitement, I recognized a fear in him--a fear I understood, a fear I would wash away with water from my cupped hands, a fear I would soothe between my two lips. Besides, as morose as it was, his parents would not be able to reject us. Going to his home was the mirror version of mine. We would be in an empty house--and we were very good at being alone together. 

I nodded sharply. Of course I understood that.  

“I’ll make it easy for you,” I said and my voice was quiet and my smile was small and my hair was billowing in the wind and I really, really meant it, “I promise.” 

He tilted his head. Carefully, he brought a finger to my face and grazed the scar on my chin. It made me warm and cold simultaneously, made me shiver all over. Then he ran the finger over my lips, pressing softly where they parted.  

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled, chuckling dryly.  

Before I could respond, there was a face-splitting grin on his lips. And before I could raise an eyebrow, he had leaned over and thrown me over his shoulder in one swift movement. My hips were balancing haphazardly on his shoulder, his arms secured around my thighs, my shorts riding up in the salty breeze.  

I was laughing the way children do when they’re excited; with utter, complete abandon.  

“I’m gonna make an honest woman outta you one day,” he crooned.  

Now we were here, on Virginia soil, deep in Richmond and inhaling the muggy air. 

“Almost there,” he tells me, turning left onto Pond Pine Way, “almost to  the point of no return.”

I know he’s teasing me. I know he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up about the house. I know he doesn’t want me to be disappointed by its vast emptiness. I know he’s trying to preserve his feelings and mine. I know this. I know this very, very much.  

But I am ready. I am ready to step onto the sweet grass in the front lawn, ready to gaze at the estate, ready to drink it all in with him beside me. I am ready to digest this place where he came from, ready to give him a good birthday in this house where he was raised, the last home he ever knew before he found me and mine. 

“Bradley,” I say, my voice steady and careful, “do you want to turn around?”

He considers this. 

I know he hasn’t been to the house in years--hasn’t been in Virginia in years. I know little pieces like this. I know that the house is largely unchanged, almost the exact way his mother had left it before she died. I know he considered renting it out for a few years but never did. I know he has a cleaning service come once a month and pays them a pretty penny for, what I assume is, mainly dusting. I know the house is big. I know the address of it, too: 78 East Black Willow Lane. Simple things. But also I know Rooster dreams of the house, know that he still remembers the nooks and crannies, know that he can still recall all the sounds it makes. 

I know that it must hurt, too. I know that it must hurt to go there, to smell the smells, to hear the groaning and settling, to see everything through the eyes of a man--the man of an age his father never reached, never even got close to. But I know that the ache for it all, the one that hollows out the middle of his chest, must overpower all of that. 

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head, “I don’t want to turn around.”

I wish we were in the Bronco so I could be sitting beside him, nestled up close to his chest, resting my head on his shoulder, his arm slung over me. But the best I can do right now is bring his hand to my lips, to pepper sweet kisses there. 

“It’ll be good,” I whisper and I’m trying very hard to make my voice happy and soft, “promise.”

Black Willow Lane is enchanting, bewitching. It is a long stretch of red pavement, lined with lucious pitch pine trees on either side that stretch tall and wide to form a canopy over us. And dotted between the trees are spurts of sprawling, pink Joe Pye Weeds. The sharp scent of pine and the sweet scent of the wildflowers perfumes the air between us, somehow prevailing against the unmistakable scent of new-car. 

There are houses dotted along the road, each one set far back on ample land, their driveways long and winding. We pass a big, white house with horses--big, chestnut-colored ones--galloping inside a white fence. 

Rooster makes a noise I don’t think I’ve heard him make before--it is something between a gasp and a dry chuckle. 

When I look at him, his cheeks are pale, his mouth is ajar. He squeezes my leg. 

“That’s the Denver Farm. God, I can’t believe they still have horses. They’ve gotta be in their seventies by now.”

It’s making me fuzzy--listening to him talk about these little pieces of his past, things only he knows as the only living Bradshaw. I kiss his knuckles a few more times and his hands are heavy and warm in my grip. Good. He isn't tense. Not yet.  

He takes a deep breath--I’m watching him as pockets of the late morning sunshine peer through the trees and onto his pink cheeks, his white scars, his dark sunglasses. I hold his hand tighter when his Adam’s apple bobs, when the car begins to slow, when he flicks the blinker on. 

The radio is off now. The wind is not blowing. I lean forward to turn the merciless air conditioning down. For a moment--that is the only sound in the car. Just the steady plink-plink-plink of the blinker. 

Rooster looks over at me. 

I’m doing my best to look as giddy, as excited as I feel. I want him to look at my face--at my smile, at my flushed cheeks, at my crinkled eyes--and know that it will be okay. I want him to do this. I want him to come back to this place and feel like he’s home. I want him to walk into the house with his hand locked in mine and feel the weight of the day--the early morning flight, the nerves, the anxieties, the fast food, the long drive, the weight of everything--slip out of his hands and into mine. I want to hold it for him today, the day of his homecoming, the day of his thirty-sixth birthday. 

“Y’ready?” 

He asks me this to give himself another moment, just one more. 

“Yes, sir,” I whisper to him. 

It is beautiful. Even the gravel driveway that’s stretching in front of us is so, so beautiful. The pitch pines have thinned and made way for Eastern Redbuds, which are placed identically on either side of the drive, pink as my cheeks. And the lawn is cut and green, greener than any grass I’ve seen between Kansas and California. The driveway is long, too, at least a quarter of a mile. 

“Oh,” I whisper, sitting up straighter, angling myself towards the passenger window. 

He’s going very slow, the way he’s supposed to drive on gravel. He’s basically inching forward, the rocks crunching beneath the tires of the car perfectly, gorgeously. I’ve always loved the sound of crunching gravel.

Outside, there are birds calling. I can hear them--sweet and sorrowful, hopping from one pink-flowered branch to the next. 

“Jesus, I forgot how pretty it is,” he admits lowly, “especially in the summer.”

That is precisely when the house comes into view for the first time. It is so sudden, so breathtaking, that my mouth goes dry. I clamp my fingers over his and he readjusts in his seat, glancing over at me with a sly smile.

“You like it?”

My throat is caked with cotton. Oh, my God. I can’t speak. 

I nod rapidly, furrowing my brows.    

Maybe it is because the sun is shining so brightly. Maybe it is because it is Rooster’s birthday. Maybe it is because I am so in love. Maybe it is because I am looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses these days. But it is the most perfect house I have ever seen.

A tall and wide brick colonial, ivy climbing in tendrils of emerald up the front of the house, around the white trim and the navy shutters. Two proud chimneys gracefully descend from the right and left corners, and a big, navy-colored front door rests under a white-pillared canopy in the middle of the home. And to the left of the house, attached to the brick with white-painted metal and glass, is an enclosed greenhouse. The house is symmetrical and sturdy, but still comparable to a fairy-tale. It is dreamy. Yes, it is very dreamy. 

The gravel driveway thins into a circle driveway which wraps around a patch of what I can assume must’ve been a garden in its prime, but now houses a ring of green grass and a slew of withering plants over soft dirt. That is how most of the landscaping looks--like in its prime it is beautimous, coveted but is now sagging and empty--besides the trees that sit at the back of the property which are all a gift from mother nature. It seems full and wide-open at the same time--tall, study trees dotting the property but also giving way to rambling lawn. 

“Bradley,” I whisper and I sound like I’m in awe because I truly am, “this is…”

He’s looking at me, his eyes resting peacefully on my cheek. He squeezes my thigh again, one last time.  

“Beautiful,” he says. 

When we are engulfed in the Virginia air completely, when we inhale the mud and the flowered redbuds and the calling birds, when we move to stand together on the gravel side-by-side and his arm falls around my shoulders, I know we have made the right choice. He is as sturdy as he’s ever been beside me, sturdy and soft and warm, holding me close to him. 

I’m still taking it all in--counting the never-ending windows, wondering where his bedroom was, wondering where we will sleep, wondering if the fireplaces are made of brick or plaster, looking out to the side of the house where there’s at least a few acres of land--trying to keep my breathing steady. 

I glance up at him, unable to close the gap between my lips, and let his watery eyes fall to mine before I reach up and press a flat palm to his cheek. His eyes are soft, very warm, very kind. 

“Welcome home,” I whisper before smiling, “and happy birthday.”

He kisses my palm, fingers wrapped securely around my wrist. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into my skin, “now let’s get inside.”

Just like when we went to my parent’s house for Christmas, he carries the suitcases without me having to ask, tucking them beneath his arms. I’m holding the duffel that contains his presents, each of them wrapped meticulously and sweetly. 

I walk ahead of him and he follows closely. The sun beats down on us and it is indisputably hot--but it’s a heat I could stand in for hours, the kind of heat I would live inside of if I could. 

“That dress my birthday present?” He asks, coming up quickly to pinch the bottom of my left cheek, just hard enough to make me squeal, jumping slightly. 

“Maybe it’s one of them,” I say back, stepping onto the porch.

It is one of them--it is a dress I bought especially for today. 

It is a dress that I scoured for, one I had to try on twice before buying. It is floral, the cyan and blush and rust colored flowers overlapping and small, and drapes over my legs carefully before it splits over my left thigh. The sleeves are capped, the bodice is tight, and there is a small cutout in the middle of my back. 

It is the first dress of mine that has been bought for an occasion since Maggie passed--and it was harder than I thought it would be to come to a decision. I accidentally stayed in the boutique for half the afternoon, going back and forth between midi and maxi and floral and plaid.  

I bite my lip, grinning over my shoulder. His sunglasses are low on his nose, his shirt stretched seemingly to its limit over the broad expansion of his chest, a few straggling sandy chest hairs peering out the collar. He’s wearing jean shorts, his legs big and capable and tan. He looks like the perfect version of himself--the happiest, the healthiest. 

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dropping the luggage beside me, “I am a lucky, lucky man.” 

He kisses me and it’s a hungry kiss, our first one on the grounds of his childhood home, our first kiss on this porch that shields us from the sun in its ample shade. 

“Oh, I know,” I whisper against his lips, patting his shoulder, beaming, “now get me inside. Sugar melts, you know.”

He kisses me again, shaking his head, digging the keys out of his pockets. There is not a moment’s hesitation--he twists the lock with ease and opens the door, letting it fall wide open. Then he looks at me, picking the luggage up again, nodding for me to go first.

But he should go first--deserves to. This is his home. This is his homecoming. 

“No,” I whisper, furrowing my brows, “go on. I’m right behind you.”

He does step inside, a small smile eating his lips and a deep admiration for me pulsing in his gentle gaze. And I am telling the truth--I am there, right behind him, just like I always am. And I let the door close behind us, treasure the heavy-sounding click when the brass doorknob engages. 

The house is washed in white--all the walls evenly painted the color of an eggshell, the crown molding the identical shade, the ceiling lofted and bright but broken up with dark wooden beams. The entryway--which immediately offers a wooden staircase ahead of us to the left and a long, wide hallway to the right--is roomy, vast. It is brick that gives into beautiful wooden floors, the same dark color of the beams on the ceiling. 

