ALREADY GONE.

when: early september 2024 — early evening

where: o’shea’s irish pub

Since his arrival to Blue Harbor a couple of days ago (excluding the occasional sporadic visits he took over the summer to figure out the town), Emmy was feeling out of place—maybe it was the school year starting, maybe otherwise, but he felt out of place regardless. Thankfully, it was the weekend, and that meant some time to collect their thoughts before Monday. A curious glance to the right led his eyes to meet seemingly a pub, and piquing his interest, he parked his car and stepped out towards the establishment.

They never drank, never once thinking to try alcohol in their newly twenty-five years of life—so a pub was the last place they’d expect themself to be in. Yet part of this whole new-to-town thing was, well, just that, actually. He figured he should explore Blue Harbor as much as he could to get used to things. The interior looked nice, and it wasn’t particularly packed, either. Perhaps there were other bars in town, that’d be for another day, they supposed. He walked over to the actual bar, sat down on a stool, and tapped his fingers on the surface for a moment before waving over the bartender and ordering buffalo wings. Was it weird to eat at a bar without actually consuming alcohol? Emmy didn’t think so. He looked over, noticing a person beside him, and regarded them with a nod. “Are there more bars in this town? You’d think for the weekend it’d be packed.”

Even though she'd been an owner for a couple of years now, it was still difficult for the chef to sit back and let the place run without her overseeing every little bit of its operation.

Though, she supposed, this was a good thing.

The staff was likely thankful to be trusted to do the job without her watchful eye.

Not that Nell would ever consider herself a tough boss. It had been different when she'd been head chef at a super swanky restaurant in Chicago. She'd run the kitchen with an intensity that had since left her when taking over Tres Amigos.

Rachel grimaced as Sam listed off such a mishap happening when in New York. "Yeah, I mean it's a bustling metropolis though, so I feel like that would make a bit more sense, though for sure embarrassing. Good for her though for saving what mattered most." She joked a bit, her own need of caffeine making her answer that way. Though she couldn't help but let out a small snort at Sam's comment. "Yes it's the altruist in me that would risk myself before everyone else." Though there was a hint of truth to this, it was such a lovely spin yet again.

"Yeah? Good, I can help you through it for sure. There are definitely things that I do miss about living in a big city that I'm sure you're getting withdrawals from." Rachel nodded, though she wasn't raising a kid nor did she think she would be doing that. She wondered if Sam was doing that or just had said it because it came to mind for him and his future. "It definitely is a good environment to write in, which makes me beg the question, are you in the midst of writing another great American novel?"

Unfortunately, as a teen, Samuel had been nothing but long limbs that had sprouted up over night.

"Now I'm curious," he began, intrigue in his umber gaze, brows pushed together slightly, "why does it make more sense and is more acceptable in a big city rather then a place like here?" It wasn't so much that the writer was ready to argue otherwise, Sam just wanted to gain perspective. Maybe it had something to do with not sticking out, in a metropolis it was easy to blend, whereas in a small town people were likely to remember mistakes for your entire life.

Though, he had remembered the woman falling yet saving her iced coffee, hadn't he?

"Well, see—" The man grinned briefly as though he'd just won some great debate. "We just have you to thank and be grateful for. Should an apocalypse ever hit. Hopefully not though, I'm nowhere near prepared," Sam jested.

"What do you miss most about big city life?" Knowing Rachel would likely return the question to him, the New Yorker thought about it himself. "For me," he answered without ask, getting ahead of it, "it's probably thw white noise of the city. It's always moving. Then it would be the takeout and it's availability at any given time. Some of my most favorite memories have takeout involved."

By all accounts, their decision to divorce had been a tragic miscalculation. They didn’t have to initiate the proceedings, and in the absence of their wife, they found themselves a little lost from the life they had painstakingly constructed. So why did they think opening themselves up to dating again would work, for that matter? They conceded that it might have been a little too early, but, bloody hell—they missed the feeling of being wanted. Missed the feeling of having someone to hold, if only for a short while. And if it didn’t work with Nell—a woman they’d actually liked, all things considered, and bad date notwithstanding—who the hell else would it work with? 

