Grasshoppers have continuously reared their heads in unexpected, unconventional places yet no one can explain why or how. 

When I sat to use the restroom, I could hardly adjust my eyes on the coat hook before Julie yelped in the stall next to mine. She found one nestled in the feminine hygiene bin as she reached for a brown bag.

I reached for toilet paper, and a grasshopper sprung from within the roll and landed on my hand. I mimed Julie and screamed, leaping off the toilet and bumping my shoulder into the wall separating me from her.

I fanned and flicked my wrist, and when I hollered about the bug clinging to my finger, the room fell into a frenzy.

It took workers and a few customers to barge in and calm the situation, but I didn't stop shaking like a leaf.

Even as I sit on my dad's sofa, cross-legged and leaning toward the bay window, my foot taps on its own as my mind reels.

"I'm just about done, but you should invest in repellant." The caulking foam spins out of the canister in his hands. He aims directly inside the hole under the window, pressing around the edges to seal it in place. "I'd buy something to sprinkle around the house and maybe use a mint-scented air freshener. It keeps the mice out."

"If it's not one thing, it's another," I mumble, rolling my eyes onto my interlaced fingers. I sit with one forearm propped on the armrest and my body aimed at him.

Down on one knee, Johnathan looks back at me with drawn-in brows. He asks, "You okay," to which I nod despite my shoulders rising to my ears. I hadn't spoken at all on the drive back to the beach house. I just withered in my seat with my left hand cradled in my right. Though I scrubbed and lathered until my skin was red and lemon-scented, I couldn't remove the feeling of tiny feet scampering along my fingers. "You're sure? Your hands are shaking."

"I think I just wanna go home, honestly." My voice cracks and my lip quivers. Gesturing with open hands to the space around us, I tell him at the cusp of tears, "All of this is too much."

"Don't tell me you're letting a bitty bug get the best of you. You're a South Carolinan." It's clear that his remarks aren't to be taken seriously, but my face shrivels and my squinted eyes fill with tears. As I raise my hands to sob into my palms, his smile drops.

Johnathan sets the caulking gun down and turns to me, pulling my torso into his arms. He sets his chin on my head, apologizing profusely while my arms lay trapped between our chests. He's as warm as a stoked fireplace and it doesn't take long for his racing heart to ease mine.

As I sit halfway off the sofa with his hand tracing circles on my back, I sniffle and admire the wallpaper clinging on when it once hung.

Eventually, I recline enough for him to see my lowered face. I mutter, "I know I look so ridiculous. My dad studied bugs my whole life," and my unsteady voice mirrors my damp cheeks in displaying my weariness; Weariness from the settled situation and overwhelm regarding life after Dad's death.

"I wouldn't call it ridiculous. It's no worse than the child of a mortician fearing corpses." I flick my eyes onto his, the softness in them able to calm a storm.

Without missing a beat and through a narrowed gaze, I ask, "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Johnathan stares at me for a few seconds, his lips parting and intaking air. He holds the breath, about to speak until I crack a smile. My grin turns to dry chuckles which cause him to exhale and shake his head at me.

The moment is short-lived. My phone rings and I lean over to remove my flip phone from my back pocket. Adam's name appears on the screen before I open it and I sigh.

Before I can say anything, Johnathan meets my gaze with a smirk and tells me, "I'm gonna go patch the hole in the hall."

I wait for him to grab the caulking gun and stand over me. I crane my neck to watch him leave, then flick the phone open before proceeding with the call.

"Hello," I stutter, my fingers tightening around the red phone.

"Um, hi, stranger," he says, barely pausing before his sarcastic nickname. His bandmates strum guitars and thump drums in the background. Cymbals crash as if they're being moved from one spot to another. "When were you planning on calling me?"

"I figured you didn't wanna be bothered after what happened yesterday." Though I mumble, he understands me.

Adam raises his voice when he asks, "Marie, why would you think that," and I bite my lip, recoiling in the seat. He takes a deep breath and grumbles something incoherent before calming his tone. "Look, I've said this before, and I'll say it again: you and I go at it like a married couple, and though you make me angry in those moments, you're who I'll always come home to. We fuss and fight, but if I could choose, I wouldn't have it any other way; arguments only bring us closer."

"I get that, yeah, but I just -- I don't know. Fighting isn't my thing." He snickers and playfully asks me what my thing is. "I prefer adult conversations instead of name-calling and accusations."

He loses restrain on his suppressed laughter, and my nostrils flare. It takes him a while to compose himself, yet through a smile that I can hear, he tells me, "I can admit when I'm out of line, and I take full responsibility for that." The next part, the beginning, he says with an air of caution bordering on threatening. "I shouldn't have called you a bitch, but Marie, you need to learn when to look down and notice that you're strutting on a thin line. You push and push me until I blow up, then you go ghost afterward, which is just as immature as me calling you out of your name."

"I get that. I'm sorry too." I start to add a but, only to be swiftly interrupted.

"Great, that's all I need. Now, let's just -- move on." I exhale into a slouch. Johnathan scoots furniture around in the kitchen. "What've you been doing since yesterday?"

Lifting my hand to the wall next to the arch, I mumble, "Just the same as then; I'm still fixing up the beach house."

"Have you decided yet whether or not you're keeping it?" I shrug, forgetting for a moment that he can't see me. I start to answer No, but the image of a black grasshopper on my knuckle sends goosebumps up and down my limbs.

"Actually, I think I just wanna sell it." When he asks why I decided, I tell him, "I don't know. Things've been happening lately that've shown me why I left in the first place. Ashton's gone back to the bottle, for example."

"Can't blame someone for finding their way of coping." His bandmate taps his drumsticks as a metronome timer, kickstarting the next song. They practice The Illogical Song by Supertramp.

"Adam, he's not even a full adult yet." I ease my tone when my nerves rattle. Adam's never cared for my family, and the feeling is mutual. Out of everyone else, he hated Ashton the most for calling him out about being too drunk for the funeral.

'Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?'

'I at least know when to be present. At least I was there for the wake, the funeral, and the lunch reception.'

They had to be split up before the argument became physical, but Adam holds grudges longer than most. It's why he moved to Chicago.

"He's twenty, right?" I answer that he is, ready to argue my point, but Adam says, "Then leave him be. I remember what it was like at that age and my vices were completely different from his."

"I just don't want him to be a danger to himself or others," I say under my breath, and he simply reiterates that my little brother will be fine.

I look at Johnathan as his footsteps grow closer to the arch. Standing on the threshold, he says. "Hey, I'm finished in the kitchen," and I nod, about to thank him but he continues, "You're sure you don't want me to check the bedroom?"

"I'm sure. Sorry, I just don't want anyone going in there yet." He nods and assures me that it's okay. He steps away with a smile so infectious that my lips grow a mind of their own. For a second, I don't hear Adam calling me.

He repeats my name with a tone that shifts from curious to seething. I flinch and the phone slips in my hand, but I tighten my grip.

When I tell him to calm down and not pick another fight, he says, "You don't want me to start, but," then abruptly stops. As does the rock music that once swelled and overpowered his voice. He was angry with me for shopping with Johnathan, and I know he's upset again that Johnathan is here with me -- even if it's as innocent as patching holes. As clear as day, he lets out a chuckle that's anything but humorous. "Actually, you know what? Goodbye, Marie."

He ends the call before I can object, and with furrowed brows and a sunken heart, I bring the phone forward to look at the screen.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