There is furniture dotted around, old heirloom pieces, and photographs still hanging on the walls. There are vases and figurines and little tiny pieces of Bradley’s life--of his family’s life--before everybody left him. There is even a woman’s coat hanging by the door, a yellow one, right beside a pair of red rain boots. It is like playing a game of hide and seek, little clues that someone was here just before us, that their presence was tangible but fleeting. Yes, standing just here in the entryway with the sunlight streaming in from the big windows, it looks like they were only just here. That they only just stepped out the door for a moment and are due home anytime now. 

“Smells the same,” Bradley notes, wringing his hands together as his eyes fall over the home again, “like exactly the same.”

I breathe in deeply: it smells like polished wood, like sweetgrass, like something sharp and peppery, like something very sweet and soft like the petals of a daisy. Yes, it smells like all of these things. It is the scent of a home; the scent of skin.Skin but better.  

I bring my open palm to the middle of his back and let the duffel fall onto the brick. He leans into my touch, blinking at the coat by the door, at the boots waiting for feet. 

“I love it,” I tell him and I don’t have to try and sound sincere because I just am telling the truth wholly, “it’s perfect. Show me around.”

He glances back at me, his cheeks rosy. He looks happy, very happy. 

He shows me upstairs first. I am overwhelmed by how large the house is. The stairs, which are broken up by a sprawling landing that I would certainly utilize as a reading nook, are that same rich wood but are decorated with an ornate wool runner. There are seven bedrooms, all of them with hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. The bedrooms form a perfect rectangle around the stairs, hallway lined with the hand-carved railing. Most of the bedrooms are entirely empty--empty of furniture, of decorations, of anything at all. 

“The house was in my mom’s family for a long time,” he tells me, “I can’t remember when it was built, but I know it’s old. My mom was an only child. This was her wedding gift when my parents got married.”

The house is so big, so empty, that his voice is echoing. 

I sigh, running my fingers along the solid-brass door handles, each one a different shape and design. I could study them the entire day and never grow bored, not once. Maggie would’ve loved this one--an oval with flowers engraved delicately over its entirety. 

“Some wedding present,” I whisper, smiling. 

“My parents wanted a billion kids,” he tells me, “they were gonna fill up all the bedrooms. Never got the chance to.” 

He’s standing against the railing, outside the sixth empty bedroom, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches me explore the bedroom. When I catch his eyes, they are a sweet sort of sad. 

I step into the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. The sun is bright--I think the house must be at least half windows, all tall and wide, all letting in the late morning sun. I’m smiling very sweetly at him as my head rests against the wood. 

“Can’t imagine five more of you,” I tease. 

He’s smiling sweeter now, cheeks pink. 

“Try,” he whispers. 

I let my eyes slip shut and breathe deeply, making a show of raising my eyebrows and letting my shoulders fall, my chest expanding. 

The truth of the matter is that I can imagine five more of him, smaller versions, half of him and half of me. I can imagine them running amuck, their soft-soled shoes thudding the wooden floors heavily. I can imagine his laugh--his perfect, throaty laugh--ringing through the echoey halls five times over, each one louder than the one before. I can see five little heads of curly hair and amber eyes and tan limbs and little fingers. 

“I’m trying,” I whisper, a teasing lilt still in my voice, “but all I see is flames and destruction. A sign that says ‘end of times’. Is that what you’re seeing?”

He does it again, too swiftly for me to argue and too quick for me to catch. My hips are balancing on his shoulders, teetering uncertainly as I squeal and grasp for purchase, fisting his Hawaiian shirt as he hooks my legs in his arm, hand coming down on my ass one time. He starts down the hall towards the final bedroom--the one that overlook the front of the house, the circle drive. 

“It’s my birthday,” he protests, “you can’t be naughty.”

I hum, waiting for him to correct himself. Cheeky boy.  

“Well, wait a minute,” he follows closely, “that’s not what I--okay, maybe--!”

“Well,” I sigh dramatically and slap his back softly, “I suppose I’ll be on my best behavior, then.”

Another hit to my bottom. I bite my lip hard.

“Lady, I--!”

“--I don’t speak caveman, Bradley,” I interrupt, my voice echoing down the hall. 

We laugh. He kisses the bend of my hips carefully through the bunched fabric of my dress. It makes my thighs ache.

He carries me all the way to the end of the hall, stopping before closed French doors. He lets me down, leaning over and setting me on the floor with a thump. My dress falls back to its place in the middle of my calves, dangling an inch above my leather boots. He’s grinning at me, that boyish smile, the one that makes his mustache look full and even. 

“This was my parent’s room. Then it was just my mom’s room,” he tells me and his grin is still wide, untainted from the sudden brutal reality of us standing outside here, “it hasn’t changed very much at all.”

Instead of pushing him forward, pushing him inside, I stand out here with him. His hands fall to my hips as he gazes down at me, his lips pink as I swipe my thumb over them carefully. 

“We don’t have to go in,” I tell him and I mean it. 

I wonder if it is like Maggie’s bedroom at my parent’s house--a time capsule. Maybe it’s the last palace on earth where there is an inkling of a molecule of one of them left behind. A hair on a pillow case. A fleeting breath. A particle of skin. A dot saliva. Maybe even just the scent of their scalp or the scent of their lotion. Whatever it is or isn’t, I don’t expect him to go inside. Maybe he wants to be careful about his time in there. I understand, I really do. 

He nods, moves to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. 

“I know. But I want to.”

And with that, he disconnects himself from me, presses the doors open. 

I am overwhelmed with the scent of gardenia perfume and dust as the two doors waft the cool air of the bedroom towards us. Bradley doesn’t falter; I keep my hand on his shoulder as we step inside. 

This is the fullest bedroom in the house. And it is not white in here, not at all. The walls are covered from crown molding to baseboard in floral nouveau-style wallpaper, all pale pink and pale green and muted purple, all delicate line work and soft curves. And there’s a fireplace, big and made of brick, settled against the wall with the French doors. The room is very big, big enough for the California King that resides against the wall ahead of us and the tufted sofa and armoir that are situated before the fireplace. All the furniture is the same deep, rich wood, covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Bradley very softly elbows me, nudges me. Go ahead. Look around.  

I get the sense that he wants to let the room wash over him by himself for just a moment. So I step forward, the heels of my boots clacking until I step onto the ornate rug that stretches across a large portion of the floor. 

“Smells good,” I tell him with a smile, “smells like gardenia.”

He’s looking at me when I turn my cheek towards him. 

“That’s what that smell is? Gardenia?”

I nod softly. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out what that scent is, like, my entire life,” he tells me, smiling, “and you just waltzed right in and knew?”

My cheeks are the pale pink color of a rose. 

“Actually, I didn’t waltz right in and know,” I sigh, shrugging, “I knew as soon as the doors opened . Before I waltzed in.”

He’s shaking his head at me, the way he does when he’s amused, the way he does when he wants to pinch my hips and throw me over his shoulders, when he wants to press kisses against my face and nuzzle his mustache all over my skin until I’m bright red. This is what he looks like right before he tells me that his parents would’ve loved me. 

“That’s the closet,” he tells me, nodding his head towards the second set of French doors in the room, “not sure I’m ready to go in there yet. All her clothes are in there still. Didn’t know what to do with them.”

I want to tell him that I will do whatever he can’t. I want to tell him that I will go through his mother’s clothes and separate them and read their wash instructions and wash every piece of clothing the exact way they’re meant to be washed. Even if I have to wash every piece by hand--I will. I want to tell him that I will take whatever is slipping from his grip and hold it tight to my chest. 

Instead, I just nod, understanding. 

“Is that the bathroom?” I ask, pointing towards the last door in the room. 

It is the color of the floor, very solid, a pretty brass handle sitting high. 

“Yes,” he tells me, “you can go see it if you want.”

I step forward, cross the floor very politely and carefully, and open the door. The scent of gardenia perfumes the air heavier in here. I take measured breathes, squinting through the light of the windows. 

The bathroom is beautiful, too--black and white checkered tiles, twin basins sitting in a hunk of wood shaped like a cabinet, brass fixtures, a clawfoot tub sitting in the nook of the window that overlooks the top of the greenhouse. There’s a shower, too--encased in a rust-colored tile with the same brass fixtures--tucked into the space behind the door. 

“Spacious,” I call to Bradley. 

And as if the house is proving my point, my voice echoes. 

The downstairs is just as impressive, just as expansive and beautiful. Although it is mostly barren, furniture only dotted here and there, it is still beautiful. 

There is a dining room that sits just before the entrance of the greenhouse, directly below his parent’s old bedroom. It is a long, wide room--big enough to fit at least fifteen people. Definitely big enough to make a lone mother and son feel small. 

The kitchen is a separate entity, a broad and long room that makes up much of the back of the house, directly overlooking the acreage in the back. It is a classic kitchen--all neutral tones and dark wood, brass fixtures, antique pulls and handles. The appliances are antique too, all of them the same avocado color of my oven at home. 

The living room, though--it is the largest room in the house. It is big enough to fit thirty people--all wide-plank floors and vaulted ceilings and openness. There is a fireplace in here, too--the same brick from upstairs--and it is very large. It takes up most of the wall to our right, bricks shaped like an arch. The walls are white, that nice eggshell color, the windows seem endless in here. It is bright and perfect; feels like the sun is shining the brightest in this room. 

And in front of the fireplace is the piano. It is the piano Rooster had told me about here and there, the one he said his father pounded on religiously, the one where he’d sat when he missed his father unbearably. I can see him now, baby Bradley, tucked up on his father’s lap, grinning a toothy grin as his father jauntily sings. It’s sweet--it’s all so sweet. 

But now my belly is twisting itself inside out because Rooster is squinting at the piano and God, I really hope he notices. I really hope he meanders over there without any prompting from me and touches the keys and knows. Surely he notices the shine--the wood freshly dusted and polished, sheening in the sunshine. Yes, maybe its cleanliness will draw him in. 

His hand, which has been resting on the small of my back, falls away lazily. He’s doing it, walking towards the piano with his eyebrows pulled together. And I have to bite my lip as I watch him, try and stifle the excitement that’s burning my throat. 

He dusts his fingers over the smooth, shiny wood.

I can’t help it. I have to say something, can feel the words begging to rip out of my mouth. 

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, “play me a song.”

His hair looks golden, golden and so curly and soft, as he rounds the piano to sit on the bench. His cheeks are hollow and rosy as he situates himself, as he looks down over the keys that I know are very clean. 

I step forward carefully, pinching my own palms.

“I would, baby, but it’s been years--s’probably out of tune.” 

Even as he’s saying this, his hands are coming up to ghost over the keys. Surely he notices how pristine they are--they are glowing in the sunlight. I rest my arm against the flat top, still smiling down at him. 

