Chapter Text
Everyday.
Every day.
Every, single, solitary day was the exact same. The monotony was both a comfort and a curse. The comfort was that he never had to think about what to do, what was right, what he wanted out of life. It felt as if his path had been set since before he could remember. He had never questioned it, never felt the need, desire, or ability to. The curse? Well, the curse, was that the comfort was all a lie. And the only person he had ever confided that to was gone. Fourteen excruciatingly long years gone. The helplessness of that night, the look of regret and sadness in those dark eyes, never to be seen again, would forever be ingrained in his soul.
So he went through the motions of this life, surrounded by his parents, the same friends, neighbors, and acquaintances he’d known literally since birth, and her.
His dad, his idol, Clint Brewer was an accountant. He was a big, tall man with an easy smile, a quick wit, and the purest love for his wife. So, like everything else in this life, he did what was expected of him. Without thought, without discussion, without preamble, he too became an accountant. He followed completely in his footsteps, attended the same community college, got the same business degree, and upon graduation it was no shock to anyone that he started working for his father’s firm. His affinity for numbers and order and solutions kept him happy for the most part. Professionally, at least.
His mom, Marcy, was the most wonderful woman on the planet. A housewife, PTO president when he was in school, baseball mom, founding member of the Seahaven Garden Club. There was seemingly nothing that she could not do, a true Renaissance Woman. She cooked, baked, played piano and ukulele, she could sew, knit, sing. When he was younger she would read him the most amazing bedtime stories, about far away places, time machines, deep sea adventures, she always found a way to integrate them into the story. He was always the hero, always rescued the damsel in distress. Her imagination was immense. His earliest memory was her face, smiling at him, singing softly while she danced him around the living room of their home. It was a good memory. The older he got, the harder it was to find and hold onto the good memories.
Rachel. His on again, off again, girlfriend. For the record they were off. Again. If anyone cared to notice. They had spent the last 18 years doing this. He tried so hard. It just never felt right, she never felt right, and no matter how hard he tried he could never fully shake her, he always fell back into it. He tried to date other girls, and then other women, but polite rejections were all he ever received. He wondered what was wrong with him. Was he that unappealing? He was the captain of the baseball team in high school and college, valedictorian in both as well, prom king. He also gave freely of his time, volunteered at the animal shelter and senior citizens home, he was a nice person. Sure, he was a little on the short side, his curly hair cut close and professional, but he certainly didn’t think he was unattractive, perhaps not traditionally handsome, but also not a troll. Could no one see his value? Was the female population of this town so tight knit that once Rachel had laid her claim, no one else would even look in his direction? Ever? He had thought that maybe, once, long ago, that he’d made a real connection, formed a bond with someone, but that was clearly not meant to be, and it was too hard to poke at and examine that relationship, so all that was left was Rachel. Again.
He lived in a house that was too big for one man. He had fallen in love with a small studio apartment in the downtown area of Seahaven. It was close to the office, close to his favorite cafe, close to the park. It had a lovely exposed brick fireplace, and the windows overlooked said park. He could easily see himself living there. His desk by the bed, his guitar in the corner, his small collection of books on the mantle. It was just big enough for all his possessions, and small enough that he didn’t get lost in it. It was perfect. But somehow the financing fell through and the only other available option was this house. He hadn’t needed or wanted a three bedroom, two story house with a wrap around front porch and large fenced in backyard. Most of the rooms were empty, the others sparsely decorated, he just didn’t need all this space. It was a couple blocks over from his parent’s house, which was nice. But it was sandwiched between two homes with large families. Kids, bikes, skateboards, toys overflowing their yards into his. He felt pressure on every front to settle down, fill those rooms with children, get a dog. It was overwhelming and never-ending. The only peace he ever received was before the dawn, before the sleepy waterfront town awakened, when everyone thought he was asleep.
He set his alarm for 5:30am for his morning run/hike through the safe part of the woods on the outskirts of town. He had never encountered any predators in the wild, but he remained vigilant. The local news was constantly reporting on missing hikers, lost to the terrain, to bears or mountain lions, to homicidal drifters in the area. He had no interest in being a statistic, so he stayed in line, on the safe trails, at the very edge of the safe hours. It was so peaceful here, he felt like he could breathe, if only for this brief passage of time each day. Most mornings he watched the sun rise over the bay that separated his hometown from the rest of the world. An island paradise, his mother called it. Sometimes if he squinted his eyes and tilted his head in just the right way he could almost make out the other shoreline. Almost. And everyday, every day he allowed himself this moment to think, to imagine, to dream, to speak in his mind the two words he was entrusted with to never, ever utter aloud.
Schitt’s Creek.