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Static blares from the car radio. They had been listening to music just now, hadn’t they? How long had it been since the song ended, since they lost signal? Rook swears it was just a minute ago, but the thought feels wrong.
She leans her head on the car window, listening to the air conditioning rattle. Somehow it seems louder than the car radio, louder than her thoughts, louder than the gravelly notes of Sharky’s voice.
“Dep?”
Rook blinks slowly, watching the grass bristle in the wind outside the car. They’ve stopped moving. When did they stop moving?
“Dep? Hey.”
The sky is grey outside. She doesn’t remember the day progressing that far—how long have they been driving for? How long has she been… not quite present?
A hand is waved in front of her face, ringed fingers curling into a snapping motion, the click of it pulling Rook back into the now. She lifts her head from the window and shakes her head lightly, timidly pushing Sharky’s hand out of her face.
“I—yeah?” Rook says a little too loudly, straining to sound normal. She looks at Sharky, next to her in the driver’s seat of this random, abandoned car they found. “What’s up? Sorry, I—were you saying something, Shark?”
“You’ve been quiet for a while,” Sharky says, eyes shining with soft concern. He kills the engine. “We’re here. Are you—are you okay, Po-Po?”
“Oh,” Rook says dumbly. She opens the passenger seat door, looking away from Sharky’s worried expression and stepping out the door. “I’m fine.”
She slings her rifle over her shoulder and shuts the car door. She pushes too lightly and it doesn’t close properly. With a tired sigh, she pulls it open and slams it shut harder this time. It closes, a little too forcefully, and the sound startles Sharky slightly as he clambers out of the car.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine, Sharky,” Rook grates out, wincing at how harsh it sounded. She shoots him an apologetic look before walking to the front of the car and inspecting her surroundings. “Let’s just get on with it.”
Fuck. Rook bites her lip anxiously, eyes darting around. What were they supposed to be doing? She should know this, she should know what their task is. It’s just trees. Everywhere. And dirt. And grass. Nothing else. Fucking Montana. What are they supposed to be doing here?
“Dep,” Sharky says quietly—not a mumble under his breath the way she hears him sometimes when they’re trekking around the county. His voice is firm, almost stern, but quiet. Quiet like he’s afraid he’s going to spook her. “Seriously. You don’t… you don’t look okay. Pale as my own ass. Talk to me.”
Her eyes sting just thinking of talking about it. She shakes her head but doesn’t step back when he moves closer. He leans back to sit on the hood of the car, showing that he’s not going anywhere until she talks.
“You’ve been out of it all day, Po-Po,” he says, fidgeting with the band around his wrist. He looks uncomfortable by this—feelings talk. Well, he should, because she’s uncomfortable as fuck too. “You don’t even remember what we’re here for, do ya?”
“Fine,” Rook grinds out, crossing her arms. “I don’t fucking remember. I just—I’m tired, Sharky. Can’t I have one off-day?”
Sharky doesn’t look at all fazed by her hostile tone. If anything, the sadness and concern on his usually jovial face deepens. “You wanted to hike up to Dansky cabin. The prepper stash, rem’ber?”
Right. Right. Fuck, she’s so out of it today. She can’t help the shuddering sigh that escapes her, furious with herself for forgetting something as basic as that.
“What’s wrong?” Sharky frowns. He pats the spot next to him on the hood of the car. “Come on. The stash can wait. You, uh, you obviously got somethin’ that’s bothering you.”
It’s not that it has to be a big secret or anything, it’s just that Rook doesn’t want to talk about it. Because it’s eating her up. Fuck, they’re not gonna get anywhere if she doesn’t say something. She’s not gonna sit next to him on the hood, no, that feels too casual. But she’ll cooperate.
“Alright, alright.” She lets up, frowning hard at the ground, trying to stop tears from gathering in her eyes. “I… I was pregnant.”
She risks a glance at Sharky, and his eyebrows have risen up so high she’s practically lost them to the cover of his hat. “Oh, fuck. Whose is it?”
“Don’t know,” Rook mutters, kicking dirt under her boot. “Doesn’t matter.”
She’s been… more than a little irresponsible keeping to herself. No relationships or anything, just—well, it was supposed to be fun. This isn’t fun. Hell, the kid could have been Sharky’s—that might be what he’s worried about—considering the fun they sometimes have too. Especially when she did the math when she first found out she was pregnant. Could have been Sharky. Could have been a couple other people. Live every day like your last, right? She’s such a fucking idiot.
The father of the kid doesn’t really matter to Rook. Honestly, the kid didn’t really matter to Rook. She’d only been aware of her pregnancy a few weeks before she miscarried. She tried to live in denial in those few weeks, thinking that she’d just worry about the baby after it pops out of her—she’s such a dumbass.