It was apparent, though, that Nell saw through their gaffe. Not that they’d made a great attempt at hiding it. There was a playful smirk on her face, one they had an impulsive urge to kiss away, but they restrained themselves, recognizing that this wasn’t the right time or place—and, anyway, they’d already failed in their first attempt, hadn't they? “Nell. Hey,” they repeated, still a bit dazed, attempting to themselves back into the moment. They swore they could hear the wind chattering away in their ear and laughing. “Can you blame me? Heard the owner was a bombshell.” There was the telltale flicker of self-doubt creeping in, now, but they’d forced a smirk regardless. 

God. In the absence of their cello, their thoughts were scattering in every direction. “You came out here for me, huh? Way to make someone feel special,” they teased back. This part was easy—the playful exchange, the flirty barbs. But sitting through another lunch, where all the things that once defined them—their music, their confident wife, their status—had been stripped away, leaving only this raw, vulnerable self? It was mortifying. Embarrassing. Embarrassing. Embarrassing.

“A drink, I can do,” they said, reorienting themselves, but accepting the invitation anyway. “You’re sure it’s not a bother, though? I can wait for…” They sift through the names of their head, eventually landing on — “Giselle.” Oh, sweet sister, I am so sorry.

The chef was the epitome of confidence and had it coming out of her ears, crippling self-loathing aside of course. No one really saw those soft sides anyway. Those soft edges and any vulnerability was carefully tidied away with a protective wall so sturdy and so high that Nell wasn't certain anyone could get past it these days. It was difficult to imagine anyone trying, her life was too complicated and effort was foregone in this climate of dating.

"Of course I did," that smirk stretched more into a smile as the brunette regarded the cellist. Features so delicate and fingers so nimble it was tough not to feel sad for how their date could've and should've gone. "It's pretty difficult to ignore your loitering out here," Nell teased.

Had the date been that bad that Valentine had been that hesitant in coming inside for a drink and a meal?

In the local's perspective, now that they'd gotten the rough part out of the way, she figured they could be on their way to a solid friendship. She wasn't sure she was ready to open up her life and share it with someone else, not with her father in poor health and her dedication to him and her restaurant. Where would a partner actually fit in?

Plus, there was a distinct impression that the blonde hadn't seemed all that ready to move on after all.

"Well, I'm making up from past mistakes," a mossy green gaze practically twinkled as Nell peered at the cellist, nodding her head to the side at the door, "since I failed the first time around."

Like Valentine she found it easy to be in this space— flirty banter and keeping things light. That was well within her wheelhouse. Not that whole getting to know someone stage that she'd hoped she could somehow skip in the future. Now into her early thirties the chef was already worn of talking stages and figured she might be one of those people that were destined to be solo.

"So, you really have company?" Nell reached for the door, playfully calling Valentine's bluff with no reason other than to tease. "You can still wait inside for Giselle to arrive." That name sounded exotic and briefly the brunette wondered if that was what the awkwardness was about. Having a date in front of someone it hadn't worked out with. "You can also have a drink with me while you wait for her. We can toast to a better outcome with this one."

There was a fleeting idea that this Giselle could come in and get the wrong impression but thankfully Nell was the chef and owner of the establishment. It could easily be explained as something innocent.

He gave a dismissive wave. "He'll be fine. He's a professor. There's bound to be a student he pissed off that's around here."

"There are some that do. They're just not in my class," James said as he looked around to see if he was going to piss yet another student off. "Not a lot of jocks take Literature."

"Well, Blue Harbor isn't that big. We'll probably bump into each other before you, uh, complete your 'pass through'." James scratched his head. "I think you did a great job with that throw. I think the water concussed me or something."

