ʜᴏᴘᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜰᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ

"I think we might have different tastes," he muses, "but yes, I've heard of her." It's not as though he actually dislikes either poet she's named. He just favor others more. "I know she's kind of known for it, so it's not impressive, but I like Wild Geese."

It'd piqued her curiosity, but Evie didn't poke into the business of the stranger, especially not if he was offering books. She wouldn't blow an opportunity to get her hands on those who seemed to give her the most trouble. The library had a few, but getting through Dickinson's entire works had been deemed harder than expected. "Maybe we could do a trade. I've got some Mary Oliver you can borrow if you want to check her out." It might not have intrigued him, but she still felt the need to offer something in return. An exchange of goods rather than a one-sided swap. "I've also got a pretty solid collection of Robert Frost if I could interest you in any of that," she suggested with a raised brow, hoping to entice him.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Voss let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tired. “Yeah,” he said, gaze dropping for a moment to the pavement between them. “I figured you might say that.” You're always gonna be Mal to me. It landed softer than he expected, but it still stuck somewhere behind his ribs. He didn’t flinch, but it settled there, uncomfortable and familiar. Like she always did. If she had been anybody else, it would have gone different–but this was Evie! 

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He gave the bag a slight shake, resettling it on his shoulder. “Couldn’t really blame you for sticking with the old name–you’ve always been a contrarian,” he said quietly, eyes shifting to meet hers.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her smile caught him off guard. The kind that crept in quiet, just like it always used to, like the years hadn’t passed at all. “Low-key’s not really in your vocabulary,” he said, voice low and a little warmer than he intended. “But, yeah… it does suit you. You always knew how to sink in without anyone realizing ‘til it was too late.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ At her last question, he hesitated.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She asked how he’d been. The kind of question normal people asked. Simple. Polite. Cliche, like she said–but it rattled around in his head like a matchstick waiting to spark. How the fuck had he been? Well, she knew about the first incident, but not the second, and that was how he'd been.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I’ve been…” He stopped, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’ve been fine. Delivering mail.” He paused, just long enough for it to matter, then looked at her again. “So, y’know. Pretty good.” And though it was half a lie, maybe more, he offered her that same crooked smile again. Weary. Fond. Full of things he still didn’t know how to say. "You?"

Whatever mask he put on for everyone else, she didn't bother addressing. If he wanted to be Voss, that was his choice, but he'd always be her Mal. Things changed between them that fateful night, yet right now, as they fumbled upon one another, she couldn't deny the feeling hadn't been wiped clean. His fingerprints were tattooed on her skin, and it'd be a lie if she said she hadn't thought about having them on her again. While Malachai had a different way about how he carried himself now, there was a familiar nature about him that was what drew her in deeper. He had that effect on her. Evie didn't realize how addicted she was to the feeling he gave her until it was gone. Now, like a lightning strike, he'd come back to the place where everything went from beautiful to bloody in a second.

"It fits you," she commented off-handedly. He didn't seem to agree anymore, but Evie wouldn't be so easily swayed. "Just like going against the grain fits me." A prideful puff to her chest added to the comedy before her shoulders relaxed back into a slunk, and her arms folded over her chest, bewildered at how easily they seemed to be slipping back into casual conversation. "I have to keep myself entertained somehow." Her job worked well with her hobbies, really, allowing her to enjoy being nosy and now having an excuse to snoop around. To Malachai, she wanted to stand out, secretly and silently hoping that thoughts of her lingered in the absence.

His answer set off alarm bells in her head, which reflected in the knitting of her brows. Pretty good, didn't suffice in her book, but she knew better than to poke the bear. "Sounds a little boring for the Mal I know." Only a slight nudge at her knowledge, while not giving away much of her discernment. "Town's been weird. But I'm going to get to the bottom of it," she said matter-of-factly. That'd been the most exciting thing that had happened since he left town, if Evie was honest, some of the spice to life went with him. "You haven't seen anything off worth mentioning, have you?" He had a keen eye on the town. No one watched quite like Malachai, and it'd take a lot more for her to ever forget how beneficial that was. For a time, he was her partner in crime, until it became a little too literal for Evie's taste.

Evie feigned heartbreak by grabbing that part of her chest and stretching backwards as if she'd been snagged by a stray arrow. It wasn't what she expected to hear, but she couldn't be upset at someone's varying creative opinion. It made her curious what about his works the other found, though she knew this might not be the time to dive into her curiosity headfirst. "I'd like him more if they had as much of Emily Dickinson's stuff readily available here," she confessed, the seed of her distaste. While his poems didn't speak to Evie the same way, she would've minded less if her own favorite got the same recognition in the bookstore. "Have you read any Mary Oliver?" Another favorite of hers that she believed deserved even more readers.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He hadn’t been called Mal since, well, they broke up. To be fair, it had taken a few months after the fact for him to start insisting (and it hadn’t always been asking nicely) that people call him Voss. There was no way she could’ve known that. They didn’t exactly share circles, and their first meeting had felt like some strange twist of fate anyway. After things ended, all that was left were the unsent letters—still sitting on his kitchen table like little ghosts with stamps. There hadn’t been any real communication since…

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Since he'd gotten what he deserved.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He cleared his throat, playing it off with a shrug. “Just figured I should keep my cousin company. Heard things’ve gotten weird out here since I left.” It was mostly true. He had wanted to be close to family again. But that was only part of it. What he didn’t say was how bad the spiral had gotten. How familiar the fall had felt. How easy it had been to justify it the second time. The sickest part? He thought the bastard had it coming. Just like the first time. What would Evie think if she knew?

