perceives.
‘ are you safe here? ’ that is not what she meant to say. her voice is small, hoarse from tears and disuse, and she has to stop herself from looking around, from scanning the tree line like it matters. like she’d ever see anything watching that didn’t want to be seen. like she ever, ever has. ‘ it’s just that — some of the girls have been working up there. from the store, you know. entertaining. ’ she adds the word obediently, enunciating, dropping it into audrey’s bag like quarters in a payphone.
her time’s not the least of what she owes her, though — end of the day, neither is the abject humiliation — so she grits her teeth and presses on. there is a script: she’s written it out, after all. torn it up. burned it. the only thing worse than being here would be running away from audrey, now that she’s gotten a minute alone with her.
( at least neither girl wants to look at the other, so laura doesn’t have to stand still, guess what effect she’s having or isn’t. thank God for small mercies. )
‘ your dad’s always been good to me. ’ it turns her stomach now, but that was a simple fact, not long ago: relatively simple, at least, from her vantage point. she’s never had the clearest view of anyone’s intentions. ‘ at — your expense. i know that. i didn’t, always, but i do. and i’m so sorry for — anything i did to make it worse. i don’t think i meant to but i don’t … i can’t tell, all the time. i never thought he meant anything by it, til he found me at jack’s, and i, um. i quit. ’ she was fired, actually, for how far out she’d spun afterward, but it’s not like benjamin’s going to tell audrey, if they even speak anymore. it’s not like he’ll ever even realize what he’s done, what he’s taken from her.
( — it’s pretty fucking obviously had no impact on his time with her father; then again, she supposes it wouldn’t. )
‘ i don’t think you’ll see too much of me anymore. ’ she doesn’t smile, but her mouth twitches at the corners, like she’s trying, or like she has any idea what she’s actually aiming for. it’s nerves, more than anything. she knows she isn’t the better actor here; she’d rather not look more pitiful than necessary. ‘ but i… ’ her voice catches and laura lets it, resigned. the breath she draws is shaky, ragged, and if she sounds flippant when she speaks, it’s only that it asks less of her. ‘ i’ve been scared for you. there’s a lot that i … ’ no, no. absolutely not. not without a reason. not unless she knows. but Jesus, she’s so lonely — so alone — and hasn’t audrey been, too? she wipes at her nose with the back of her hand and turns her face to the water, just for a few seconds. it really is too loud for anyone to overhear: her voice has probably been in and out, as is, just between them, but it’s too late to backtrack, and she’s grateful. she’s done what she had to, if she’s going to get any sleep at all this week. ‘ you know, when we were little, i wanted to be your friend more than just about anything in the world. ’
is she what .
it’s not a thought she’s ever bothered to have before. in her mind, her parents don’t care enough to hurt her. that would require paying attention, wouldn’t it? ben is still struggling to find any use for her, and her mother ... well, she’s hardly more present than a doormat.
but it tells her all she needs to know about laura and her father. her father and laura. a perfect little blonde child always eager to sit on her father’s lap and listen to his stories and his songs ( he never treated her or johnny to a song, no matter how much they may have wanted to hear one; even if they were so terribly, terribly dull ) -- it made her sick then; now it makes her want to cry. maybe she will, if laura continues to give her the space to do so, avoiding her eyes like something terrible will happen if they acknowledge each other in any meaningful way.
‘ you were just a kid. ’ she says, so, so softly.
and so was she. but though children scream and cry when another plays with their toys ( turning around to steal theirs in turn -- in audrey’s case, likely throwing a tantrum and breaking it so that if she couldn’t have it, nobody could ) they’re at that stage of benefiting from hindsight. and though audrey can feel all that residual anger -- for years it has been growing, festering inside her chest -- perhaps it’s not laura who deserves to be on the receiving end of her wrath. she sees it a little more clearly, now; they were both just children. none of this was their doing.
perhaps they could have been friends, after all.
‘ my father doesn’t pay any attention to me. ’ it catches in her throat; a sharp pain shooting through her chest, terribly difficult to say aloud -- so she follows it up with a quiet little laugh, like it hardly fazes her. but they both know it. it’s why they’re here, isn’t it? still, the way she says it, it’s clearly supposed to be reassuring. don’t worry about me, i could collapse in front of that man and he’d still finish his Very Important Business Call before using the phone to call for a doctor.
she presses her lips together, wetting them slightly, hoping to get the small crackle out of her voice.
‘ are you going somewhere? ’
