*breaks iphone and orders starbucks*

it’s  common  knowledge  that  emmy’s  inner  circle  is  impossibly  small   —–  if  even  enough  to  constitute  a  circle  or  any  shapely  figure,  considering  it  had  mostly  been  dominic,  off  and  on,  and  lux.  perhaps  a  few  brunch  pals  that  she  actively  sabotaged  out  of  boredom,  but  those  two  had,  for  better  or  worse,  become  her  touchstones  in  this  city.  the  heartless  creature  loved  dominic  and,  biggest  surprise  of  all,  she  loved  lux.  not  enough  to  tell  either  of  them  at  any  point  ever,  but  even  bastien  scarcely  received  those  drunken  declarations. 

she  understood  why  lux  left   —–  her  general  lack  of  empathy  didn’t  allow  for  any  excuses,  though,  and  lux  had  left  emmy  to  watch  thing  one  and  thing  two  play  out  their  high  school  fantasies  on  a  public  scale.  she  resents  and  adores  her  in  equal  measure,  the  usual  cocktail  of  emmy’s  relationships.  “do  you  think  a  few  kisses  are  enough  to  give  you  a  clean  slate  ?  you’re  off  gallivanting  in  the  sunshine,  and  i’m  just  one  rotted  wedding  dress  away  from  becoming  mrs.  havisham,  thank  you  very  much.  ”  she  makes  note  of  lux’s  fresh  fillers,  silently  impressed  by  their  subtle  appearance,  and  finally  cracks  a  smirk.  “  you  beast.  ”

“I’m not sure I want a clean slate. I think I’d much rather wallow in the dirt, with you.” But just for this weekend, she reminds herself. She’s only back - back here, back in New York, back in time - until the storm passes. After seeing Dominic, the pouring, howling, gloomy weather that's grounded her here overnight had blown her through the dark streets to Emmy’s front door. Lux is windswept wild and chilled to the bone by it all but she won’t let herself be made cold, again: bleak, and bitter, and frozen in place like the others are. No. She’s leaving as soon as she can. Going back up north to thaw herself out again. 

--Because, she tells herself, if she feels any warmth in Emmy’s touch, it’s an illusion. People dying of hypothermia often feel irrationally, inexplicably hot. 

“You should come back to Monte Carlo with me,” she says, and she’s really not sure whether she’s just being polite or not. “You don’t have to gallivant. There are plenty of rich fools to torture in Monaco, you know?”

“--Speaking of, I saw Dominic and Daisy’s place,” her voice drops to a conspiratory hiss and she leans in close, her smirking, painted mouth to Emmy’s ear. It’s like a trigger word. Like muscle memory for nasty gossip...But she catches herself, her breath, all that she says is, “they said you stayed with them a while..? Huh.”

@basicbitchwrites

“turn a profit,” he repeats, crossing the room to pluck a hidden pack of cigarettes from a drawer. like they’ve been waiting there for this exact moment. bad habits really do die hard, or not at all. “one of the old expats taught you that?” dom’s gaze wavers to the hall, to where a small voice hums to herself. it’s likely not all the expat’s done for lux.

he sits on the edge of his desk and looks down at her settled in his chair. thoroughly weirded out by the clear turn of the tables. one hand slowly sweeps his papers away while the other proffers a cigarette. “yes, i can see that.” his bitterness rears it’s head for no particular reason, maybe just for old times sake. “you don’t know poverty – emmy was living here for awhile.” and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. having surrounded himself with emmy, daisy, and brigitte - the twins, favoring their mother, omitted themselves from the equation - dom’s done well to suffocate himself with those with only the highest expectations of him. seems only fitting that lux join the table again.

“who’s the kid?” he tries not to do any pregnancy math for fear of it equaling a hefty addition to his child support bills. tilting his head, he ashes onto the business papers. “who are you these days?”

“No. I took some night classes. Finally got my high school diploma,” shrugging, she mimes modesty. Pauses a beat - just long enough to let him feel bad, as if he’s capable of it - before continuing. “Landed a legal aide job. Discovered a government cover-up. Took on a case that became the largest class action lawsuit in American legal history...What can I say? That’s just life as a struggling single mother.” 