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Nobody’s called me Mal in a while,” he added after a beat, his voice even despite the storm working its way through his ribs. “Go by Voss now.”

He scooped the last of the scattered envelopes into his bag, straightening slowly. His fingers tightened around the strap as he looked at her again. “You look really good. Investigative journalism suits you,” he said with a faint, crooked smile. Genuine, but maybe a little guarded. “Got that whole ‘sharp and dangerous’ thing going on.”

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It wasn’t what he meant to say. But maybe it was the closest he could get.

It’d somehow been too long yet not long enough since she’d seen his face. That was the funny thing, Evie knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help missing him. What happened couldn’t be excused, and still, she of all people, found herself doing just that. It’d been easier to convince herself heart when he wasn’t standing in front of her. Evie wondered what had brought him back, while also fearing the answer it might be. He seemed the same, even if he tried to tell her otherwise. “Why?” It was a simple yet abrupt question. The dark-haired woman tried to hold in her amusement, though a bubble of laughter slipped through. “You’re always gonna be Mal to me,” she clarified to not make the man think she was laughing at him so pointedly. Whoever he decided to be these days didn’t look any different from Malachai to her.

Even the mask Evie wore had no effect on him. He saw her for who she was from the drop. That’d been part of what first appealed to her about the then-stranger: he saw her for who she was. Not that Evie hid anything about her intentions, but not everyone understood the darkness of a tenacious woman with no fear, if it means finding out the truth. She believed everyone deserved that, at the very least. “It does, doesn’t it?” If she did say so herself. “I’m going more for discreet and low-key, but I’ll take it.” A smile had effortlessly taken form without her noticing. Still, it was nice to see him again. “Is it too cliche to ask how you’ve been?” An answer that she was more interested in than anything. She hoped he could at least provide her with that.

#relatable

‎‎ ‎ ‎✿ Closed starter for Evie (@paintedinpen) somewhere in Cardinal Hill.

‎ Tonight's the night.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That singular thought was getting him through a particularly rough encounter that involved a Doberman and his shoe. As he trudged along the sidewalk, the sigh that escaped him could only be described as despondent. His foot hurt. The shoe that’d been in the mouth of a dog moments ago had little tears on it, and he wiggled his foot pathetically.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Still, he kept walking.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The route was familiar. Muscle memory guided his steps, even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. His mailbag hung from one shoulder, a half-hearted excuse in case anyone asked what the hell he was doing wandering around after dark. When he came back to Cardinal Hill, he’d told himself he wouldn’t seek her out. That whatever happened, he’d respect the distance. The breakup had been... well, as clean as something like that could be, considering everything.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ But lies had a way of slipping into your back pocket, didn’t they? He missed her. Simple as that.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And when he ran into her, really, quite literally, who was he to say it wasn’t fate?

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The moment hit like a crash. One second he was lost in thought, and the next, his shoulder collided with someone else’s. The impact knocked the bag from his shoulder, scattering letters across the sidewalk in a slow, papery cascade. His heart jumped straight into his throat. He looked up, and there she was.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Evie?” His voice cracked with disbelief, low and stunned.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He dropped to his knees almost instinctively, hands fumbling with fallen envelopes that fluttered like early autumn leaves. “I, wow. Uh. How are you?”

It was slow at work, no one had anything exciting to work on but that only drove Evie to find something. After the storm she couldn’t shake the feeling that there were pieces still missing from the story the officials released. All they did was lie and conveniently never answer her calls when she’d ask for a statement. The whole thing was fishy. Not a coverup, that wasn’t it. Details were scarce which wasn’t unusual but even the simplest things were left ignored. She’d learned the smell of a rat stemmed from childhood. Evie saw her uncle cheat on her aunt when she was only six, making sure to inform the party immediately to follow.

She broke bad news like it were equivalent to talking about the weather. That's part of why Evelyn was the chosen party when it came to some of the more sensitive subjects. It worked well for a journalist, never afraid to press for answers or waver at the sight of trouble. Today, her specific set of skills came in handy while nosing around the diner during a graveyard shift before the sun crept back into view. Evie's nose was in her notes as she jotted down a few of her findings: a piece of cloth now stored in her satchel, no sign of a corpse ever even existing, and the peculiar scent of mugwort.

For the woman who was prepared for anything, he took her by surprise. Malachai had been a tsunami from the moment they met: the perfect case for her skill set. They fell into each other the way the best accidents do, and before Evie even knew it, his name was written across her heart in ink. She'd tried to wash off the stain he left to no avail. Now, like the first time they'd fallen again, and her incertainty spilled with the letters. Maybe she could drown herself in them if she were lucky enough. There wasn't anything to say at first, taking a knee to help recover someone's precious words, as well as give herself a moment to catch her breath. He had the tendency to steal that from her lungs with just a glance. "You know, good, same old." Evie didn't have much of an update besides the story she'd been writing that was marked in process until further notice. "What about you, Mal? What're you doing back in town?" Could it have been her? Did she haunt him the way he had her, like a shadow in the passenger seat of her car? None of it mattered really, but she couldn't shake herself from the rabbit hole.