“How far along?” Sharky asks.
“I’m not really sure,” Rook lets out a nervous bark of laughter. “I think I was maybe—ah, fuck. I don’t know. I found out pretty late, just—just finally starting to show. Missed all the warning signs, I didn’t wanna believe I fucked up that bad and got myself knocked up. What does it fucking matter?”
It then dawns on Sharky. “Was. Was pregnant.”
“Yeah, was.” Rook crosses her arms tighter, feeling vertigo just from remembering it, the blood. “I—I lost the baby.”
“When?” Sharky asks quietly, his voice rougher than usual, looking at her with—pity? Concern? Sadness? Whatever it is, it makes Rook want to disappear. It makes her feel the hurt all over again.
Apparently, she’s spent too much time in her own thoughts again. Because Sharky asks again, sounding pained. “When, Dep?”
“… Yesterday,” she mumbles quietly, ridiculously hoping that he doesn’t hear. She’s then aware of something wet rolling down her cheek—fuck, she’s crying. Fuck, she’s crying a lot.
“Yesterday?” Sharky all but shouts. She’s not looking at him—isn’t looking at anything but the ground darkening where her tears land—but he sounds livid. Furious, but pained as well, hoarse as if someone punched him right in the gut. “You—yesterday? And you’re out here? Aw shit, you should be resting or something!”
“What good is resting gonna fucking do?” she hisses and rushes to cover her mouth as her shoulders heave. Talking was a mistake, opening her mouth was a mistake, because she can’t stop the sobs—the sobs she thought she put a fucking end to last night—from escaping.
“Were you with someone?” Sharky asks, still sounding angry. Why is he angry? What fucking right does he have to be angry with her? “Who was with you?”
“No one—Jesus, are you really gonna start acting like some jealous—”
“Jealous? Jealous?” Sharky exclaims, sounding even more pissed. She still can’t bring herself to look at him, scared of what she’ll see on her friend’s face. “You’re my best friend!”
“Yeah, and you’re mine too!” Rook snaps back at him, wiping her face with the palm of her hand. “You—you don’t get to—why are you pissed with me? Why the fuck—”
Sharky tries to reach for her, but she smacks his hand away. Rook turns away, she doesn’t want Sharky to see her cry, she doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. That’s why she never called anyone yesterday. Suffer alone, suffer in silence—because if others bear witness to it, then that’s what makes it real.
“Hey.” Sharky’s voice is softer this time, gentler than she’s ever heard it. In her tear-filled peripherals, she sees his hands tentatively reach for her again. This time she allows it. Sharky braces her shoulders, turning her towards him and steadying her. “Shorty, come on, look at me.”
She does—slowly. Rook lowers her hands from her face, palms glistening with her own pathetic tears (there are people who need her, there are more important things to be done—and she’s fucking wallowing) as she looks up and meets his eyes.
Sharky’s expression hardens—angry, but not the fury she saw earlier, the fury that’s only on his face in heavy gunfights. There’s something morose to his anger, tucked into the crease of his brows and the thin press of his lips. “I’m not angry at you, Dep. I’m—I’m angry for you. I’m fuckin’ pissed that my best friend went through something like that completely alone, alright? You don’t get to do that to yourself. I know I’m not the boss of ya or anything but we’re friends, goddamn ride or die, so, yeah, I get to be pissed that you’re not lookin’ out for yourself.”
Rook tries to shoulder out of his grip, feeling too many emotions at once. “It’s not like someone being there would have stopped the miscarriage.”
Sharky doesn’t let go. “But someone would have been there. You could have called someone, could’ve called me. You’ve been through enough, Dep, and now you’re going through a lot more shit and—just. Just, shit. You don’t have to be alone for shit like this. That’s what friends are for—what best friends are for. I’m here. You don’t have to hide anything like that.”
All Rook can do in reply is sigh, the expelled breath more of a shudder than anything else. She doesn’t feel much different, no, it’s too soon to stop feeling, but something in the tightness of her shoulders gives out. Relief, maybe, in just the slightest dose. She blinks back at Sharky, leaning into his hold now, and nods.
Sharky cracks a watery smile and pulls her in for a tight hug. He smells like propane and cheap deodorant and home. It takes Rook a second to gather herself, then she wraps her arms around his middle and hugs back just as tight. “I’m gonna get your hoodie all tear-stained, Shark.”
“It’ll dry,” Sharky mumbles into her hair. He pats her back lightly. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Rook buries her face into his hoodie, her voice muffled against his chest. “Love you. You’re the best.”
She thinks she feels his lips spread into a smile atop her head. “Love you too, chica.”