lethal greed

Patience was a virtue that she had never really had to struggle with, if anything she had almost suffered from having too much of it. When it came to any kind of restaurant, cafe or bar her patience was usually endless but today she found herself lamenting that she didn’t have her coffee in her hand instantly. It was only so it would give her something to do, somewhere to look other than Bash. As he spoke Nura wished again that she had her drink, so that she could take a sip to buy herself some time to formulate the right answer. But was there really a right thing to say when catching up with an ex? She took a moment to process the information he’d given her, trying her best not to fill in the blanks with her own assumptions. Guilt still crept in though when she knew that she’d caused upheaval in his life, she couldn’t help but wonder if her leaving had left more of a mark than she’d intended. “Lecturing? Have you started yet or are you getting your barings before diving in?” The rejection of her offer was expected but it did little to take the sting of them, she found herself longing for the days when their orders would have fallen from her lips in tandem, mirroring how in sync they used to be. “Hopefully Eureka will provide you with some inspiration. The views around here are beautiful and the ocean too.” She left off that she had a house that overlooked the waves, reluctant to lay bare her life when it’s so far from the one that she’d imagined with him.

Even though his words trailed off she thought she still knew him well enough to fill in the blank herself. The implication still hung heavy with unspoken accusation between them and it was only made worse by the fact that she couldn’t claim he was wrong in his assumption. Eureka was where she had settled and it had its charms but London had suited her too, perhaps even more than the quiet life she had carved out for herself here. But she couldn’t help but feel defensive and a need to justify her choices, to justify leaving him, sprung up. “Not exactly London, no. But it’s -” The word that would have finished her sentence - home - died on her tongue when she realised only in that moment that it would have been a lie. With anyone else she might have been able to give voice and life to such a falsehood and mostly likely had before but she wasn’t with anyone else. She was with Bash. And when she was looking at him - looking at the one person that had made her believe that home didn’t have to be a place - she knew that she wasn’t about to lie to him for the first time. Their relationship had always been devoid of dishonesty when she’d always been able to be herself with him, openness and honesty came easily, and even though things had changed she was reluctant to tarnish the memory of what they had been be allowing lies between them now. “I’m happy here - my mum, friends, work. I got my PhD and my license, a job and I get to volunteer at this great local spot too. It’s peaceful here and it’s enough for me.” There’s a confession left unspoken and one that she’s certain will remain that way - that she knows she’s had to settle for this life without him and make herself content with any emptiness that she sometimes felt. But given that it was a life of her own making, it’s as much as she felt she deserved.

Bash watched Nura the way a scientist might observe a specimen — was anything different? Or was she wholly the same? His curiosity ran rampant in his head, though he kept his curiosity to himself. When you had been abandoned in life the way Bash had, your attachment style was hardly secure. He had learned to lock away his hurt, first by his parents, and then by Nura, in a steel box. He never dared open it, wiser to his demons than Pandora. No, the thought of Nura was his quiet purgatory to keep, to constantly wonder about the what-if of his life. No one ever matched up, because he’d never let them. He possessed an impossible litmus test, and so he had spent their years apart alone. Sure, there had been a warm body or two. Women who existed in the periphery, who had tried and failed to crack his mind. “I’ve been here for a few weeks.” He replied casually. Bash wouldn’t admit it was on strict orders from his publicist, that he needed to get rid of whatever mental block was keeping him from signing the deal with Netflix. “I don’t know why I agreed to it, really. I didn’t like college students when I was one.” The humor was dry, delivered in the the same level tone, but the brief twinkle in his eyes beget some sort of private understanding between the two of them, something that felt too personal, considering the stoicism he was trying to maintain. 

