“Yeah. All my life.”
And for most of it, Lydia had dreamed about getting out of here. There had been Stanford pamphlets in her bedroom since she graduated from fifth grade, and a multistep plan to get the hell out of Beacon Hills and on to a better life.
The Fields Medal. That’s what she told Stiles, back when life was about boys and looking good. It had felt like surviving, back then.
Boy, she didn’t know a damn thing about surviving before Peter Hale.
Manicured fingers walk across table and stop in front of Gwen, making the ‘gimme’ gesture.
“Let me look at your notes while you tell me about where you came from.”
Still a little harsh. But it was progress, right?
It hits hard as a punch, how homesick Gwen is. All my life. New York is in her blood, and she’s so far from it she can barely think straight. She’s willingly staying away, too, all for what? To see what’s wrong with this town? To wait for her watch to work?
She should be in New York. Any New York. Not here.
The hand jars Gwen back to herself, and she swallows the sick feeling in her throat and gives a jerky nod. Trying to keep her shuffling at a minimum, Gwen finds her sad pile of notes and hands them over. It’s easy to ignore Lydia’s short tone; Gwen did interrupt her studying, after all. She knows it’s not exactly the best way to go about meeting people.
“New York. Land of Opportunity, great pizza, and a superhero every block nowadays.”
It doesn’t matter which New York she’s talking about, at this point.