After running the towel through his hair once more, he replied, "No, I moved here a couple of months ago. A bit of a change from a big city but a good one. How about you? How long do you plan to be here for?"

Ignoring the poor heckling was difficult but the mountaineer found the professor in front of her engaging enough that it was more of a background effect. "You must teach higher level then?" For sure a question and not an assumption. Maybe universities had changed quite a bit since she'd attended as literature had been required in her time.

"That wouldn't be a bad thing, would it?" A soft smile touched the Montana raised photographer, thinking of them running into each other again.

"The water actually seems refreshing in this summer heat. I've done quite a few glacial dips in my time and they're quite invigorating."

That was interesting to learn— that he too was someone that had relocated to this small town."I've been coming across that quite a bit. For a small town Blue Harbor sure does seem to collect quite a few big city residents. Mind if I ask what brought on the change?" Curiosity always got the cat with Selina.

Then again, she wouldn't be who she was if she'd not ventured out to satiate those intrigues with the world.

Not that the blonde was all that sure of herself anymore.

When asked if she was a journalist, Phoebe couldn't help but laugh. Of course, the likes of Deb in the Blue News office would be beside themselves at hearing such a question, but she just flashed a smile at the man. "Kinda, I'm an intern at the paper. But it's just a for-now thing, y'know." When he admitted he was boring, she shrugged. "So am I, I'm in a bar doing work rather than drinking." The 'sort of have a kid' line caused her to frown in confusion and curiosity. "What does that mean? Parents haven't returned to relieve you from your babysitting duties, or..." She felt like she should have added the disclaimer that he wasn't obliged to tell her anything. Then again, if he didn't want her to know, he shouldn't have been so cryptic about his words, and her nosiness admittedly got the better of her.

When he questioned whether Leon was her dad, Phoebe scrunched her nose, trying to think of the best way to explain her and Leon's dynamic in a simple way. "He's my uncle." She settled for. "He uses me for recipe testing, sometimes. But yeah, way too fancy for a pub. But fancy food is overrated anyway."

In the breaks of conversation Sam sipped on his beer but he had become just as curious of her own cryptic way of speaking, of her skill of saying just enough without saying much at all.

"An intern for now," the New Yorker mused, "what's the experience prepping you for?" The automatic assumption was a career in writing but not looking to get into journalism possibly.

Amused, he shrugged his broad shoulders, umber eyes panned from her work to her meal to around the pub they were apart of the scenery of. "Would you rather be drinking or are you one of those that likes the ambiance? The noise, the atmosphere helps you focus and get your work done— a rowdier coffee shop if you will?"

A chuckle bubbled up at her tease and with that Sam understood just how that sounded. This likely wasn't going to be the last time he'd have to clarify his non-son. "Let's just put it that a paternity test told me, after the fact, some years later that I was not actually the father. He still feels like my son, though." Lips twisted to one side and the ache in his chest nearly had the author asking for a shot of whiskey.

When it came to the last three years of his life the pain was never really that far away.

The reaction to his question put a bit of a smile on his face and when she corrected, Sam's brow lifted. There was no way to explain how her clarification threw him off and how it was unexpected, but he nodded anyway in acceptance.

As she began to sob, the sounds first croaking and stifled, then drowning in a sudden surge, Terry felt the heaviness rush through her—through skin, through muscle, through the nerves and sinews, down to the bone. Slowly, they ran their left hand along her spine, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, each touch firm but deliberate. Pressing their palm flat against the center, they began to trace small, soothing patterns along the fabric of her shirt. They traced the same pattern, over, and over, but even now, a flicker of doubt surged. Am I doing this right? Is this too firm, or not firm enough? Touch had never come easy. It had taken them half a century to understand why. And yet—they let Sev use their body as an anchor. They wondered if she, too, realized that this was their own form of yielding.

Their breath hitched slightly as they felt the first of her tears dampening their shirt and the small space of flesh between their neck and shoulders, where the open collar left some bare skin exposed.