I won’t let myself say anything else. He is so close to playing, so close to bringing my surprise into fruition.

I wonder if he is scouring his mind, trying to remember if he had paid for the cleaning service to dust and polish the piano. Maybe he had once before, maybe they always did a polite dusting. But no chance they would clean it so dutifully--the piano looks brand new. 

He finally does it. He flexes his fingers and presses down on the keys. The sound that echoes in the empty living room is a beautiful one--the instrument having been professionally cleaned and tuned yesterday, arranged all the way from San Diego by me. 

He retracts almost immediately, surprised, bewildered. I still say nothing, but keep my eyes on his battering eyelashes, his rosy face, his bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“Well, that’s…”

He presses on the keys again, this time with more confidence. My skin gooses at the sound--it is a sound pure and deep, one that makes my soul squeeze. My elbow, the one sitting atop the piano, vibrates. 

I watch him think as he presses the keys, testing each one, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. And when he reaches the last key, when it plays flawlessly, that’s when he stares down at his hands for a moment. I can see the gears turning. I know he’s putting the pieces together. But I will not nudge him my way--I will let the surprise flood him organically. But dammit if my cheeks aren’t aching from beaming down at him. 

It clicks. He turns his face to me, his mouth agape, his eyes shining. 

“Surprise,” I whisper to him, punctuating it with one little shake of my open hand. 

Then his eyebrows pull together and he looks like he’s anguished almost--his eyes get glossy and his mouth, ever-parted, turns up in the corners into a strange little smile. His lips are pink and wet. 

“You did this?”

I nod. 

“I remember you telling me about the piano your dad used to play. Figured it was still here,” I start, rounding the piano slowly, “so I did some research. Called around, explained the story. It’s funny, the guy said he remembered your family. Said he used to tune the piano back in the day. Told me he would polish it, too--free of charge.”

It made me ache when the man told me this. It was so sweet, so abnormally kind. It made me feel like I was living in a different world entirely in San Diego--one where people don’t do things for each other like that, one where there is no such thing as free of charge. I’d forgotten that putting my roots down somewhere meant that they would grow and contort with other people--that it connects us, entwines us.

“Wilbur?��

I nod, tilting my head. 

“You remember!”

Rooster isn’t saying anything now, but opens his arms when I come to settle myself on his lap. I fiddle with the top button on his shirt, can’t help that face-splitting grin. 

“I think it sounds beautiful. Doesn’t it?” I question, turning to the keys, “I guess I wouldn’t know. I’ve never played before. But he said he remembered the Bradshaw’s and he had really good Yelp reviews. I figured…how many Bradshaw’s can there be on Black Willow Lane?”

 When I look back, he’s shaking his head lightly. His arms tighten around my waist. I comb my fingers through his hair, tilt my head, move to flutter my eyelashes against his cheek, still grinning. 

“You’re surprised?”

He nods sharply. 

“Faye, I don’t even know what to say, I--!”

I kiss his lips softly, cupping his chin, holding his jaw bone in my palm. His face is warm.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him, “now, you can play to your heart’s content. I’m going to place a grocery order. And then I’m going to pick up the groceries and make you dinner. And then we’ll have cake and you can open your presents. And before you say anything, yes,I did bring party hats and yes,you do have to wear one when you blow out your candles.”

He’s looking up at me with a grin that’s devouring all his other features. I think his pupils might even be heart-shaped. I squeeze his cheek affectionately, my heart throbbing. 

“Happy birthday,” I tell him for the hundredth time today, “I love you so much.”

So that is exactly how his birthday goes. I place a grocery order, get enough food to last us a week, buy a couple bottles of prosecco and cherry wine and one bottle of tequila for good measure. I call a bakery, the one with the best reviews, and order a small white cake with raspberry jam and cream--one we could finish easily in one week. We bring our suitcases into the living room and Rooster pulls a mattress down from the attic to make a bed in the living room, layering linens and goose-down pillows over it once it is cleared of dust. I carefully unload the duffel of presents, placing them beside the bed, each of them wrapped in brown paper and tied with green twine. He’s answering phone calls sporadically, thanking this person for their call and thanking that person for the gift. 

He is all smiles, his eyes shining, his face rosy. It’s perfect--he’s so elated, so excited. And I almost want to hug his shoulders and shake him and tell him I told you I would make it easy! Have I ever lied to you? But I don’t. I just watch him, let his mood infect me, tell him happy birthday every chance I get.

I pick up the groceries and unload them in the golden light of the late afternoon. He is sitting on the piano bench, still adjusting himself to sit comfortably, still surveying the keys and pedals. 

We are a few rooms apart, but I can hear it when he finally starts playing. It takes a moment for me to recognize it, too--only a moment. But when I do, it makes me laugh as I  stuff a few blocks of cheese in the refrigerator. 

He’s playing Vienna by Billy Joel.

Everything feels warm. Everything is drenched in sunlight. Even in this house that feels like it’s still someone else’s, this house that feels like it was left for only a moment but also for decades, this house that feels like it’s lonesome here on all this land on Black Willow Lane--it does feel like a home. Yes, it does feel like a home whenever I am in the kitchen putting away groceries and Rooster is a few rooms over, playing on the piano his father used to play. It feels like we are supposed to be here.   

I am walking back into the living room when the song draws to a close. 

“Encore,” I call, clapping, leaning against the doorframe. 

Rooster is the striking image of his father right now--so much so that it almost knocks me off my feet; sitting at that pretty, shining piano, wearing his Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts with his sunglasses hooked in his sandy locks, his body long and lanky, his throat thick with laughter, his mouth wide open and grinning. He looks happy. So, so very happy. And I know that I always think that he looks like he belongs, but right now, it’s taking my breath away. He has never belong anywhere more than he belongs on that piano bench, in this near-empty living room, grinning at me as the sunlight washes over him.

“Smile,” I call not a moment after, angling my phone at him. 

It’s something I feel like I have to do--something I gladly do--these days. Who else will take pictures of him now that his parents are gone? It is my job now, one that was pressed into my palms, one that I have taken with a certain pride. 

He smiles pretty for the picture, his cheeks dusted with roses. 

After I tuck my phone in my pocket, he leans back and cracks his knuckles, raising a brow at me. 

“Does the little lady in the dress have a request?”

His voice is deep and throaty. It sends a chill down my spine. 

“Hmm…know any Jerry Lee Lewis?”

He’s grinning.

“This one goes out to my girl,” he says into a  nonexistent microphone, speaking to the invisible audience, “the first time I tried to woo her like this, she left the bar and cried under a palm tree.”

He’s smirking, I’m shaking my head, biting my lip. He isn’t entirely wrong.

It’s with a slight jolt that I imagine his parents here, smiling coyly, exchanging private glances, as they watch their only son perform for me in this living room. 

“It’s all for you, baby,” he croons before he starts the jaunty tune. 

I stay in my spot against the doorframe while he plays, pounding on the keys, filling the sort of noise I think it needs. Yes, this house must always be filled with sound--every single sound. Footfalls--running ones, walking ones, sleepy ones, cranky ones. Laughter--dry chuckles and big throaty laughter and everything in between. Music--records and piano and guitar and everything in between. I hope, suddenly, that he teaches our children to play piano right here in this living room, sitting on his lap on that bench. 

And when Great Balls of Fire finally ends, I clap, flushing. 

“Color me impressed,” I smile, smoothing my hands over cotton draped over my thighs, “thoroughly impressed. Now, you’re good to play while I cook? No record player. Think I might go crazy if I cook in silence.”

He nods, grinning brightly. 

“Anything for you,” he says sweetly, “baby.” 

I do make dinner by myself, smiling, slowly working my way around the kitchen. It is a quick dinner--one I’m comfortable making, one I’ve made for Rooster before. It is just searing steak and grilling asparagus and mashing potatoes and baking drop-biscuits. 

So when I call that dinner is ready, he files into the kitchen and rises plates off, pressing soft kisses to my temple as I dress the plates. 

I carry both plates to the living room, biting my lip. It’s when he sits on the floor, legs criss-crossed, that I serve the birthday boy and we eat across from each other on the swept floors. 

“Thank you,” he tells me. 

“Oh, it’s no big deal. I like making steak.”

But then he shakes his head at me. Sunlight kisses his curls, his cheeks. And it’s when he’s looking in my eyes, when we are both laying on our bellies eating nice food off nice plates on antique flooring, that I get it. Oh. Thank you for spending my birthday with me here. That’s what he means. 

I wonder how many birthday’s he spent alone before this, when his parents were gone, when Maverick may as well have been gone, too. And it makes my heart hurt, makes my throat squeeze. So I just lean forward and he does too and we kiss over our plates, his hand holding my face softly. 

“You’re everything,” I tell him, “did you know that?” 

It’s later, after dinner has come and gone, after we’ve sat on the living room floor and drank our cherry wine and talked about the plane ride and the car ride, when I scour the kitchen for matches. There’s a gas stove--I know they must be around here somewhere, but there are just so many drawers. 

The cake, the short little cake adorned with raspberries and confectioner sugar, is sitting limply on the counter with unlit 3 and 6 candles pressed into its spongy layers.

It’s darker now--only a little while until sunset. The house is glowing, glittering because of the electric tealights Rooster found in the attic with the mattress. They’re littered everywhere now--bright enough so having the curtains drawn and the overhead lights off works. It’s enough to set the tone, enough to get me from here to Rooster without tripping.  

“Y’get lost in there, baby?”

I can practically see him in the living room now, sitting criss-cross on the linen-clad mattress, exuding all the sex and strength of a Navyman but punctuated peculiarly with a cone-shaped party hat strapped under his tense jaw and nestled in his sandy locks. He’s being a good sport about it, lips twisted into a rueful little smile when I hooked his party hat on after mine. 

“Yes. No,” I call back, “stay there.”

He laughs. It is a beautiful sound. 

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, “don’t hurt yourself!”

The matches are in the last drawer I look, pesky things. But then the candles are lit and I’m carefully balancing the cake in my flat palms, starting my descent to the living room. And it is really striking; this house drenched in gold sunlight and yellow, flickering candlelight--even if it’s electric flames. 

“Happy birthday to you,” I start, my voice solitary in the house, “happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Bradley.”

I round the corner and there he is, just like I pictured. He’s sitting with his legs crossed on the mattress, a blip of warmth in the white sheets. And the sunset is so warm behind him, casting him in the most tawny of lights. He’s smiling coyly, his mouth closed and his cheeks red. 

“Happy birthday to you!”

I very carefully sink to my knees before him, angling the cake towards him. He’s not even looking at the cake, though--he’s looking at me, biting a grin. In the light of the true flame from his birthday candles, he looks positively pleased. His lips look wet and bitten from smiling so much, so hard. His eyes are wide and watery. 

“Make a wish, baby.”

I nod to the cake with a grin. 