He listened intently to her reply, his brow knitting as she spoke. ‘It’s enough for me.’ Well, at least something was. “Peaceful.” Bash chewed on the word, mulling it over. Life was peaceful, he mused. His days were quiet, and at times, he could say he was happy — fulfilled. Not everything had been empty since Nura had gone. But it hadn’t been the same, either. And, as far as his romantic life went, there’d not even been a blip on the radar. “Your mom’s here? That’s good.” His parents were in some part of the Pacific, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember where. They were foreign dignitaries, always shifting around. He’d last seen them in Botswana — a safari. It’d been one of a handful of times they’d seemed to care he was present. Maybe he was more relatable now that he was an adult, not something that needed quite so much taking care of. Although, as Bash listened to Nura regale him of his life now, he couldn’t rightfully pretend as though it was all news to him. He kept up, periodically, with her social media. Not enough that it was unhealthy, but, he did maintain a morbid curiosity, waiting for the inevitable to happen — she’d find someone new. And then that would have to be it — no more moping, no more long suffering heart. He’d have to suck it up and move along. “I guess I just don’t get it.” He admitted, looking around at their surroundings, though it was clear he was suggesting her presence in Eureka in general. “I wanted to see for myself, what the higher calling was for you.” And then finally, there it was. The truth. He’d known she was here, he’d come out of his way to understand it all. Mend old wounds, answer the unanswered questions that consumed him still.

Natalie grinned, bemused by the man’s interest in downplaying his own writing; such was the nature of most creators, she supposed–she’d given up any delusions of grandeur with regards to her writing ability long ago. “No need to be modest,” she teased lightly. “Publishing is no small feat in and of itself, but selling a manuscript to Random House?” She gave him a quick bow of her head, as if to regard him as a formidable force. “I’m impressed.” Her smile was a bit more sincere, now. Still, not wanting to dawdle on something that clearly caused him some level of discomfort, she continued idly, “For what it’s worth, I think there’s a certain…romance that comes with coming-of-age stuff, I guess for lack of a better word. There’s a nostalgia to it. Even poorly written, sometimes it’s…almost a form of indulgence.” Natalie was sure it was her own wistfulness toward the concept that tinged her sentiment, the romanticism of coming alive; she’d only experienced this once, truly, and she wasn’t keen to linger on that detail. “Are you working on anything now? Or just…” she motioned toward his stack of literature. “…getting inspiration?” 

-

Bash shrugged his shoulders, head shaking. “I’ll never actually know if I earned it or if I just got lucky. I can’t say I really paid my dues.” He had gotten lucky, had broken a barrier at a younger age than many, but he had managed to deliver a message that resonated, at least once. The next books had probably just been some sort of effort to keep his name out there, to capitalize on what he’d accomplished only once, really. “I suppose that’s exactly what it was, then. The thing wrote itself. Horrible bit of narcissism on my end. It was...” He looked down briefly, never used to speaking so candidly. “It was about someone I loved very much. Which made the words easy. But the mistake in that is I can hardly think about it now.” The book, anyway. He thought of Nura frequently. “—No, no new book.” He said, perking up a bit. “I’m actually lecturing at the local university, hoping that inspires something new. My uh... My first book is being optioned by Netflix.” He added very casually. “So that’s certainly keeping me on my toes as of late.”

Selfishness was a trait that she strongly associated with her parents and had spent her whole life hoping that it wasn’t one of the few things that she would inherit from them. The way that they’d placed their own needs above everyone and everything else was always something that she had vowed she wouldn’t do. But she couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere along the way the independence that she’d been forced to develop had begun to shift into that dangerous territory of chosing her own wellbeing over another’s. Bash had become living, breathing proof that she was far from immune from being self centred and now that he was stood in front of her again she was forced to remember that her choices hadn’t always been victimless. First in chosing a future of her own instead of the one that they’d dreamt of, the one that they had spent years building together. And now with her belatedly realising that in her haste to give herself a moment to compose herself she’d undoubtedly drawn even more attention to his mishap. She had to fight to keep herself from reaching out to help the way that she would have used to - without thinking and as easy as breathing - but the reminder that she gave to herself that it was no longer her place almost made her breath hitch. So her hands remained by her side and all she could do was watch, hating the stiltness between them and hating even more that she’d been the one who’d caused it.

There was so much that she wanted to say but every word died in her throat, the sudden tightness of it making it difficult for her to even think about speaking. If she could have even decided where she wanted to start. Lips parted slightly as she attempted to smooth over their so far jagged interaction when she noticed that he seemed to be grasping in vain at words just as much as she was. So she had to settle for the obvious and posed a soft query into what he was doing in town. “Are you on tour at the moment? Or researching?” She already knew the answer to the first question given the way she had been unable to resist keeping tabs on him. As much as she’d removed herself from his life, she’d never been able to properly remove him from hers. He was woven into her far too deeply for her not to care. When their time came her order was placed, it had changed ( more out of necessity than anything when she’d been disappointed in the tea options since she’d moved ) and part of her didn’t want to find out that his had done the same. But for all her hesitancy and reluctance to recieve more proof that things between them had changed, politeness won out. “Can I get yours?”