He’s gone. Everything’s gone. My whole life.

At her weakened words, Terry instinctively tightened their hold, shoring up a fragile structure against the storm, crashing, barraging through. “Sev, I’m sorry,” they murmured, tilting their head to the side and lowering their voice into a whisper, carrying the words gently into her ear. There was nothing else to do, but to say the words, over and over, until they embedded themselves into her skin. “He was a great man. I loved him, too. He understood me. What I was like. I can’t even imagine—” 

Sev’s father. An architect by trade, there were times that they’d thought he understood them even more than their own father did. How they’d spoken the same philosophy of structure, that shared pattern language that architects knew best. How they’d both understood that building something did not merely involve a linear sequence of breaking down patterns to smaller, granular units—but creating an ecosystem, where patterns overlapped and multiple meanings were captured within a single space. More importantly, he understood how Terry had loved Sev—quiet, hard, and from a distance. It was easier that way. They’d take up what space they could find in her life, afraid that their insistence would precipitate some crisis. 

He’s gone. Everything’s gone. My whole life. What would Sev’s father think of them now, when they’d left her so lost, and grieving alone? 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. And I know we’re not—I know we didn’t end things well—” But they had to invoke the truth, didn’t they? There was no avoiding the point, that the bricks of their life together had tumbled over into a disintegrated heap. “But I’m here now, if you need me. If you…” 

Being in Terry's arms felt like home.

At once, the courageous, death defying alpinist felt safe and therefore the floodgates had opened and unleashed a waterfall of tears against the brunette's shoulder. Fingers gripped into the fabric that clothed Terry and Selina clung to them as though her former partner were her lifeline on the edge of a mountain peak.

Sob after sob wracked her small frame and the pain that had been bottled up for the last couple of months had begun to seep out. This was the first time she'd let her guard down since she'd heard the news. The blonde was vulnerable and with one of the people that had hurt her the deepest. Even then, despite that, Selina's ears took in the soothing tones that hummed against her body.

This felt so safe.

It was too easy to forget she was hugging the wolf.

Slowly her sobs began to dry up and something in Terry's words had the photographer coming back to her senses. It was strange because Selina knew the architect and how they operated; she'd spent nearly a decade learning, knowing, and loving this person. Yet Terry asking if they should let go brought her back into herself.

Awareness slammed back into her body and the blonde began peeling herself away. "I'm sorry," she rasped just before her fingers wiped at her messy face. Red, puffy, and blotchy from her display of weakness Selina blinked away the stray moisture in her eyes as her tongue wet her lips and captured the tears that had streamed down her face. Their faces were incredibly close together and in the moment a deep sadness had peered into those eyes.

Damn your eyes.

"I don't know what came over me," the mountaineer further apologized even though she had every sense that Terry hadn't meant to put distance between them. Unfortunately that uncertainty in her former partner had awoken Selina to the scene, to the moment.

Hands grasped and gripped into the architect's upper arms, nearly where they connected with their shoulders and Selina held them firmly as she began the work of pushing their body away from the lying warmth of Terry's frame. "You let me go two years ago," she whispered above the emotion lodged in her throat. There were two distinct and devastating pains she was fighting here. "There's been no obligation to me for a long time now. I'm sorry I—" Blonde hair was brushed back from her face and her heart ached as though it were about to pour right out at their feet. "—confused the moment."

No part of her was attempting to be combative or hurtful, this was protection. Nothing more, nothing less. "I'll be on my way, I should really go." A step back, touch completely eliminated. "You have the letter. I don't know what it says but I hope— I hope it brings you some comfort and closure."

After an adjustment of her bag against her shoulder the blonde further backed away toward the door she'd previously entered through. Some part of her had been fearful, or just unable to turn away from Terry. Maybe she was committing them all back to memory again. An update from the last time she'd ever laid eyes on her ex.

They looked so good. So—

Whole.

