Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two months into his college life, Ted has crafted a perfect weekend routine. Friday nights with Rachel, Saturday afternoons with his mom, and then Sunday spent studying with Rachel again. It’s a great system, and for Ted, falling into a domestic rhythm has cushioned the shock of starting a new life at college, after Sarah had moved out of state and left him freshly bereft and heartbroken. “The world is big,” she had said, and he isn’t enough to stay home for, he had heard. So be it. But Rachel had seemed to pick him out of the crowded lecture room and declared, “You…yeah, you!” Rachel with her long hair, with her stories of Chicago, with her eyeliner smudged just right. So he had followed her lead. (It was no small benefit that it kept him at an arm’s length with his dorm roommate, who seemed to distrust the shared showers enough to forsake them entirely, nice enough though he was.)

Rachel’s apartment is shared with her and three other sophomore girls. It’s empty most of the time, save for intentionally set movie nights, with everyone at their various older boyfriends’ houses. This was first relayed to Ted in between thrown off items of clothing, being led through the hallways to her room sans interruption.

Friday night blesses him with its appearance. So he arrives, backpack over his shoulder, after a quick post-class library sesh, to Rachel’s front door. He can hear loud music from outside the apartment door, and wonders if his knock will be heard over the pounding bass.

He tries anyway.

“Knock knock!” he yells through a smile, his knuckles rapping on the door. Loud footsteps approach and the door swings open.

“Hi Ted!” She kisses him, and pulls him by his shirt collar inside.

“I almost didn’t hear you.” She’s yelling and out of breath, running back to turn the volume down on her stereo.

“You got a concert scheduled that I missed?”

“No! I went to the record shop after class today and finally got around to grabbing a copy of In Utero. You listened yet?”

“In Utero? No, in-fact-o, at least not for the last 18 years.”

Rachel rolls her eyes.

“Nooo, the new Nirvana. It’s been everywhere. ‘Heart-Shaped Box’?” His face is blank. “Don’t you listen to the college radio?!”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I guess not, I’m more of a Top 40 man I guess. I know the name, though. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ That song was everywhere. Never really gave the album a listen though.”

“You never listened to Nevermind?!”

“Have I committed a mortal sin?”

“Yes! Forget In Utero, we gotta get you in on the ground floor.” Rachel heads to her stack of cassettes, lined up in a tower and spilling out into piles on the floor. Ted sets his backpack on the couch, kicks off his shoes and reclines, making himself at home. The clanking of the thin plastic cases mixed with Rachel’s searching mumbles is its own small symphony among the now-quiet music. He loves Friday nights.

“Finally. I don’t know how that got so buried.” She turns to the stereo, substitutes the tape and clicks the cassette door triumphantly. She looks back at him. “You ready?”

He holds his hands out in a frozen air guitar. “Ready.”

She smiles, and pushes play.

The first rushes of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” pepper into the room, and as the drums and bass kick in Ted playfully bangs his head, moving his fingers wildly in the air, continuing as long as he can hear Rachel laughing at him.

Rachel shouts over the music. “The first time I heard this, I knew there was never any going back.”

“Back to what?” Ted yells back.

“I don’t know, childhood? It was like, this is life! This is how it feels. Amazing.” She gives her own girlish, half-hearted head bangs.

“When I first heard it my mom turned down the volume.”

Rachel laughs at that.

The song fades out, the single-heard-round-the-world, or at least the larger Kansas City area, apparently. The strums of the next song fade in.

“Now we’re getting to the good stuff,” Rachel declares. Ted gives her a look, and places his air guitar with some joking hesitation.

“You really like this, huh?” Ted asks in the midst of “In Bloom”. The energy of these songs is high, and he likes it, really…he’s just constantly surprised by the character of this girl who chose him so sincerely and surredly, him, for reasons he can’t quite understand. Of all the boys in all the classes, with houses and apartments of their own. Just…him.

“Absolutely. It’s so real.” The striking bass opens the third song on the album. “Oh my godddd, this is my favorite. Just listen.”

“I’m listening!”

“No I know, just. Really listen.”

“Whatever you say.”

