Title: We Are Living On Hope, We Are Living On Life

Rating/Warnings: PG | mild swearing

Words: 1191

Summary: It doesn't matter how far from home she goes – there's always one constant in Peyton Sawyer's life.

Notes: Written as part of fandom_stocking (dreamwidth) for miss_slipslop

Peyton Sawyer is a walking and talking contradiction. She wants roots and stability; she wants freedom and the wind in her hair. She wants a soul mate kind of love; she wants solitude and independence.

She drives down the highway, the night rain still shining on the blacktop under the morning sun. She hits Chicago when the sun is going down, orange fading into purple fading into black.

The library is beautiful – red brick and arches and high ceilings. She almost feels bad about going inside just to deface one of their books. Almost.

She grins when she finds the back page of the book is already taken up with rounded letters in black pen.

P. Sawyer, today is my birthday. I am going to get drunk and call you at 4AM to cry about a guy I shouldn't be in love with anymore, and you're going to tell me it'll be okay. I miss you. I love you.

She takes out her pen and writes at the bottom of the page, B. Davis, I remember that call. I told you it was going to be okay. I was mostly right. He's an ass. You deserve better. I miss you. I love you.

Peyton knows there won't be any messages from Brooke in the books in the smaller towns, but she looks anyway. She hits Route 66 and stops anywhere there's a library. Not all of them have the right book. She strolls through the shelves, running her fingers over the worn spines and watching dust motes float in the air.

She stops sometimes and picks up a job for a few weeks. Waitressing, mostly. She gets blisters on her feet and an ache in her back, but she also gets gas for her car and meals that don't come out of a vending machine.

She leaves a message in Tulsa. She's pretty sure Brooke will never find it. That's never been the point.

B. Davis, today it's raining and I'm stuck in town while the Comet is getting checked out at a garage. I wish we were together, listening to music and sharing an ordinary day. (Were our days together ever ordinary?)

I don't know what I'm doing, but the funny thing is, I don't feel too bad about it.

L.A. is hot and crowded. Peyton wanders through the crowds of people on the sidewalks, catching snatches of conversations. She watches a brunette sling her arm across the shoulders of her blonde friend, and her heart aches with homesickness.

The library is quiet and cool, and there are several lines scrawled in the back of their book.

P. Sawyer, I cannot wait until you're here. You and I are going to hit the town. We're going to find some hotties, we're going to eat a greasy breakfast to cure our hangovers, and I'm going to cry for days after you leave.

She can remember writing the next note – her hair still had glitter in it and she'd not taken her sunglasses off, the page glaring under the fluorescent lights.

B. Davis, last night was a blast. I will never regret learning those moves to Disco Inferno. (Don't tell Mouth, but I think you rocked it more.) I left you 76 minutes ago and I miss you more than ever.

P. Sawyer, of course I rocked it more. I love Marvin McFadden, but he lacks the necessary... voluptuousness... to truly rock it. (I am so glad I am in a library. DICTIONARIES.) I will dance with you any time, Blondie. Hurry up and get your skinny ass back here.

Peyton takes a blue pen out of her purse and glances around before she scrawls the next note.

B. Davis. I don't think I've left you enough time to see this before your next birthday, but: SURPRISE!

Peyton drives winding highways lined with towering trees. She bathes her feet in rivers that cut through the earth, churning and curving down to the sea. She sends snapshots and postcards home to her dad. Sometimes she sends one to Lucas, or to Jake and Jenny.

She never sends anything to Brooke. Just leaves a trail of notes across the country, waiting for Brooke to fly in for work or play and find them. And she picks up the notes Brooke leaves for her, piecing them together over months and years, filling the silences they leave in their phone calls, the missed promises and the broken hearts.

In Seattle, Brooke has written I wish you'd stop running and just come home, P. Sawyer .

There's no date, and Peyton can't remember Brooke ever talking about Seattle. The note could be years old. Or it could have been written yesterday.

I haven't found what I'm looking for yet.

She drives through snow and rain. She watches a storm play over wide flat fields, and she hunkers down in an elementary school basement with a bunch of strangers for a day, waiting out a hurricane warning.

She watches the gulls soar on the ocean wind and tastes salt on her lips. She lets the sea curl her hair, and she doesn't miss conversation as much as she thinks she should.

Her back seat is full of fast food wrappers and scratched CDs filled with road mixes.

She buys a notebook and sketches on a street in Philadelphia, giving them away to anyone who wants to take one.

Philadelphia has a note waiting for her.

Sometimes I miss Tree Hill, P. Sawyer. I love what I do, and I know how lucky I am, but I can't help but feel you're the one who took the right road out of that town. My "mother figure" doesn't speak highly of you at all, which only acts as further proof, I think.

I don't know when you'll see this. It's July right now and I saw you four weeks ago and it wasn't for long enough. Can you come and get me? I don't want to write you any more notes. I want to come with you.

Peyton twirls her pen in her hand. Giving up solitude is a dangerous thing. She's become accustomed to being alone. She doesn't have anything with her – she drives for hours and she sleeps in her car most nights, and she watches her suitcase of clothes spin around in laundromat machines. She wonders if Brooke wants all of those things, or if she just doesn't want what she's got right now.

B. Davis, this life can suck. I can't regret zigzagging this country, but it's not all romance and freedom.

We're going to fight. I'm going to call you a bitch at least a thousand times. We're probably not going to have much money, and you're never going to shut up about it.

I don't have a steady job, I don't have a husband, I don't have kids and I don't have any idea of what I'm doing. But I don't care about not having any of those things.

The only thing I care about not having is you. I miss you. I love you. Pack your bag, B. Davis. I'll see you soon.