Before he makes a wish, he carefully comes around the cake and brings his face close to mine. He presses his lips against my forehead and they’re soft and sweet. They stay there for a long, long moment. He even brings his hand to rest on the side of my head to hold me there. As if I would move. He breathes me in and I am so happy, I think I could burst. He disconnects himself, sinks so his lips ghost over mine a few times, hand holding my cheek. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. 

And then he blows out the candle. His face is shadowed now. His eyes find mine and my heart is pulsing, throbbing. It is throbbing, pulsing with this all-consuming love. I could drown it. I could positively die in this glow. 

“I know,” I whisper to him, “grab a fork.”

We eat the cake for a while, sitting with our knees together and the cake settled on the floor between us. It is sweet and moist, the cream melting on our tongues and the raspberries bursting between our teeth. 

It’s the best birthday cake I’ve ever had. He says it, too--before I can.

Then it’s quiet. It is a different kind of quiet than that quietness back home--even when the record player is off. This quiet feels louder, amplified by white walls and empty rooms. It is not oppressive, but it is obvious. And here, out in the country, the artificial sounds have dissipated. There’s no cars whirring by, no horns honking, no bass thumping, no tires squealing. But there’s crickets and cicadas singing, harmonious above the sound of the warm breeze. 

We sit in the quiet for a while. 

My phone is lying open between us--I’m sending all the pictures I’ve taken of Rooster to the Dagger Squad group message. The photos are perfect, a collection of our day.

Rooster very early this morning--too early this morning, so early that most would consider it still night--when we loaded our luggage into the car and started for the airport. His eyes are closed, his nose wrinkled, his mouth half-smiling. He’s holding up a pathetic thumbs-up, lit up by the flash of my camera. Rooster sleeping on the airplane, his fingers half-enveloped in a bag of peanuts, his mouth hanging open and his head lolled to the side. Rooster walking through the airport, the photo blurred with movement, his grin wide and his mouth open as he spoke to me behind the camera. Rooster in the golden light of his childhood home, sitting at his father’s piano, smiling very handsomely. Rooster in a candlelit room, sitting on the continent of white bedding, a party hat strapped to his head. He’s smiling smaller in this one, the candles blown out, a fork in his hand. 

Me: The chronicles of Bradley “Birthday Boy” Bradshaw :) 

Rooster chuckles, shaking his head, pink dusting his cheeks. 

Bob responds first--breaks the dam, brings the rest of the squadron flooding in. 

Bobby: Now everyone say, “thank you, Bradley, for being born!”

Fanboy: thx 4 being born, old man! put any thought into retirement homes yet??

Coyote: morelike chronicles of Bradley “Dad Bod” Bradshaw 

Phoenix: you guys having fun?? send more pics of the house!!!!

Payback: Faye, blink twice if he’s forcing you to listen to him sing

Hangy: 36 going on 63. 

We’re both grinning when I look up at him again, pushing my phone to the mattress as it continues to buzz with messages. That’s how the group chat always is--one message is followed up with seventy others, streaming in steadily over the course of the day. 

“Can we talk about something?”

He sounds different from before--not upset, but somber. Pensive.

 He still has his party hat on.

I quirk a brow, but nod and bite my lip.

“Anything,” I tell him, taking another bite, “everything.”

Now he takes another bite, chewing carefully before he finds my eyes again. 

“It might not be the most fun topic,” he tells me, “or the most birthday appropriate.” 

Maybe a part of me felt a conversation like this coming. We are sitting in his empty childhood home, on his thirty-sixth birthday, in a state that he used to consider his home state. We have walked around this mostly-empty home all day, smelling his mother’s perfume, sitting on his father’s piano bench. There is still that distinct feeling that something is missing--inexplicably, truly missing.

“You’re the birthday boy,” I smile. 

He takes a breath. I sometimes wish that I had the good sense to steel myself. I have entirely forgotten what it is to be hurt by the one that loves you, because he has never done it in an unforgiving, unrelenting way. He has never tried to hurt me. My guard is totally and completely down now. I am all in, all the time. 

“When you were in the control room the day of the mission,” he starts, his voice low, “what was it like when I got shot down? When you thought I was…gone?” 

Oh. My throat is dry, tight. He’s right--this isn’t the most fun topic.

He’s never asked me this before--he has specifically never asked me this before. After he came home, we were cast in the bright white light of life--too busy soaking each other in, too busy falling in love, too busy moving him into my house--and refused to be eclipsed by the mission. He didn’t offer and I didn’t insist. So we just did not talk about it.

I know that it touched him deeply, perhaps deeper than any of his other missions. He still jolts awake sometimes, hair matted against his hot scalp, breaths jagged and rapid. I know he still has bad dreams about it--about ejecting, about not ejecting. I know he still sometimes gets shaky when he knows he has to fly that day--even if it is a routine drill, even if it is very nearly a joyride. I know he still has to collect himself at work sometimes, ducking into my office in the middle of the morning or just before we are due home, sitting in the chair across my desk. I know he asks for comfort silently, doesn’t verbalize his anxiety, just reaches out for me and finds purchase on my skin. I am always solid for him, always ready to take the brunt of it. 

We’re looking at each other now. Our forks are drooping in our slacked grips. 

“How honest should I be?” I ask. 

I’m asking if he wants me to sugar-coat any of it. 

He blinks a few times, sniffing, shaking his head softly. 

“Painfully,” he decides. 

Sometimes when I think back to that day--of Cyclone dismissing me, of Hangman finding me in the hallway, of Hangman holding me as I came entirely undone, of the hideous sobs that wracked me--I get nauseous. I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like one of my shoes is gone. I feel like the back of my shirt is ripped.

But it’s Bradley’s birthday. I can do this for him, can be entirely honest, can be entirely true. 

“If I look at my life,” I start softly, letting the fork fall to the floor so I can bring my hands to my lap and hold them there, “and break it up and stack it like-like a tower of blocks--and all the good parts are on the bottom and bad parts are at the top--those few hours would be at the tip. The very, very tippy-top.”

My fingers are cold again--cold like they were the day my sister died, cold like they were on the carrier when Hangman tried to rub some heat into them. 

Rooster is watching my face, a crinkle between his flighty furrowed brows, his eyes half-shut, the corners of his mouth pointed towards the earth. He looks acutely anguished. 

“What did you do?”

Humming, I can’t help but fidget and readjust. 

“Cyclone asked me to take a lap. I don’t really know why, I guess,” I tell him, “maybe he could see it on my face.”

“See what?” Bradley whispers. 

His fork is on the floor now, too. The cake has been forgotten. I swallow hard. 

“Um,” I whisper, smiling very sadly, “agony.”

The crickets seem especially loud when we let the silence of the house swallow us. He’s watching my face with his lip tucked between his teeth, brows pulled together as he tugs the skin around his thumb nail. 

“Don’t want you to feel like you have to be…” I sigh, “you know--sorry or anything like that. I’ve never wanted you to feel that way.”

He nods. I’m looking at the cake--the raspberries are starting to capsize as the cream deflates and melts. 

“You know that I am, though,” he says, rasping, “I am sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

He sucks in a breath. 

“I shouldn’t have…” he trails off. 

And I know that he feels stuck. He’s stuck because if he didn’t disobey direct orders, if he didn’t go back for Maverick like his father would’ve--then he would have another loss, he would be reeling still. But when he did that, when he turned back, he could’ve blinked out of my life and left me here. There is no answer here. I know he’s sorry about all of it. I know. 

“What did you do when you took a lap?” He follows finally. 

I sit back, move my knees away from him so I can pull into myself, pull my knees up to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs, the air-conditioning kissing my exposed shins, and set my chin atop my knees. 

Should I tell him all about it? Should I tell him about Hangman finding me? Should I tell him that my opal necklace, the one I never take off, falls on the exact same spot on my chest where Jake let his hand rest? Should I tell him that I was so beside myself that I ripped a good cardigan and kicked a shoe off? Should I tell him about the way my knees buckled and the way Jake had to collect me like a boneless heap in his arms? Or would it be too much--entirely too much--if he were to know these things? 

Swallowing, I shake my head. 

“I took a really long bathroom break,” I say decidedly, my hollow laughter following closely. 

He’s not laughing--not even dryly. He moves his birthday cake beside us and spreads his long legs, essentially blocking me between them. He leans back on his palms and nods for me to keep talking. 

“If I’m being entirely honest,” I start softly, “I wasn’t alone in there.”

His eyes are soft--they flicker with recognition. 

Then his face hardens suddenly, hardens so his eyes look darker and his lips look thinner and whiter. I know that he isn’t angry with me--know it isn’t in his nature to be angry with me, even when he wants to be.

“Say it,” I whisper. 

 He sucks in a breath. 

“I’m trying to imagine how upset you must’ve been for Hangman of all people to comfort you,” he says, his tone anguished and bitter. 

My chest tightens. 

“He was good to me,” I whisper back, “I might’ve sobbed myself to death without him there.”

He groans softly, raking a hand over his face. He presses against his eyelids for a moment. 

I want to tell him that we should stop talking about this. I want to tell him that this conversation is weighing too heavily on him, especially today, especially here. It is a conversation that is fruitful and pointless simultaneously. 

But I don’t say anything. I just watch him process. 

“I’m glad he was there,” he admits, still not taking his hand away from his face, “it just nauseates me to think about it.”

My spine prickles.

“About what? Him and me?”

He shakes his head and lets his hand slip to his lap lazily. He looks at me with red-rimmed eyes, heaves a sigh. 

“You thinking I was gone. You thinking I’d left you behind.”

Oh. My ears are red. Of course. That makes sense.  

“You didn’t, though. You didn’t leave me behind,” I sigh, “you aren’t gone.”

He nods a few times. 

After the mission, the squadron got a four-week sabbatical. It was a happy one, a celebratory one. Rooster is happy--I remember him being very, very happy. We didn’t talk about him leaving, didn’t talk about his next posting. We just took it day by day, soaking each other up, dying in each other’s arms every night.  

Sure, I knew he was thinking about it all. I knew he was digesting what happened in his own way, which was largely private. I was silently rubbing knots out of his shoulders every morning, kissing his palms when they fell victim to his fingernails, loving him as thoroughly and sweetly as I knew how.  

And it was on the second-to-last day of the sabbatical that he held the kitchen door open with his bare foot, leaned against the doorframe, and watched me silently for a few minutes as I crocheted on the couch. It took me a few moments to notice him, to notice his gaze. And when I finally looked up, when I finally smiled at him, that’s when he said it.  

“I’m staying,” he told me soberly, “I’m staying here.” 

“Okay,” I whispered back to him, biting a smile, “good.” 

Of course in the days and weeks after, he’d told me about the position as an instructor, about his interest in teaching the next generation of Top Gun pilots. I knew he wasn’t telling me everything, but I never pried. I took what he gave me and thanked him. It was all I needed.

Now I think I can feel it coming--all that truth, all those words. They’re bubbling inside Rooster’s chest. I know this is when he gives me everything. 