-

While Bash should have known that coming to Eureka, obviously with the intention of seeing Nura meant he’d actually have to see Nura was an inevitability, a fact of life, he was still completely winded by the occurrence. Seconds ago he’d had some sense of clarity, now there was only fog. What had he been thinking, picking at old wounds? On good days he convinced himself everything was well, that this was what life was. You fell in and out of love. Or, you had one great love, and the loss of it hardened you to the world. And time would flow and the pain might never, but you built an endurance to control your grief. When the appropriate window of time passed, and he could no longer discuss Nura without seeming like an obsessive loser, he’d held it all in, triaged his own wounds and pretended as though he was fine. And while that wasn’t the case, Bash could do his best to keep up appearances. If only because, some part of him thought Nura still thought of him, might check in on what he was up to, which one could do so readily in the age of social media. And if she did ever think of him, he wanted her to think he was happy and successful. He wanted to look like his life hadn’t been less without her in it, even though it very much had.

“Tour would involve a book out to tour with.” He replied, no jest in his tone, just a statement of fact. “Yeah, sure. Researching.” Bash agreed with a few nods of his head. “I’m uh— Lecturing. Visiting at the local college.” It was all a brilliant cover-up on the part of his publicist and manager to make sure he held on to a career that would burn up just as quickly as it had ignited if he didn’t take some steps to preserve it, including closing this chapter with Nura, once and for all. He didn’t need Nura to know about the Netflix deal, or his writer’s block. That his art, the thing that had once brought him such enjoyment, was now utterly joyless. Waiting behind Nura as she ordered, Bash waited for the inevitable offer — the question he was honor bound to reject, because he couldn’t accept her hospitality. “No.” He answered quickly. “— No, no thank you.” He added with a bit more politeness to his tone. “I can get my own coffee.” He added with a terseness to his tone. Once he’d ordered and they were waiting in their awkward silence, Bash looked to Nura from the corner of his eye. “So what have you been, um, up to? This city’s not exactly...” Where I’d thought you’d be.

Natalie nodded, her lips pulled down in an evaluative frown–she was impressed by the sentiment, but she wasn’t going to go so far as to admit that. Curiosity bloomed in her, but she stifled it for the time being, content to remain casual. She smirked at his observation of her own pile. “Oh, no, I–I like them to hurt my feelings,” she confessed. Perhaps it came with age–or her propensity to view literature through a critical lens, or her utter lack of investment in anything in the immediate months following her divorce–but Natalie had come to feel that if she wasn’t moved by a work, it wasn’t worth her time. She’d recently taken up the practice of abandoning books that didn’t captivate her within the first quarter. She’d purged  a large amount of her collection to make room on her newest bookshelves, keeping only what was beloved and donating the rest. If she thought too long about it, she would get too close to acknowledging just how many things had changed, and it’s hard to care about the reason for a storm when you’re just trying to survive it. Her eyes flickered back to the shelf for a moment as she wet her lips, and she scanned the spines, deciding her interest was just heavy enough to inquire, “What is it you write? Genre-wise, I mean.”

-

Bash canted his head to the side as Natalie explained her interest when it came to her reading habits — his interest further peaked. “— Me too.” He agreed handily, nodding along with the shared sentiment. He was a wallower, liked to exist in brief moments of poetic pain, trying to force it to feel greater than his own, but always failing. When her line of questioning inevitably turned to his own writing, Bash cleared his throat, knowing he’d opened himself up to it, and therefore couldn’t seem too awkward or put out over it. “Um. Fiction, coming of age, romance. Pathetic, dithering stuff.” He wasn’t going to admit to a stranger that the great source of his writing had been his ex-fiancee, that when she had left his life the well had dried up, that his creativity had faded as his heart had hardened. Time healed wounds, that much was true, but the scar Nura had left behind ached with phantom pains. “I first started writing straight out of uni, that’s when I got my first book published, anyway. I’m with Random House. Have been since the first novel.” Bash spoke with a mild disinterest, hoping he still seemed even remotely humble, that he wasn’t attempting to boast whatsoever. 