She smiles and closes her eyes, lets her neck hang a bit, giving her body over the song. It’s a beautiful sight. She mouths along to the words. The song is somehow more melodic, like a boat in a constant wave, but with a sharper turn of anger to it. “Memoriiiiiiiiia,” croons Cobain. Rachel lolls her head, still with her eyes closed, smiling darkly to herself, like she’s lost in a trance. Ted is taken by the sight, and focuses on her face more than the music. “Memoriiiiiiiiiiia. Memoriiiiiiiiiiia. Memoriiiiiiiiiiiiia.” Drums. He watches her sing the next words with abandon, lost in the moment, lost in the song. “And I swear that I don’t have a gun. No I don't have a gun.” She straightens her neck and opens her eyes as the bridge transitions and bites her bottom lip, does her own little air guitar, and casts her gaze back to Ted. “Right!??” The contact of her eyes is a crash to his consciousness, having sunk into her face for a second there. He gives her an absent nod. She continues grooving.

The guitar spikes, and it is sent straight to Ted’s heart. He feels the chords through his arms and end bluntly at his fingertips. The repetition suddenly feels endless, “No I don’t have a gun” over and over and over, spinning around him, Cobain’s Memoryyy filters from the background into the foreground of the sound, Rachel with her neck exposed and eyes closed, “No I don’t have a gun,” and his clothes are suddenly scratchy like the guitar solo that had spiked his blood.

A final strum and the song fades.

“Oh my goddddd,” she groans, “I mean! So real. Isn’t it incredible?!”

He feels his mind start to separate. He smiles, almost nods. She’s so beautiful. He’s so glad she likes him. He wonders why, again. It’s like he’s existing in this space with her from behind a mirror, or maybe she’s the one behind the mirror. A girl for a different boy. And he’s here as an apparition.

The next song comes on strong. Without even thinking, Ted rises off of the couch, walks over to her, presses the stop button, and holds out his hand. “I know someone that’s even more incredible.” Her eyes sparkle. She shakes her head.

“You’re cheesy, Ted Lasso.” She laughs. “But I like it.” She takes his hand, and the touch is heavy metal. They walk to her bedroom, and he keeps his hands plenty occupied.

In the morning, they sleep in. Ted said he’d be at his mom’s by 12, so when they do finally get out of bed he is rushing while she is lazilly pouring milk in her coffee. He swings his backpack back over his shoulder when she says, “Hey, for your drive.” She walks over to the stereo, opens the cassette door, places the tape in its case and tosses it to him. “We didn’t get to listen to the full album. It’s good driving music anyway. Tell me what you think tonight.” She smiles sleepily at him.

He turns the plastic around in his hand, gives her a little salute, and heads out the door.

Ted gets into his car with the cassette still in his hands. He slides it into his car player, but doesn’t press play. The silence is okay for now. Spending time with his mom on these Saturday afternoons comes with its own set of noises, and he wants to clear his head on the journey. So he heads out towards home.

It is an eerie chasm, the space between his new dorm and his old room. He doesn’t want anything to cross over. It is a bridge he walks alone. But it is a bridge nonetheless, one that grounds him as much as it separates him. Because he is separated, isn’t he. He isn’t whole, really, and having to cross the chasm between that house and his life is a comfort, painful though it may be. A bruise he needs to prod. Proof.

Still, he wonders if Sarah had the right idea. Leave Kansas City, leave the state, leave the region all together. Break hearts if need be, leave it all behind, not a care in the world. Go live your life. She was special though, and had a family with a business that could support her on the East Coast, and a younger brother to keep them company while she was away. Ted couldn’t get away with that, and maybe that’s okay too. He does love these roads. He likes how he can be in the plains in no time. With this big ol’ sky. Big ol’ sky. He shakes the voice out of his head.

He wants to see if the back door is still sticking. Leaves are starting to fall, so he will definitely have to rake. But oof, is he stiff today. Rachel’s bed is a mattress on the floor–bohemian, sure, and she loves it–but it's definitely not great on his back. Since when does he have back problems? Just like dad.

His eyebrows furrow, and he presses play on the cassette. It starts at a jolt, in the middle of a high-octane chorus. “Shit!” Ted immediately turns it off, laughing to himself, having decisively shaken off the cobwebs of the morning. The silence returns, uncluttered with thoughts.

He parks on the street. Sure enough, there are leaves on the lawn and plenty more still to come. The house looks empty. No pumpkins or hay bales or marigold buckets to celebrate the season. Just an empty porch and a closed door. Like a ghost town of one. Ted takes a deep breath and opens his car door. Here we go.