This is him walking up the stairs with his arms overflowing with clean laundry. Before, I was trailing behind him and grabbing discarded socks and fallen t-shirts. But now--now I think he is going to transfer the load into my arms. I think the truth is going to be warm and heavy in my arms, that I’m going to have to strain to see over it, that it’s going to smell like soap and linen.

“I’m a good pilot,” he starts and it isn’t cocky at all--he’s just saying it because it’s the truth, “and I’m a good wingman. And I used to think that was the most important thing in my life. It was, actually--for a long time, it was. No house to come home to, no wife, no kids, no parents, no girlfriend. It was easy to go on whatever detachment they wanted me to go on because I was just…alone.”

It feels like there is a ball of twine coiled harshly inside my chest. My eyes are watery. 

“And then there was you.”

He’s smiling softly at me, eyes swimming in that gooey-sort of love. Sticky and viscous like honey. 

“You know, I was hooked from the moment I first saw you,” he laughs, “squinting at the sun, smiling something stupid, waiting for me before you even knew me, calling me names.”

I nudge him, cheeks burning. He grins wickedly. 

“Then there was something to lose,” I say softly. 

His face softens, sobers. He nods. Yes, there was something to lose. Everything to lose.

“I wasn’t scared of dying,” he says. 

And then that’s all he says for a long moment. Death didn’t scare him before he met me. Death didn’t scare him because it meant that he would be with his parents again. Death meant being released from this lonely world and being catapulted into the one after, where the people he lost live. But then there was me. 

I’m biting my lips so hard that I taste pennies. 

“It was your face I saw,” he says softly, nodding, his eyes trained on mine but distant, “your mouth. Your nose. Your eyes. All of it. And to think about leaving you behind--God, it fucking broke me.”

That must’ve been the moment that he apologized to me. That must have been when he told me he was sorry in that private way over the comms, when he knew that I was listening. That must’ve been it. I was there with him, pressed into the back of his eyes, an amalgamation of his grief. I was going to be the last thing he thought of before he died. 

I hold his ankle in my hand, stroking him softly, soothingly. Any part of him touching any part of me slows our hearts in tandem--beats that can be measured easily, slowly.

“I thought I’d want to keep going,” he says, “thought I’d wanna keep flying. But then we had that month together. And I really, really thought our time before the mission was perfect. Don’t get me wrong--it definitely was in its own way. But those four weeks. I mean…that was the happiest I’d been since I was a kid.”

They were perfect. Late night drives in the Bronco with the windows down and the radio up. Early mornings at the farmer’s market, showing Rooster which stand had the best heirloom tomatoes. Afternoons on the beach, spread out across faded beach towels, wading in the warm water. Dinner with the Dagger Squad almost every evening, either on my living room floor or at The Hard Deck or on the patio of a seaside cafe. The weeks were perfumed with lavender, sunscreen, tequila, maple. 

“They’d offered me the position--the instructor position--pretty much immediately. I told them no at first. Then I told them I’d think about it.”

I nodded and he continued, eyes washing over me. My dress is fanned out around me now that I’ve stretched my legs out before me, my socked feet resting on the inside of his left thigh. 

“What changed?”

“Well,” he starts, sucking in a breath, splaying his fingers over my ankle mindlessly, “I went on a run one day. And I came home and you were crocheting on the couch, right where I left you. I went into the laundry room to grab a towel and realized that you had thrown in a load of my laundry. Nobody has done my laundry in a long time. And you know I don’t need you to--or expect you to--do my laundry.”

“I wanted to,” I say. 

He nods, squeezing my ankle. 

“Right. You wanted to. I guess…I guess I just got a little overwhelmed with it all. Being in the same house as you. Waking up with you every morning. Homemade food. You--God, everything about you made me want to stay. I just want to be the one that’s there with you for everything--wanna be the one that sings to you in parking lots and fixes your air conditioner. And suddenly,” he whispers, “I wasn’t willing to risk it all anymore. So I didn’t. I won’t. I feel like I’ve finally had enough. I can just sit still now.”

My throat is clogged. I want to cry, but it is his birthday, so I won’t cry. I am still the one that holds it down. 

Instead, I smile, squeeze him. His fingers drift from my ankle to my toes. He squeezes my socked foot a few times, a small smile tugging at his lips. I’m sure he feels relieved--finally telling me everything, letting it spill from his chest to mine. 

“I meant it when I said that you belong here,” I whisper gently, “right here, with me.”

He takes hold of my ankles and swiftly tugs me towards him, my legs falling over his spread ones so our hips graze another, our chests pressed together. He wraps his arms around my frame and pulls me closer, impossibly closer. 

“You’re good to me,” he mumbles before pressing his open mouth over mine. 

He’s warm and solid beneath my lips. He tastes like raspberries.

“Can’t help myself,” I say, smiling against his lips, pecking him a few more times as his mustache tickles my nose, “now, are you ready to open some presents?”

The evening welcomes us slowly--one minute, we were backlit by the dying sky and now we are in a shimmering, empty house with battery-operated candles flickering all around us. The crickets are quieted, but still croon gently outside. The house settles, croaking and groaning, but still echoes with a vast hollowness. 

It is almost midnight now. 

The cake is back in the refrigerator, covered with saran-wrap, beside the half-drunk bottle of cherry wine. All the electronic tea lights are on the living room floor now, corralled from the dusty cardboard box from the attic and the ones that straggled in the kitchen. All the birthday presents--an original pressing of Great Balls of Fire I bought on Ebay, a new pair of brown aviator Ray Bans, another Hawaiian shirt in a print he somehow didn’t have before, a film camera, two more good bottles of cherry wine--have been opened and are now neatly stacked beside Rooster’s suitcase. I am still in my dress and he is still in his jean shorts, but his Hawaiian shirt has been unbuttoned almost entirely. Beside us, his phone plays music, just loud enough to dull the sharp edge of silence. 

The end of (They Long To Be) Close To You by The Carpenters is floating through the air now..  

I am lying on my back on the mattress. Rooster is lying on his stomach, hugging my hips tightly with his head resting on my belly. I’m softly combing my fingers through his hair, cherishing every breath that fills his lungs and puffs out of his nose. He’s holding me tight, holding me down. It makes me feel like I can let go--makes me feel safe here. 

My eyes are heavy. I know his are, too. But I know he’s awake because his breathing isn’t louder than the music, than the crickets. I know his legs must be aching like mine, his mouth dry. We have been up for nearly twenty-four hours. 

“Pajamas,” I suggest quietly. 

He grunts very softly. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, muffled from the bunching of my dress that’s no doubt wet with his saliva, “s’still my birthday.” 

I pull his hair very softly. I wish I could pretend to be annoyed with him, but I can’t. I would do anything for him, whenever, wherever. But more than that, I truly understand why he wants to soak in every single moment of his birthday. He’d been celebrating them alone for a very long time before now. He deserves to live, breathe every moment of his birthday in whatever Hawaiian shirt he wants. And I’ll keep my dress on just for him to press his cheek into.

“Only another minute,” I tell him, glancing at my phone, “how do you want to spend it?”

He nuzzles deeper into my belly--kisses my ribs through my dress. His breath is hot, his body is heavy over mine. Even now, even after all this time together, the strength he possesses is enough to make me woozy. He is the strongest person I’ve ever met, ever will meet. He could take my life in his hands and raise it up over his head with complete and utter ease. He sighs softly, open mouth pressed against my ribs.

He’s saying: Like this. Just like this. Don’t move, hold still.  

So I do. I comb his sandy locks with all the softness I can muster, fingers expanding over his scalp and tangling in his hair. He’s still peppering kisses all over my midsection, still moving slowly, lazily. With every sweet, warm kiss he’s coming closer to me. 

Honey starts dripping from my heart--my eyes water. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with it all--with all this endless love. 

It’s midnight now. I sweetly tug on his locks.

“You’ve officially had your thirty-sixth birthday,” I whisper, “are you the reviews in yet?”

He chuckles. Finally, he sits up; his forearms are resting on either side of my body, his chest pressed against mine, his hair mussed and messy from my fingers. He’s smiling, his face swimming with love in the twinkling light of the room. 

“S’gonna be tough to top next year,” he rasps, tilting his head, “you sure you’re up for the challenge?”

My throat is pulsing. 

“I’m always up for the challenge,” I return. 

He softens. His right hand cups my left cheek; his thumb grazes the scar on my chin sweetly, softly. 

“You keep changing things,” he says. 

When I quirk my brow, he continues, clearing his throat. 

“You keep making me like things I didn’t care about before,” he all but whispers, his breath warm as it fans over my face, “cats. Prosecco. Good sheets. My birthday.”

I’m laughing. He’s still watching me, fondness pulsing in his grin. 

“I’m showing you the finer things in life,” I tease, bringing my hand to his hair again, tugging his locks as his eyes slip shut again.

Stand By Me by Ben E. King starts. 

His eyes open suddenly, but he does not move from my grip, does not move away from me. His amber eyes are swimming, open and calm, as he begins searching my face. Fuck, he’s so beautiful right now. His eyes fall from the crown of my hair down to the swell of my cheek, to the slope of my nose, to the curve of my mouth, to the quirk of my brow. 

“What?” I whisper and I sound as love-drunk and breathless as I feel. 

He shakes his head slightly and sucks in a breath.

“I thought I’d be able to wait,” he whispers and I barely catch it, hardly hear him over the crickets and the music, “but I don’t think I can.”

He moves carefully, leaning up. I’m reeling at the loss of contact for a moment, my hands falling still at my side. His face is flushed, his smile wide and his lips wet. He’s digging in his pocket, his jean pocket, and that’s when I sit up on my elbows. 

I can feel my pulse in my eyes--it quickens. My heart is beginning to hammer in my chest, heat flooding my cheeks and throat. I suddenly know what is going to happen, know what he is reaching for, know why he didn’t want to change into pajamas, know why he wanted to stay awake past midnight. My mouth is dry and wet simultaneously as I gape at him.

His eyes fall to mine when he retrieves it finally--the marmalade-colored velvet box. It is small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. It is not big enough to hold earrings.

We’re looking at each other and he’s grinning and I’m reeling. He’s proposing to me--he’s about to propose to me--and all I can do is let my mouth fall open and wide. He leans forward and kisses my cheek softly before he nods to the side of the mattress. 

“C’mon,” he encourages, “stand up so I can do this properly.”

I’m not sure how I do it, but I’m on my feet and his hands steady me for a moment, gripping my hips. My dress is wrinkled as it spreads out over my legs again, my feet still socked, my hair messy from lying on my back and oh, my God he’s kneeling now on the floor. His face is flushed and he looks happy, so unbelievably happy. 

So darlin’, darlin’ stand by me / Oh, stand by me / Oh, stand / Stand by me 

His face is angled towards me as he takes my left hand in his right, holding the ring box in the palm of his left hand, waiting. He swallows and he’s laughing, a beautiful sound, one that is hollow and overwhelming. 