“I’m kidding, Dom.  --I’m actually sleeping with my divorce lawyer.” That’s not true either, but she doesn’t want to tell him too much. Certainly doesn’t want to tell him that she doesn’t even have a lawyer. She brushes the subject away with a fan of paper documents, and taps them, “let’s save that for mediation. I really just came for these.”

--And, yet, she finds herself accepting a cigarette. Through a mouthful of smoke she insists she’s quit. 

“Emmy?” She chokes on smoke as she says the name. Coughs as though the vocal cords used to make the sounds are dusty from disuse. She has to take another swig of her drink to wash it away. It’s beginning to wash too much away: intention; inhibition; the past couple of years. --She swears she doesn’t really drink these days, either. 

“Emmy and Daisy?” Because of course Daisy lives here. There’s  almost nothing around to suggest it, but that’s exactly how Lux knows. She’s such a nonentity that she doesn’t even leave a mark. That’s why Dominic likes her so much. Or thinks he does, anyway...Lux has never been able to figure it. She’d stopped trying. Or thought she had, anyway. “She was living here, as in she’s dead under the floorboards, now? I almost couldn’t blame you.”

“The kid? Oh. No idea. We just met earlier today, actually, in the corridor. --I thought she was your new young thing.” She shrugs a Saint Tropez tanned shoulder, but it’s suddenly just a little bit frosty. He really will have to take her to court to find out. --Or at least break out the strong stuff she knows is hidden under the desk. Brigitte is as good as lost to Lux, but her littlest daughter is just hers. 

“You wouldn’t like me, these days,” she assures him, almost laughing. She’s all easy and au natural, she explains, “like one of those coked-up nineties supermodels who runs a lifestyle blog, now.” --She doesn’t add that she’s not sure if he ever liked her. Or that she’s not sure she likes herself these days, either. 

“--What about you?” She quirks an amused brow, looks him up and down over the rim of her drink. Still sharp. Devastating. Sad. He hadn’t changed. He’d never change. Sarcastic, but not as snappy as she’d like, she says, “I hardly recognised you.”

“They’re not giving you nasty stares. That’s just how people look, most of the time.” Eyes glazed, gazing away, all blase malaise. Lux catches a bleary, boring eye over her daughter’s shoulder, and remembers when people used to look at her, instead of through her. Strained for her, smiled at her, gave her all their attention…She used to think that everyone was just happy. Turns out they were just happy to see her. “It’s how they look at you, when they can’t see how pretty you are. –Here.” She leans across the table to pull Bee’s hat off, push her sunglasses on top of her head…She wants to brush the hair away from her eyes and fuss over her colouring but she stops herself. She’s not sure it’s welcome; thinks there may be a reason Bee has hidden her face, wrapped herself up in layers. They haven’t really spoken face-to-face since…Since everything happened.  

“I wish you’d come visit me in Monaco,” she says finally, “the only thing that could make you prettier is a tan.”

As ever, Lux had done the opposite. Rounded off her sharp edges with Italian food and French wine. Let her dark roots grow in, sunned herself brown, tried to let go...It hadn’t worked, obviously. She’s back. They’re both back. Together again.

 She cups Emmy’s sharp chin, cracks a smile that’s a little bit filler these days, and leans in for a proper kiss. “You witch.” @floralege

“I keep telling you, I’m alive,” he sighs so hard he exhales more dust, “you can’t exorcise me by telling me I’m not welcome. –Anyway, that’s not ghosts. That’s vampires. You of all people should know that, you leech.” But he doesn’t storm off this time, and not just because he’s not sure whether his calve muscles have atrophied from sitting at his desk so long. He’s been alone - bar the mice, the silent staff, and the spectres of his dead ancestors - for over a year. And while, yes, that is his idea of a vacation, he finds he’s almost missed this; the mental torture, the barbs back and forth, the uneasy feeling of impending doom. He’d never left, but this feels like coming home. 

–Which is tragic, obviously, and worrying in a way he doesn’t quite have words for…But he’ll leave that to wine and his therapists. For now, he pours two glasses of wine, and hands one to Emmy. “Have you managed to bleed me dry financially too, yet?” He asks, which is, for them, almost like how’ve you been?