He hops up the porch steps with more energy than he has. “Knock knock!” he yells, opening the front door anyway, kicking his shoes off. “Mom, I’m home,” he yells again.

“So much yelling, I’m here, I’m here!” she yells from the kitchen, walking up to meet him. She brings him in for a hug, but almost immediately recoils, holding onto his arms but looking at him suspiciously.

“You doin’ okay? You got so much stubble on you.” Her hand goes up to his cheek, testing out the scratchiness of his face.

He cowers his shoulders a bit, the rushed morning catching up to him and making him self-conscious. The marker of his lost sleep, the uncomfortable mattress, the way his mind was racing about nothing at all, all night. He wants to wish its evidence away. He wants his clean slate back.

“Yeah I’m alright, I just decided to sleep in this morning. It’s a Saturday you know.”

“Yes I know, and I guess you’ve got so much going on you gotta get all the sleep you can, huh?”

He shrugs. “Classes, studying, social stuff. It’s all good.”

They move from the front area to the kitchen. “Well sit on down, tell me about your week.” She opens the cupboards and pulls out a small snack for Ted.

“Oh nothin’ much, pretty much the same old, now. Classes are good, kinda hard. But people are pretty nice.”

“And that girl, Rachel?”

“Yep, we’re doin’ good, and we’re seeing more of each other. She’s real nice. And smart. She’s helping me with English a lot.”

“That’s so wonderful honey. I’m really happy for you.”

He clears his throat and changes the subject. “So I wanna get the front yard done with raking at least, and did you notice anything else going on that needs help? I know the back door was giving you trouble, and I want to make sure–”

She cuts him off. “Honey…” She holds the next sentence in her mouth, lungs full of air. It takes her a second. “I want to talk to you about something.”

She sits down across from him at the table, puts her hands out, then folds them together. Her energy changes, suddenly. “Did I tell you that I saw that mallard couple, the lesbian one, with babies last month?”

Ted laughs at the unexpected absurdity. “What?!”

“It’s true! The two females we always saw, they came around with a row of little ducklings, no father in sight. How do you think they managed that?”

“I wonder if there’s a scorned male around.”

“Or a happy donor.”

“Goodness gracious.”

They both laugh.

“I just thought that was so funny. Nature always surprises, doesn’t it?”

Ted nods. The laughter settles, and a tense silence hovers over the table. His mom doesn’t look him in the eye, instead speaks to the table. She takes a deep breath.

“Listen.” She hesitates, then nods to herself, continuing. “I’ve decided to sell the house.” She looks back at him.

His heart drops. He sees the bridge collapsing. Feels it cave into his chest cavity. His adrenaline spikes, heart pounding, a shot of anger overtakes him, and then he swallows it down. His mouth hangs slightly open.

“Mom…”

She reaches out a hand and puts it over his. She looks at him directly now, so that he can’t look away.

“Honey, please.” She squeezes his hand. Quietly, she admits, “I can’t live here alone. It’s time.”

Guilt overcomes him. He’s all she has, and he’s gone. He left. Not far, not for good, but. Fuck.

“It was important to me to get you through high school, you know? You’d had so much upheaval already, we had to keep something constant. But. You’re growing up, and well, I’m growing old!” She laughs to try and cut the tension.

Ted’s mind is racing. His mother suddenly looks frail, and tired. She isn’t even that old. Or is she? He’s tried so desperately to see everything. To catch everything. Did he miss something? Did he let something fall? Why this. Why do this. They had gotten through it, right? They were on the other side, weren’t they? Why is this still haunting him? Why couldn’t he fix this?

She squeezes again. Ted’s eyes focus on their hands, touching. He hears her say, “I wish I knew what to do. This is the best thing I can come up with.”

A ghost town of one. Like selling a burial plot with a body already in it. His anger is tempered with pity, and shame.

He hasn’t spoken, or looked up. His mother pulls back a bit, repositioning on her chair. “It won’t be for a while. I think the next few months over winter I’ll be fixing things up, and then put it on the market in the spring. You know Bob down the street is a real estate agent. I already talked to him about it. It should be pretty smooth sailing, and I can get a smaller place that’s easier to manage, or even a nice apartment.”