“Faye,” he rasps, “you’re the best person I’ve ever met--you’re my favorite person in the world and it’s not even close. I don’t even really remember what I was doing before I met you. Sleep-walking, I think. You’re fucking perfect, baby.”

My cheeks are wet, my mouth is open. He’s holding tightly to my fingers and I’m gripping him just as securely, just as tightly. My belly is pulsing with want, with excitement. 

“I think I knew I was going to marry you that first night at The Hard Deck,” he says, chuckling, “and it had a little bit to do with that dress and a lot to do with how easily you clicked into place. I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long to ask.” 

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses the skin there, his mustache tickling me. My hands are very warm in his grasp, my heart still racing, my chest pulsing. 

“I told you--almost a year ago now--that you had to give me a chance. You had to let me try and know you all the way. And you really did give me a chance. I know you, baby. I know you better and better everyday,” he is grinning warmly, thumb stroking my hand, “and I wanna know you better everyday for the rest of our lives.”

He flicks the box open with his thumb and I very nearly fall to the floor, very nearly let my knees buckle under me. My breath is trapped in my throat, a bubble of air that could burst into a gleeful laugh. Through my glassy eyes, all I can make out is gold and opal and diamond.

“I think I love you too much; it scares me sometimes. Couldn’t even wait to do this tomorrow, like I planned--had to do it right now. But you make it all so fuckin’ easy, Faye. You won’t be alone ever again, not if I have somethin’ to say about it,” he’s being so earnest, his eyes pouring into mine, “let me take care of you forever. I promise I’ll make you happy. Marry me, baby.”

For a moment, I am speechless. It’s just him gazing up at me, his eyes wide and wet and his mouth twitching into a grin. It’s just me gazing down at him with my messy hair and my wet cheeks and my flushed face. I’m holding tight to his hand, heart hammering, breath stuttering. Stand By Me is winding to a close, the crickets are crying quietly, and the house settles with a sigh. 

“As if you even had to ask,” I finally whisper, my voice thin and tearful. 

And then we’re both laughing and I’m still crying and he’s pressing kisses to my hand as he takes the ring from the box and carefully slips it onto my fourth finger. It glides up easily and rests decidedly, glimmering in the electric glow of the candles. 

He’s grinning up at me, still kneeling on the floor of his childhood home, when he cups my hand in his and presses a soft kiss over the ring. 

I am engaged. I am engaged.  

He stands and wraps me in his arms and we’re kissing and I’m crying and laughing and my heart is weeping and my eyes are heavy and his lips are warm and the living room is empty, empty, empty except for us. The ring is a new weight on my finger--just heavy enough for me to remember that it is there. He’s kissing my throat, pushing my hair away from my face, telling me he loves me.

And that’s when I almost say it.

I have to call my sister!  

It almost lurches from me like it’s completely normal, like she isn’t really gone at all. She is gone, though. She’s gone and she isn’t back in San Diego, waiting on my call. She didn’t go to the jewelry store and help Bradley pick out the stone or tell him what color of band I wanted or let the jeweler use her identical hand for a size reference. She’s not going to pop a bottle of champagne at The Hard Deck tonight and announce that her sister is engaged, isn’t going to insist that a round is on her. She isn’t going to plan my bachelorette party or get me ready the morning of my wedding. She isn’t going to get drunk and cry during her speech, the strap of her dress falling down her glowing shoulder. She isn’t here to do these things. No, she isn’t. 

Bradley pulls back, cupping my face, pressing his palms to my cheeks. He’s looking down at me so steadily, so sweetly that I’m swooning all over again. He thumbs the tears from under my eyes and smiles. 

“Are you happy?” 

He asks me this like he knows that I almost slipped up, that I almost grabbed my phone and dialed my sister’s number. 

“Yes,” I tell him, “so, so happy.”

I am happy. Yes, it is infecting me wholly. I have never felt more happy about anything in my life. It is my favorite thing that has ever happened to me. I am shaking because I am so happy, crying because I am so excited. This is good. This is perfect. This is what I want. Even if Maggie isn’t here--I will allow myself to be this happy. This stupid, blind sort of happy. 

We kiss a few more times, him still holding my cheeks, but then he grasps my wrist and brings it to rest on his shoulder. 

“It fits, right?” 

I nod, flushed. 

“Lucky guess?”

He shakes his head, smiling. 

“You sleep real hard when you drink tequila,” he tells me, laughing. 

My spine prickles. I have to rack my brain, but I’m sure--yes, I’m entirely sure that the last time I drank tequila was in late August, just before everyone departed. Yes, that was the last time I drank enough to fall asleep before Bradley, before even waiting for my moisturizer to absorb. 

“I’ve known for a long time,” he tells me, like he knows that I’ve just made the connection, “started working on it in September. Picked it up just before Christmas.”

I wish I could just sit on the floor and scream into a pillow--the excitement that’s bursting through me makes me want to resort to juvenile antics. 

“I knew you had a crush on me,” I bite back, as if I’m not still tearing at this moment. 

He hums, nodding, pressing another kiss to my nose. 

My hand looks so pretty resting on his shoulder; my fingernails trimmed and clean of polish, my fingers lanky and soft. And the ring looks perfect there--very delicate and feminine. 

I really look at the ring now.  It is a gold ring, the band thin and round. There is an opal stone set in the middle, the color of a moonbeam, a sweet circle. And set around the opal are dainty white diamonds. It looks like a flower, or what children draw when they make the sun. 

“The opal is antique. The diamonds and the band, though--they’re from my mother’s engagement ring. She liked bling, but I knew that wouldn’t be for you. So I had the gold melted down and reconstructed,” he tells me, watching my face carefully, “and what was leftover made this.”

His thumb lands on my opal pendant. I’m melting beneath his touch. 

It is his mother’s gold--the gold that sat on her finger, a gift from the man she married. A gift from the man she lost. A gift from the man--the only man--she ever loved. It has been sitting in the middle of my chest since October, right in the middle of my breathing, and I didn’t even know it. I have been so close to her in this way. 

He thumbs the few fresh tears that roll down my cheeks. 

“I had no idea,” I mutter. 

He flashes a pretty, pretty smile. A smile that I will get to see each morning and every night. 

“That’s the whole point of a surprise, baby.”

Be My Baby by The Ronettes begins, soft below my sniffling and his laughter. 

We look at each other. His eyes are the color of amber glass, his lips smiling, his skin flushed and sweet. He looks tired, but ecstatic. Deliriously happy. He is shaking his head softly, pressing his nose against mine, kissing my cheeks. 

“You can ask me to dance and I’ll say yes,” I whisper to him. 

He doesn’t ask--doesn’t have to. He just kisses my forehead, pulls my body flush against his. He encloses his arms around me and lets his hands splay at the base of my spine, fingers needling through the cut-out of my dress to press against my skin. 

I leave my left hand in its place on his shoulder. I twirl his curls around the fingers of my right hand, lean forward so his lips are pressed against my forehead. He’s humming softly and it vibrates against my skin, makes me want to cry. 

Oh, since the day I saw you / I have been waiting for you 

We don’t say anything while we twirls us around the room. I think both of our eyes are closed, I think we are breathing the same breaths. And I think our spines prickle when we think of stepping out of this moment--away from this home that was once his parents but is now just Bradley’s. But then I’m biting my lip because this dainty gold on my finger, the ring that fits so snuggly, is a guarantee that everything that was his will be mine. This home is ours.

“You’re my girl,” Bradley whispers and his voice is strained like he’s holding something back, holding something in. 

“Always was,” I return, “take me to bed now.” 

I press a very soft kiss to his throat, just over the scar there. 

☾ ☽

I wake up before Bradley. It is early, very early--the morning light is baby blue as it streams in from the windows all around us. Beside the mattress, beside Bradley’s naked form tangled in sheets and blankets, there are two empty glasses stained with cherry wine. Stacked beside the glasses are photo albums that we found in the attic, ones we flicked through after dinner last night. His phone is still playing music, which we had fallen asleep to. April She Will Come by Simon & Garfunkel is floating through the empty air. There are birds singing outside, flittering past the windows in a stream of brown and gray and white.

I’m lying on my side, facing Bradley, watching him sleep with his mouth wide open. His broad chest, flushed with sleep, is rising and falling very steadily. The dim morning light is just beginning to touch the sheets, just beginning to kiss his skin. My hand is resting on his belly, the ring glimmering in the sun.  

It is our last day here, in this house.  It has been good to us. So good to us that I almost don’t want to leave here, don’t want to leave Virginia. Most of all--I don’t want to leave the house sitting here by itself. The house must have been so lonesome before we came, sitting here with it’s white walls and sprawling bedrooms, settling on the green lawn. Before we came, nobody sat at the piano and played Your Song by Elton John as I set a tray of cookies on the counter to cool. Before we came, nobody used the red-tiled shower in the primary bathroom, nobody cherished the checkered floors. No one sat in the enclosed greenhouse, basking in its heat, imagining the herbs that could grow in the ample sunshine. No one walked the property, hand-in-hand, and pointed out all the old familiar places. Before us, the house was silent. No music to be played, no love to be made, no laughter to be had. 

Bradley mentioned the night before last, as he grazed the wallpaper in his mother’s room, that he was considering selling it. He said it solemnly, eyebrows drawn together and mouth clamped shut tightly. I did not press, never press him. But he continued on his own, sighing, telling me that he hated that it sat empty.

I’ve thought about it. I would be sad to sell my home back in California; my sister had been there so many times that I sometimes wondered if there were still little pieces of her there, particles and atoms. I would be sad to leave everyone in Fightertown, I think, but I would find a new job. I would miss the beach very much and the palm trees. The Hard Deck, the stench of jet fuel. Yes--I would miss it all very much.

But life would be sweet here in Virginia. 

We could fill up these bedrooms the way his parents intended. We could paint the walls and pick out new furniture to nestle in beside his mother’s things. We could plant a new garden in the eye of the circle drive. We could plant herbs and flowers in the greenhouse and plant fruits and vegetables outback. We could buy some chickens and always eat fresh eggs. We could buy some goats to graze the acres, a cow to milk. Stevie could find companionship with field kittens and stray tomcats. We could stay here, where there’s room for everything, and drown in quilts and sweetgrass and weathered wood. 

We could stay.

“Mornin’,” Bradley whispers, voice thick with sleep, not opening his eyes. 

“Morning,” I return, grazing his cheek. 

He hums at my touch. 

“S’too early,” he tells me, cracking an eye open to peer at the color of the sky, “c’mere.”

He pulls me so I’m resting on top of him. We are both naked, pressed up against each other in these sheets. My cheek is in the middle of his chest and I can hear it, can hear his heartbeat as it steadily thumps. He’s stroking my hair very gently, his touch still stuttering with exhaustion. 

“I was thinking,” I whisper. 

I can feel his tired smirk from above me, the one that precedes a jibe. 

“Lord help us all,” he muses. 

A beat passes. I kiss his skin. He is starting to smell like gardenia perfume.

“What if you didn’t sell the house?”

