𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction

Chapter 25: 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘴

"Good morning, Ghost," I chirp as I slide out of my bedroom. Aside from slight bags under eyes, she looks bright enough to allow me an ounce of hope. We did get to bed pretty late, what with picking her up from the airport and all. It didn't help that I distracted her throughout the unpacking process by hounding her with questions. A smidge of guilt drizzles into my smile but Ghost hardly notices. She merely flashes me a grin of her own.

"Good morning, Stirrups."

Together we enter the kitchen where Charlie has breakfast on the stove.

"Good morning, girls! How'd ya sleep, Ghost?"

"Fine, thank you," she replies bashfully, "The ocean was a lovely little lullaby, eased me soundly to sleep."

I sneak a slice of toast and hop onto the counter. Mouth stuffed with crunchy, buttery bread I note, "Swchounds wike one o' yer poems."

"Poems?" Charlie inquires.

Bacon grease and scrambled eggs scream and sizzle on the pan. Ghost watches the food move with the same shy eye she showed me when I sifted through her magical suitcase of the entire world's poetry. A delightful discovery, really. I'm no nerd, not in the slightest. I read because my mama wanted me to have well rounded brains and not because any book in particular caught my eye. Not like Henry, who injected his odd obsession with fantasy novels into my consciousness. Now I've got all sorts of 'Lord of the Rings' references at my disposal and I've never once read the book. My mother did read me the Hobbit, when I was little. It's my youngest sister, Carraway's favorite. But Tolkien aside, I've never dabbled in poetry.

Unless the Psalms count.

I certainly never heard of Emily What's-Her-Face before last night.

Charlie, on the other hand, can match Ghost's knowledge easily enough.

"Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost, they're my favorites."

"Have you read William Blake?"

"I have a bit, but as a kid his 'The Tiger' poem scared me," Ghost laughs sheepishly.

"Tiger poem?" I ask over the mill of toast smacking that churns in my ear.

Charlie hums, "Ghost would you mind grabbing us plates from that cabinet above you – thank you – yes, 'The Tiger' by William Blake. It's a famous poem, something along the line of 'Tiger, tiger, burning bright...something...forests...'" Ghost slides three dishes along the counter and Charlie carries the steaming pan across the kitchen and serves us each a helping. Her laugh is soft and borderline nervous. For the first time ever, Charlie seems embarrassed. "I can't remember much of it. I haven't read much poetry since college."

"Tiger, Tiger, burning bright / In the forests of the night / What immortal hand or eye / Could frame thy fearful symmetry."

"That's it!"

As they take their seats at the counter, I push off from my current perch and pad on over. I swallow the last bits of bread between my teeth in time to make way for the strip of bacon laying brick red and glorious on my plate. I let out a strangled groan and dive at the bacon with my bare hands, completely ignoring the fork beside my dish. I'll need it for the eggs, but I've never used anything but sticky fingers to eat bacon. To my right, Ghost giggles and Charlie rolls her eyes.

"Stirrups, we're not barbarians. You're gonna scare her off."

"It's fine," Ghost assures her, "I had two older brothers."

We share a laugh.

A thought bends Charlie's brow. She dabs at her mouth with a napkin and turns to Ghost, "Yes, I remember being told that one of them would be passing through and bringing along a car of yours?"