Hearing these words come out of his mother’s mouth makes his ears ring. His eyes carry over from her eyes to the fridge, to where she still keeps a 6-pack of Coors Light, even though she doesn’t drink it. A fitting memorial. Tiny and hidden and contained. She had brought it home through muscle memory one grocery trip soon after, and neither of them had touched it. He imagines her in a new place, without it. His fingers feel numb.

He sees in her eyes how much she is hurting, and he knows he can’t ask her to live in a morgue. He pulls his hands into his lap to warm back up, and manages a smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds real nice.”

He rakes the yard. It’s quiet. He thinks about visiting this house, taking care of this house. How weird it would be for his mom to be somewhere else, an apartment, even. What would he do for her there? It makes his stomach turn. This house is his substitute for the gravesite he never visits. His work is the upkeep, the laying of flowers, the prayer. This is the place of his grief. This is where it lives, where he transforms it into something he can do. She can’t just take that away.

It's October now, and it's starting to get dark earlier and earlier. He should get back to school soon. Back to real life. Or away from it. Doesn’t really matter. He finishes the pile of leaves he’s building with a flourish, throws down the rake, wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He sighs, and looks up. The big maple here was his favorite tree as a kid. He made up stories about it, climbed in it, hid behind it, sat against it, kicked it when he needed to get out some anger. And then apologized to it, of course. “This is bullshit,” he says to the tree, or to himself. He walks to get some yard waste bags from the garage.

With the yard squared away, the bags folded tightly and set out next to the garbage out front, Ted comes back inside.

“Alright, leaves, check! And I gotta get back soon, Rachel wants to go over our homework about the ‘allegory of McCarthyism’ in the play we’re reading.”

“Well that sounds quite advanced.”

“You know, I honestly have no idea what she’s saying most of the time, but she sure does sound good sayin’ it.”

“You’re a good boy.”

He looks down.

“You wanna take any food with you?”

“Nah I’m okay–”

“–Here, I packed some casserole and a nice dip and some cookies, just for fun.”

He knows better than to argue, and accepts the gifts with a thank you. He stuffs the tupperware into his backpack and slings it back over his shoulder. The sun is coming in through the back windows, lighting up the kitchen in golden hues, but not quite reaching the entryway where they stand, shadowed.

“Maybe next week you can start to go through some stuff in your room, and in the basement. We don’t need to get rid of everything, but it’ll be a good time to downsize a little.”

He’s gotta get out of here.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You take care of yourself, you hear me? Be good.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

She seems to be delaying the goodbye, like she always does, not wanting to open the door so as to not have to close it again.

“And you know, I’d love to meet this Rachel sometime.”

“Sure.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe.” He will never bring Rachel here.

She nods slowly. “Okay Ted, come here.” They hug, and she runs her hands over his stubble again, grown sharper as the day has gone on.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

Outside, the early evening air hits his lungs like a rescue breath.

She waves at him from inside the house, and he waves back. He drives out of sight, and keeps driving, towards the fields instead of towards the city. It’s dark enough now for Ted to drive with his headlights on. He parks on the side of a long quiet road, where he knows he won’t be a bother to anybody.

The air in the car feels tight, so many thoughts without words taking up all the oxygen around him. He keeps the headlights on, the orange sunset still strangling the horizon in a losing battle. The road is old pavement, cracked and light, with gravel from the shoulders spilling out onto its edges. The corn stalks shelter him from the rest of the world, but not from that damn sky. He does what he can to take a deep breath.

He hits play on the stereo again. He rewinds from where the cassette had left off both this afternoon and last night, and hits play again. Not where he wants it. Rewinds, plays. Hears the bass of that song that Rachel loved so much, the one he wants to hear, rewinds a little more. Catches the lyrics “Don’t know what it means, don’t know what it means” from the song before and lets it play out.

He listens blankly as the song transitions into the next, staring at the beams of light the headlights cast against the road.

”Take your time, hurry up, the choice is yours, don’t be late.”

Just as Ted remembered, Cobain slips into a moan that morphs into a melodic ”memoria” pulled like candy across its syllables and he sets his forehead onto the steering wheel.

When the first refrain starts, ”and I swear that I don’t have a gun, no I don’t have a gun,” Ted sits back and rests his head on the head rest, breathing heavily out of his nose and closes his eyes. His jaw is set firm, clenched.