His hand halts and rests heavily on the top of my head. His thumb is still stroking, though, the way it always does. 

“It would keep on sitting here, then, I guess.”

Another beat. 

“Well, what if you didn’t sell the house because we moved in?”

Now he pauses completely, frozen beneath my cheek. His heart rate is still steady--I count the thumps. He’s digesting, waking up still. A few moments pass. We quietly sit in my suggestion. 

“That’s what you want?” 

I look up at him. His eyes are open wider now, his hand falling to the back of my neck. 

“Yes,” I whisper, “I think.”

He nods, his expression borderline unreadable. He watches my eyes, my mouth. Then the corners of his mouth begin to tug upwards softly. He resumes his gentle stroking of my unbrushed hair. 

“We could get married in California,” I suggest, lazily dragging my index finger over his tanned skin, “then make the big move after.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. 

I nod. 

“Yes,” I smile, “daydreaming.”

He grins at that. 

“There’d be a lot to do,” he says and he isn’t lecturing me, more musing to himself out loud, “we’d have to pack up, ship out. We’d have to sell the house. I’d have to apply for a transfer.”

I hum against him. He’s right--it would be a lot. 

“We could give ourselves a year,” I suggest, “get married, sell the house, make the move.”

He’s just gazing down at me now, his hair messy and his eyes glassy. He’s biting a grin. His cheeks are still flushed, lines from the pillows pressed into his skin. 

“Say that first one again,” he commands, his voice low. 

A warm tingle shimmies up the column of my spine. 

“Get married,” I say. 

It still makes me blush to say that . Get married. I’m getting married. We’re getting married. It’s all so much, so overwhelmingly perfect. I have to swallow all my giddiness, all my excitement. 

“Mmm,” he whispers, “music to my ears.”

Everyone knows now. 

Rooster had taken a photo of me early in the morning after the proposal. I’d woken up before him, slipped into his button-up shirt from the night before, and started on banana pancakes. He woke up the the sound of David Bowie, walked into the kitchen to me setting the table with a mug in my hand. And before I could even say anything, he had grabbed his phone and reached for my hand, snapping a photo of my messy, happy form. 

The responses were immediate. 

Bob FaceTimed me instantaneously, his face pressed up against Phoenix's. They had been all grins, maybe even a little tearful, as they congratulated us and asked to see the ring over and over. It was Phoenix who teased Rooster for proposing on our first night--which made him shrug, smug. I’m a man who knows what I want is what he’d told them. 

Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback had--of course--placed a bet on when it would happen. And they had no issue telling us about it in the group message, chastising Rooster for not holding off longer.

The last person to respond was Hangman.

 I was on the back porch, sitting on the steps with a glass of cherry wine, catching my breath. The crickets were chirping beneath the song of the cicadas, the trees billowing in the evening breeze. Somewhere distantly, there was a cow mewling, frogs crooning on the edge of a pond.

Rooster was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, singing an REO Speedwagon song off-key as he waited for the salted water to boil. 

That was when Hangman called--like he knew I would be alone. 

“Cowboy,” I greeted with a soft smile, pressing my phone against my cheek as I burrowed deeper into my cardigan, “been waiting on your call.”

It was quiet on the other end for a moment. 

He must’ve been at home by then. Some small apartment with clean floors and not enough closet space. Some apartment that’s close enough to base but not close enough to any bars. A place where he was alone most of the time, lying between cheap sheets with some half-read Teddy Roosevelt biography on the bedside table.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, exhaling, “just saw the news.”

I glanced down at my ring--the heaviness was still foreign on my finger. A good foreign, though--one I couldn’t wait to embrace, one I knew would be easy to fall into. The opal gleamed beneath the setting sun. 

“Aren’t you gonna say congratulations?”

A beat passed. 

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. 

 For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to say. 

He was always brazen about his crush on me--it wasn’t groundbreaking when he shot me those private winks, when he teased Bradley, when he asked me to dance with him. But we had become friends since the Uranium detachment--closer friends than I ever thought we would be. We had shared that private moment the day of the mission, one where I’d let him achingly close, one where he’d proved to be a necessary solidness beneath my fingertips. And after that, we’d been friends. Good friends--the kind of friends that should be happy for each other when they get engaged. 

“That’s all you got?” I asked gently. 

He sighed. 

“I’m happy for you,” he said, a little louder now, “really. I am.”

Then I let another beat pass--let him sit in silence. 

“Thanks,” I’d said, “I’m happy, too.”

“Stupid happy?” he teased. 

I bit a grin, craning my neck to look through the kitchen window. Bradley was bobbing his head to a song that wasn’t playing, chewing the song as it burst through his lips, stirring a saucepan of white-wine braised garlic. It made my heart throb. 

“Yeah,” I sighed, shaking my head, “stupid happy.” 

“What about February,” Bradley muses, still smiling, still raking his hands through my hair, “is that enough time?”

I nod, raising my eyebrows.  

“February would be good,” I tell him. 

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: I am......in love w these dumbasses. that's why there's a five-part epilogue series. gotta get all that fluff out. xoxo thank you all so much for reading :)

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

#bradley bradshaw fanfiction #rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x oc #rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x y/n #rooster top gun #rooster x reader #top gun rooster #rooster fanfic #bradley rooster x reader #bob floyd #top gun #top gun cast #top gun maverick #top gun fandom #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #hangman top gun #jake hangman seresin #natasha phoenix trace #javy coyote machado #reuben payback fitch #mickey fanboy garcia #pete maverick mitchell #faye x bradley

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 266: Saturday September 23, 2023 - "Petco Park Party"

Crashed an overnight into San Diego tonight, William's 7th. And after we all got a much needed rest and reset at the hotel, we set out together for a fun night out in the city. One of the reasons Audrie picked this trip up was because the Cardinals happened to be in town for a late season meaningless series with the Padres. Though the Cards are hardly worth a free flight this year ( 68-87 as of tonights win in extras), we were excited to go revisit the first baseball park Audrie and I visited together almost a decade ago and take William to his 7th MLB park.

It was a firsty for me, seeing the Cardinals in their road throwback Victory Blues that they wear on Saturday nights, and while we took in the early innings from the center field (beach/sandbox), I cheered for them obnoxiously. We moved up to our seats behind home plate where I made friends with the surrounding Friar fans as I sipped the local beers and led the local cheers, and was happy when the bottom of the 9th came and went and we were still playing baseball in the cool ocean air of San Diego. William got baseball cards from the ushers, got a hot dog from his mama, and enjoyed seeing the red team in blue win the game - several breaks for mama milk definitely helped as the night got late.

And the Overnight Crash First Game is what kept us solidly in our perfect seats with a straight view of the outfield where after the game, there'd be fireworks; William's first firework show. And these were great fireworks, a really awesome show. William sat in awe pretending each flash was a rocket ship over the baseball game. Given that he remember the Dodgers game from July earlier this week by the fact that we went with Chad and got a bobble guy - -he'll definitely remember Petco Park, his 7th MLB stadium for that awesome fireworks show.

Every time I come to San Diego, I love it more. I love this stadium, and the people here. This is a great baseball city. Ive been to them all - this one is special. I hope that the get some success soon! So much talent here, and fun atmosphere, and great beer. As we walked around lost on the streets of San Diego, looking for the rental car, hopelessly - I told William, he had permission to grow up a Padres fan. We could make a habit of coming here - as we finally found the car i joked "obviously we need to work on getting to know this city better."

Updated Overnight List / Firsty Game:

1 Milwaukee, WI -> First Brewers Game (May 27, 2023) 2 St Louis, MO -> First Visit to the Arch (May 28, 2023) 3 Long Beach, CA -> First Time Riding A Boat (July 3, 2023) 4 Honolulu, HI -> First Time Flying with Grandma/Papa; First time Swimming in Pacific Ocean (August 5, 2023) 5 Honolulu, HI -> First Hawaiian Shaved Ice (August 8, 2023) 6 San Francisco, CA -> First time flying on Mama’s Plane (she was A), September 2, 2023 7 San Diego, CA -> First time flying no diaper (and no accident), first Fire Works Show after Padres game, September 23, 2023

Song: Hans Williams - Willows

Quote: “Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” ~Dr. Seuss

[chaoticfoxes]

Location: Beach Date: Monday April, 5 Time: Afternoon (open)

Myrtle Beach is really different from the beaches in San Diego, but Claudia prefers it in a way. The water is warmer for one thing, but usually when she goes to the beach at home, she’s by herself, just trying to get away from the house. It’s a lot more fun with her teammates. It’s a whole experience like this--staying in the same rental house.

As much as she tries her best to avoid San Diego, she has a few ideas of where she would bring the Foxes if they went home with her. She could take them to La Jolla Cove Beach to see the cliffs and go snorkeling. After, they’d get gelato Bobboi Natural Gelato. It’s a pretty picture, but one that will never become reality, because that’d also mean introducing them to her parents.

She invited Colin, which means she’d also let anyone else go if they asked, but a trip with the entire team? That sounds like a disaster, and she isn’t going to put the idea in anyone’s head. Her reputation is always going to follow her, but since becoming a Fox, she’s done a pretty good job at silencing any talk about it. Reporters gave up asking her about it, and none of the Foxes ever bring it up. She wants to keep it that way.

Myrtle is better. There’s plenty to do. Claudia could also throw in some team building into the week, but mostly she’s been letting people just do what they want. It’s kind of already team building in itself. 

The water hasn’t fully warmed up yet, but that doesn’t stop Claudia from swimming anyway. After she submerges herself, it doesn’t take long to adjust. When it’s nearing noon though, she’s ready to reapply her sunscreen and lay in the sun. Wringing her hair out, she sits on her towel and grins at her neighbor. “Are you getting in? It’s a little cold, but you get used to it pretty fast.”

#foxesstart #thread: claudia #claudia #claudia hasn't had a starter in over a year so i figured it was time lol #i had to do research for this one clearly

[videosellsrealestate]

MLS | 2399 Jefferson St. Carlsbad, CA | San Diego Real Estate from Video Sells Real Estate on Vimeo.