When Selina had reached the door, her hand rested on the handle and before she parted for forever a request was laid between them.

"Take care of yourself. There weren't many that supported your dreams and ideas more than my father, I know somewhere in the ether he's still rooting you on." The words were strained through the grip of heartbreak. Eyes stung again and the tears tipped over letting a couple of tears roll down the softness of her cheeks.

chef  to  chef  encounter,  with  brusqueness  to  match  —  chance  couldn't  get  bitter  about  it.  there  was  something  kind  of  relieving  in  how  nell  called  chance  out  on  it,  refused  to  cow  -  tow  to  even  his  brief  complaint.  (  which,  to  be  fair,  had  been  to  himself,  and  thus  caught  within  earshot.  )  he  scoffed  in  return.  “what  the  fuck  aren't  i  cooking  in  there?”  didn't  tamper  down  his  own  coarseness  either.  more  relief.  “yadi  -  yada,  i  own  the  line,  i  do  what  i  want.”  said  without  actual  argument,  but  gesturing  of  the  cigarette  in  his  hand.  upon  her  demand,  he  scoffed  again;  regardless,  extended  the  package  and  huffed.

sounded  like  one  of  those  irritable  stray  cats,  he  thought  to  himself.  man,  i'm  like  that  tabby  out  behind  my  house.  fitting,  considering  his  own  cat  at  home,  who  would  be  patiently  awaiting  him  on  the  island  counter.  needing  his  tender  vittles.  but  at  least  his  cat  was  nice  about  it.  unlike  customers  sometimes.

he  would  give  nell  the  honest  -  to  -  god  truth,  though.  her  construction  against  taking  shit,  and  especially  his?  didn't  have  to  pretend  a  thing.  “it's  gonna  sound  stupid.”  acknowledgement.  “but  my  actual  boss  had  the  bright  idea  to  do  a  double  line  when  we're  understaffed.  that  means  i'm  doing  both.  which  is  fine!  except  when  i'm  not  just  delegating.”  formed  his  hands  into  the  gesture  of  an  explosion.  both  brought  near  his  head,  extending  outwards  from  his  temples. 

it  had  been  a  bad  move  combined  with  the  fresh  catch  of  the  day  advertisement.  chance  had  said  so.  “which.  whatever.  too  bad,  so  sad.  just  tryna  get  it  done.  and  then  i  get  clocked  when  something  is  over.  at  least  it's  not  fucking  under.” 

Without hesitation Nell took a cigarette from the offered pack and gestured for his lighter. Of course she would've preferred this to have been a different kind of smoke but beggars couldn't be choosers.

As the chef smoked— inhale, exhale— she listened as he ranted away. It was much ado about nothing. Frustration due to the culmination of things not going quite according to plan. Little by little those things built up and could cause a person to explode. Much like what she was currently witnessing.

It was easy to let him go, to let Chance get it all out of his head with his full chest. Sometimes it was the best response to the bullshit. The only real way to manage. "People are gonna complain no matter what— fuck 'em. As if they know anything perfectly cooked." Green eyes rolled, she'd dealt with it occasionally in Chicago at that big, fancy restaurant she'd been head chef at.

In her own restaurant? People didn't say shit.

Most of her customers were white people so what could they say?

"Wait..." Had the brunette heard him correctly, or better yet, understood Chance properly in the midst of his ranting? "You want me to cook with you?" Before he could respond her head was already shaking.

"My time off is precious. I just wanted a cigarette and I guess— to let you rant." Part of her itched at the thought of jumping in.

Taking a deep breath, Theo can do little else but clear her throat. There’s a part of her that wants to reprimand him for this — tell him he has no right to just waltz into her house like he’s a part of it, like the place would welcome his silhouette like a familiar shape — but there’s an even bigger part of her that’s afraid if she opens her mouth right now, an unbidden I love you will make its way past her lips, and there’s no coming back from that, is there?