Rachel’s hair falls over her eyes. Isn’t this incredible?

In his car, the guitar roars a scathing solo, edgy and wild. He turns the volume up. The guitar screams, tortured, tweaking. He feels a shiver down his arms.

”Memoriiiia, memoriiiia.” A taunt, a lullaby.

The guitars fade out. Ted reaches his hand out and presses the rewind button. He can hear himself breathing through his nose in the interim. What the fuck is going on. He’s losing his life all over again. He hates him so much. He ruined everything. Still is.

Ted doesn’t wait long, and when he presses play again the song starts a bit in. When the first "memoria" comes on, he turns the volume all the way up, and feels his face scrunch together. He breathes in and feels it shaky in his chest. I’m happy for you. Fuck. And I swear that I don’t have a gun. He punches the steering wheel half heartedly. He brings his hand up to his forehead and shakes his head, scrunching his eyes, sniffling, feeling the hot shame of a sob stuck inside his chest. He wishes he could ask him what to do. Fuck. He grips the steering wheel so that his knuckles become white, watching them, watching his veins pulse, watching his skin stretch. The scorching guitar solo runs through him again, anew, igniting the fire in his chest, loud enough through the speakers for him to let go and not have to hear his own pain.

The moment the guitars start to fade he presses rewind, trying to hold in any sound trying to escape his body for the ten seconds he gives the tape, ashamed of the reality of his emotions coming out, being alive, being heard, even if he is the only person here. It feels pathetic and he can’t afford that now, wants the song to cover for him. He starts the song again near its end, not patient enough to wait, just wanting to be in this space as long as he can bear it. As soon as the song starts again he can breathe, exhaling a sob, stuttered and hoarse.

It’s time.

Memoria.

I wish I knew what to do.

Memoria.

Isn’t it incredible?

The guitars fade again–one more time, he thinks. This time he lets it rewind longer, feels his jaw set tighter again, regaining control, seething now instead of sobbing.

He’s listened enough that now he sings softly along with Cobain. Resigned, renewed, who knows. “And I swear that I don't have a gun. No, I don't have a gun. No, I don't have a gun.” Rocking ever so lightly forwards and back. He takes a deep breath, composing himself, shaking his head, melting into the lyrics, the bass, the guitar, the melody.

He knows the song is wrapping up. He clears his throat, sits up. Runs his hand roughly under his eyes. Takes a clearing breath. He holds his finger over the stop button and as soon as the guitars fade he presses it. Lets the silence overcome him. Enjoys the slight ringing in his ears. He turns down the volume button, responsible as ever, so the next time he isn’t overtaken with sound. His headlights still shine over the shoulder, and as he pulls back onto the road to head back to campus, he sees stars in the sky in spite of himself.

Ted drives straight to Rachel’s apartment. When he gets to her door, there’s no pounding music, no girlish laughter. Just quiet. He knocks.

When she opens the door, she’s dressed in a white cami, an oversized flannel, and pajama shorts. She’s so beautiful, and smart, and cultured. Looking at her like this, he suddenly feels guilty that he’s her boyfriend. He can’t bring anything to her. He can only take away.

She must find his momentary silence charming, because she laughs, and breaks him out of his reverie with a, “Hey cutie.”

“Hi. I missed you.”

She rolls her eyes but opens the door further, “It’s been half a day!”

“And what a half-a-day it was,” Ted says, almost to himself.

“Everything okay with your mom?”

“Oh yeah. She’s great, yeah. Just had to do a bunch of yard work.”

“Aw. Such a good son.”

He needs the conversation to move elsewhere.

“How was your day?”

“Ugh.” She drops onto the couch dramatically. “My study session got canceled last minute. Didn’t even know ‘till I got there. Total waste.”

“Oh that's a pain. Did you have dinner? Let me cook you something.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, I would love to.”

“You’re a strange one, Ted Lasso.”

This catches him. “What do you mean?”

“You're just so giving! I'm not used to guys being like that.”

That was a close one. “Oh,” he clicks his tongue, and smirks with a sweet flirtation at her. “Well get used to it, ‘cause I got a lot to give.” She smiles back at him, and nestles into the pillows on the couch, twirling her hair, watching him.

He opens the cabinets to see what he can work with, and preheats the oven, just in case.