The city of Carlsbad is a charming European-style town with conveniences that larger cities often lack. As you meander through its narrow streets lined by antique stores and boutique shops, it’s easy to see why this small coastal community has been able to retain many beautiful amenities while still offering friendly neighbors who are available at any time if need be! Cities like San Diego or Los Angeles may offer more than enough opportunity but they can sometimes overwhelm their residents; fortunately, we don't feel too much here in "The Village By The Sea." Our open spaces allow us plenty of space for outdoor activities such as hiking along with beach front property. Located in Carlsbad, you will find a gorgeous 2 bedroom / 2.5 bathroom home with 1544 sq ft. This property offers an astonishing panoramic ocean view and Buena Vista Lagoon views from its immaculate luxury townhome! The striking custom finishes & designer touches placed throughout provide the perfect setting for peaceful resort-like living; witness how beautifully designed each detail has been when marveling at all of La Cantina (style) folding doors or appreciate the hardwood flooring done right by DuChateau’s skilled artisanship team workmanship while enjoying your own private deck, overlooking these picturesque scenes below. Dual suites are thoughtfully located on the lower level with a private laundry area placed in between. The primary suite has captivating views through two ceiling glass doors that open up into an oversized patio, large walk-in closet and en suite bathroom featuring marble fixtures for your convenience! Junior Suite comes complete as it includes both walk-in closet spaces alongside access from within the home to enjoy their own private retreats at any time. The kitchen exudes elegance and is equipped with stainless steel appliances, and a statement hood overlooking the marble-top countertops that give this space its own unique edge. The custom soft closing cabinets are outfitted to make your life easier by providing extra storage without taking up unnecessary valuable floor areas in an already spacious home like ours! And don't forget about those beautiful Quartz surfaces - they'll be sure not only look good but last longer than traditional stone too. This home offers a great rental opportunity with an awesome community pool! You'll love the long-term and short term vacation options as well. Don't miss out on this fantastic property, it won’t last forever!"

[luvanexrealty]

6 BENEFITS OF INVESTING IN UNITED STATES REAL ESTATE

Every investor hopes to receive some financial or non-financial rewards from their investment, depending on the industry they chose.

For instance, real estate is one of the most profitable investments with numerous benefits.

There’s a reason why so many businessmen prefer to invest in real estate rather than stocks, and it’s not just simply because it provides a secure and predictable income.

Many advantages await you if you decide to invest in real estate in the United States. Here are some of the major reasons why you should invest in real estate in the United States.

1. HIGH RETURNS ON INVESTMENT

Real estate often appreciates in value over time. If you are seeking a safe investment, real estate in the United States should be your top priority. Another reason why people from both inside and outside the country wish to invest in real estate in the United States is the country’s political stability.

You will be able to create income from your rental properties if you invest in real estate. Some people generate millions of dollars from their properties while relaxing. Every year, corporate groups earn billions from their properties.

The lucrative profits do not appear suddenly, but once you have established yourself in the business, you can enjoy a tax-free passive income for the rest of your life. Once the business is running smoothly, you can earn money from your properties without putting in any effort.

2. PROPERTIES APPRECIATE VALUE

Another advantage of real estate investing is that, depending on how well it is handled and kept, properties increase in value over time.

Buildings, unlike other mobile assets such as vehicles, which depreciate over time due to wear and tear, acquire value over time.

If you decide to sell your property later, you will be able to obtain more money based on the current market worth. In other words, real estate is a safer investment than savings account interest, because the currency is subject to market factors such as inflation.

The real estate sector is impacted by financial recessions, yet it remains a key indicator of economic performance. During economic downturns, the real estate industry, in general, determines economic recovery.

If you are on a tight budget, there are lots of premium solutions available. For investment purposes, you could purchase a residential, commercial, or industrial property.

Investing in apartment complexes and dorms is a smart alternative if you want a consistent source of passive income for years to come. You could buy and rent out shopping malls, retail spaces, office buildings, and similar establishments if you have a larger budget or want to invest in commercial property in a smaller city.

Investors looking for the best returns on their money should choose industrial real estate. You could put your money into industrial infrastructure.

Best cities for investment

Aside from the building itself, the location is crucial. Atlanta, in particular, has always been a popular investment location. Beautiful beaches, bustling cities, and a booming economy are all hallmarks of the state. It is home to some of the world’s most famous cities.

A few cities will appear on a list of the greatest cities in the United States for real estate investment. Residents want affordable housing or rental properties, making these locations attractive to investors.

Cities like San Diego and San Francisco are also great places to invest. Apart from these locations, investors will find many properties in North Carolina’s smaller cities that generate good rental income.

3. COMFORTABLE LIFESTYLE

People who invest in real estate have a better quality of life than those who work in other flourishing businesses. If you have purchased valuable property, you can live your life as you like.

You can also have peace of mind knowing that you and your belongings are safe.

Another advantage is that you can have a good life in retirement because you can retire to your quiet and pleasant home away from the city. If this is your goal, you should look for a home in a bustling neighbourhood.

North Carolina is another good location known for its tranquil atmosphere and heritage houses. As such, investing in townhouses in Charlotte would prove to be valuable especially if you want a calm lifestyle.

4. EXPERT ASSISTANCE

Unawareness of the market can be a disincentive to international investment for foreign investors. If you wish to invest in the United States, however, there are a variety of specialists available to assist you.

They can assist you in locating desirable houses. They can check the property’s location, condition, and other key details, so you don’t have to travel to the United States every time you need to inspect a property.

Tax lawyers will clarify the tax rules to you and assist you with procedures like tax restructuring. Luvanex Realty can also assist you with other paperwork, such as obtaining a mortgage loan in the United States.

This article can assist international investors in learning more about investment opportunities in the United States.

Property manager

Property management may have been a huge difficulty for you if you do not live in the United States but want to rent out property in the country.

You can now own apartment buildings, dormitories and similar properties even if you do not live in the United States since we are an expert in property management. We take care of the property on your behalf.

We will take care of the property and even collect rent on your behalf. So that you don’t have to worry about these things, our organization will report the revenues to the local tax authorities and pay the tax owed on the rental income.

5. FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE

Even if you are a foreigner, there are loan options available to assist you with your property acquisition. While many banks would be hesitant to lend money to overseas investors since recovering dues in the event of default is more difficult, some lenders in the United States specialize in loans for foreign investors.

Furthermore, the loan is applicable to a variety of property kinds. Even though loans cover a portion of the cost, you will still be required to make a down payment.

Residential property

You can get a loan to purchase a home for yourself. These loans function similarly to traditional bank mortgages.

Residential real estate in the United States ranges from grand heritage houses to modern apartments in bustling metropolitan neighbourhoods.

Commercial property

Loans can assist you in purchasing commercial property to resell or rent out. Apartment complexes, shopping malls, and office buildings are all examples of commercial property.

Commercial property generates higher rental revenue and is the preferred investment of many international investors.

6. WELCOMING DESTINATION FOR FOREIGN INVESTORS

One of the reasons for the real estate sector’s prominence in the United States is its willingness to accept foreign investment. Canada, Australia, Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, and China are among the countries that have invested in excellent real estate in the United States.

While there are some rules that foreign investors must obey, such as not buying property near important security facilities, the property market in the United States gives international investors a wide range of alternatives.

SUMMARY

These are some of the main reasons why people opt to invest in real estate in the United States. Foreigners interested in owning residential or investment real estate in the United States will find a favourable economic climate, a wide range of possibilities, and numerous incentives that will make their investment easier.

FINAL THOUGHT

Investing in real estate is a fantastic choice since, when managed effectively, the industry may offer numerous benefits.

The industry generates several monetary and non-monetary benefits. Depending on how well your firm works, you may be able to reap a variety of rewards if you decide to venture into this business.

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San Diego, with its sun-kissed beaches and vibrant coastal culture, beckons travelers from around the globe to indulge in its wavefront wonders. Among the myriad accommodation options, oceanfront hotels stand out as the epitome of luxury and relaxation. Let’s dive into the allure of Oceanfront Hotels in San Diego and discover why they are the perfect choice for discerning travelers seeking a seaside retreat.

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Pools can be a great addition to any home, but they can also be expensive and time-consuming to maintain. If you're considering adding a pool to your home, or if you already have one and are wondering if it will affect your home value, here's what you need to know. Read more: https://sandiegopoolhome.blogspot.com/2023/09/are-pools-beneficial-or-detrimental-to.html  

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Sandiegopoolhome offers the best Ocean Front and Bay Front San Diego Vacation Rentals. Enjoy luxury amenities & house with a full kitchen, a private patio or balcony & more. Experience the comfort of a vacation home rental with the luxury amenities of a resort. Pools and Hot Tubs. Last-minute deals, Free WiFi, and Savings up to 40% Book now!

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[encinitasgetaways]

Encinitas oceanfront rental

Encinitas Oceanfront Rentals: Your Ideal Getaway on the California Coast

Nestled on the picturesque coast of Southern California, Encinitas offers an ideal setting for a luxurious beach vacation. This vibrant community, located in San Diego County, is renowned for its stunning ocean views, laid-back lifestyle, and beautiful beaches. If you're seeking an unforgettable getaway, consider booking an Encinitas oceanfront rental, where you can experience the beauty and charm of this coastal paradise.

The Allure of Encinitas Oceanfront Rentals

Encinitas oceanfront rentals are highly sought after for a reason. Imagine waking up to the sound of crashing waves, enjoying your morning coffee on a balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and spending your days exploring pristine beaches. These rentals offer an unparalleled experience that combines luxury, comfort, and breathtaking views.

Whether you're planning a romantic getaway, a family vacation, or a trip with friends, Encinitas luxury beach rentals provide a wide range of options to suit your needs. From spacious beachfront villas to cozy beach houses, there's something for everyone.

Encinitas Luxury Beach Rentals: A Taste of Elegance

For those seeking a touch of elegance, Encinitas luxury beach rentals are the perfect choice. These upscale properties feature modern amenities, stylish interiors, and private beach access. You can relax in a beautifully designed space with all the comforts of home, including gourmet kitchens, spacious living areas, and luxurious bathrooms.

The location of these rentals also ensures you're close to some of Encinitas' best attractions, such as the famous Moonlight Beach and Swami's Beach, known for its excellent surfing conditions. Enjoy leisurely walks along the coast, explore local shops and restaurants, or simply unwind on the beach.

Encinitas Rental Homes with Ocean View: A Scenic Retreat

If you prefer a more secluded setting, consider Encinitas rental homes with ocean view. These properties offer a peaceful retreat while still providing easy access to the beach. With large windows and expansive decks, you can enjoy stunning sunsets and panoramic views of the ocean.

These homes are ideal for families and groups, with plenty of space for everyone to relax and unwind. You can cook meals in a fully equipped kitchen, enjoy outdoor BBQs, and create lasting memories with your loved ones.

Beach House Encinitas: Your Home Away from Home

A beach house in Encinitas is more than just a place to stay—it's your home away from home. These rentals offer the convenience and comfort of a private residence, with the added bonus of being steps away from the beach. Whether you're looking for a short-term rental or a longer stay, a beach house in Encinitas provides the flexibility and space you need.

From charming cottages to contemporary beachfront homes, the options are diverse. You can explore the local area, participate in beach activities, or simply relax on your private deck, soaking in the sun and ocean breeze.

Contact Information and Booking

If you're interested in booking an Encinitas oceanfront rental or learning more about the available options, you can contact Encinitas Getaways for personalized assistance. Reach out to them via email at [email protected] or by phone at [phone]. You can also visit their website at Encinitas Getaways for additional information and to browse the available rental properties.

Plan your next beach getaway to Encinitas and experience the beauty of the California coast. With its stunning oceanfront rentals, luxury beach houses, and scenic ocean views, it's the perfect destination for a memorable vacation.

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