She makes her way toward the kitchen, stopping in front of him to take a closer look at the pizza he’s brought. It’s raw, of course, looking far more impressive than the crappy one-topping they used to take to-go back in New York. She meets his gaze, feeling the furrow of her brows deepen. “Did you make this from scratch?” she asks. “You didn’t—” She bites her lip to keep from finishing the sentence. Mostly because she doesn’t know where the sentence is going, really. You didn’t have to? You didn’t tell me you would? You didn’t mean to make me feel this way, did you?

“Thank you,” she decides to say, because it’s the most reasonable reaction, and perhaps the most neutral, as well. She even offers him a smile, despite how far up her throat her heart is at the moment. For a minute or two, she can’t break her gaze from his — it’s so familiar, in a way that might very well eat her up from the inside if she’s not careful — until she finally swallows and moves past him, toward the cupboard. “Do you want some wine?” she asks. “Or — something stronger,” she offers, eyeing the glasses available to her. Her fingers feel heavy on her hands, the pounding of her heart frantic against her wrist. 

She glances over at Samuel. “What are you thinking will get me through this without crying?” She asks him, and for the first time in a minute, there’s a hint of teasing in her tone. A joke, offered without expectations or conditions. Offered to him not in a moment of weakness, but rather a moment of clarity — he’s in her house, and they’re going to talk, and every single nerve in her body is standing on end in his presence. 

More than anything the writer had desired an opportunity to sit and talk about everything with his ex. To explain to her his reasonings for leaving and staying gone. Even if there was no forgiveness for his silence or his actions, the man was desperate for the lawyer to understand that it truly had nothing to do with her.

None of this was her fault.

What she'd received out of his actions wasn't deserved.

That was the important message to convey. Along with the simple fact that he still loved her all the same. The New Yorker knew that was incredibly difficult to understand given that the thoughts, feelings, and actions didn't all line up perfectly nor did they match.

Life was never that easy. Never that simple.

"Yeah," he answered among his movements in her kitchen, "I started prepping during our texts. It's why some responses took longer than others." A small laugh followed and adoring umber eyes found Theo standing near, appearing hesitant and as though she might flee at any moment.

"I wanted to," Sam began to explain, "no takeout really hits the same outside of New York so I've turned to cooking even more than before." The writer had always enjoyed the whole process of making something from scratch with his bare hands. It felt more whole, more enriching, more personal. There was also the unspoken part that him cooking even more had to do with a boy named Ben.

Nostalgia hit the author hard. Seeing her standing by, ready for conversation as she watched him move about what had once been a shared kitchen in a dwelling that had been their own as a couple. He tried his best to ignore the pit in his stomach, to not let the moment grip hold of him too strongly. If he'd learned anything it was that living in the past was dangerous and would lead to disappointment.

"You have any beer?" Brow lifted, it had only been then that he'd wished he'd brought a pack or stopped along the way. Wine had never really been his go-to but he'd drink it in a pinch. "Or we can jump to the whiskey and start softening things up," he'd suggested feeling it could help ease some anxieties.

With the pizza finally in the oven, Sam rested the heels of his palms against the edge of the countertop and leaned into it. Gaze fixed on Theo's he'd give a penny for her real thoughts and what was going on behind those beautiful eyes he'd often sank into for comfort.

How was he supposed to get through this?

A front row seat to further hurting the person you loved most felt like hell.

"You shouldn't cry, but I'm sorry ahead of time if anything I tell you hurts you that much." For a second he only peered down at his ex and wondered if she knew that he'd never intended to hurt her. That the entirety of the last few years felt like some sort of out of body experience for him.

"Do you want something in your stomach first or do you want me to just— start?"

Which Sam had no idea how to do that or where that point was. He'd find it, of course, but he already had a feeling of trudging through thick, knee deep mud.

"You have a beautiful home, by the way."

No matter how much it was all his fault that things were the way they were now, it didn't take away from the pain of seeing how well someone moved on from you.