S E B A S T I A N ‘ S  I N S T A G R A M

From a young age she had told herself that she enjoyed her own space and was content in her own company. For the most part it was true but she couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if it was a trait she would have always possessed of if it had come about by necessity. A lonely childhood leading her to find contentment in solitary pursuits rather than needing to be joined by others to find some enjoyment. Of course, she was more then content with her life and her time was filled by work, friends, books and time at the ranch. But as much as she claimed fulfilment and was certain that she was believed by others, she’d yet to truly make herself believe it. As full as her life was it had never mattered how much she did with her time or how many new connections that she made, there would still be a self inflicted hole in her life. Always something - someone - missing that couldn’t be replaced and her new life in Eureka would always feel bittersweet when she knew what she’d given up to start it. Still she refused to allow herself to indulge in self pity when the decision had been entirely her own and she had had years to adjust to the consequences of her decisions.

Quiet afternoons in a coffee shop with a book happened to be one of her favourite ways to spend a day off and she had almost arrived at her destination when the sound of her name from a voice she knew as well as her own caught her attention. “Bash?” Speechless for a moment from disbelief she had nothing else to say but his name. She wasn’t really sure if she still had the right to use his nickname so casually when she’d been the one to make them strangers but everything in her seemed to reject the idea of calling him Sebastian. “Here, I think I have a tissue somewhere.” She wasn’t sure he really needed one considering she’d barely taken her eyes off his face, trying to convince herself that he was really there. But if nothing else it gave her a moment to collect herself, eyes reluctantly shifting from him to her bag as she rummaged for a tissue. Moments later she had produced one but too quickly to have really decided what to say next. After all, running into an ex was new territory for her. She had questions, dozens of them, but she wasn’t about to interrogate him in the street and so there only seemed to be one option for the next words she spoke. “I was just about to get one of my own, if you’d like to join me?” The levelness of her own words surprised her when she’d felt certain that the thumping in her chest might have rattled her speech and made her voice shake.

-

God, it was so strange. Hearing his nickname falling from Nura’s lips. They hadn’t spoken in years, their only exchanges the odd text message about his book tour, or a birthday, and words were employed sparingly. He knew why he’d been shipped off to Eureka, but he’d sort of been avoiding — well — this. “No, no I’m fine. Don’t make a fuss.” Because the last thing Bash wanted was her help. Not in a too-proud-to-accept-help sort of way, but because his embarrassment left the chance reunion falling rather flat. He dabbed at himself with his hands, head shaking as he glanced down at the mess he’d made. It really hadn’t settled in, that it was her, her, and no one else. He hadn’t been ready, probably never would have been, but it was all happening in real time, and Bash’s brain was running at a mile a minute. It was too late, though, as Nura offered a tissue, and his manners were far too polished to possibly reject the offered kindness. “Thanks.” He replied lamely, using it to lap up some of the spots on his shirt. “I — um —” He tried to summon an excuse, any, to cut and run. But then, looking at her, he’d realized he’d never once lied to her, and couldn’t possibly make a habit of it then, despite the circumstance. Despite everything. 

“Yeah, sure. I have some time, I guess.” Bash had too much time, really, but he wasn’t going to own up to that. “You’re, um—” Looking well. Every possible compliment felt odd, impossible to force off his tongue. So he left the sentence hanging, incapable of offering her anything. He shook his head, then, looking away to ditch his ruined coffee cup into a nearby trash can, tossing the used tissues along with it. What was the proper protocol? Hold the door? Not hold the door? Buy her drink, let her buy his? What level of civility was called for, what was too much, what might reveal the chink in his armor? “After you, then.” He gestured, instead giving her the space to get the door for herself, if only to let his gaze linger on her, every second spent looking at her feeling simultaneously familiar and deeply foreign. 

Some nights, Jason liked to branch out, try a new drink, or order one of the specials. Now that he was back in Eureka, it wasn’t like he went out drinking every night ( and really, even when he’d lived in LA, he hadn’t been a big partier, either, ) so he preferred to have fun with it, especially if he wasn’t meeting a friend. Other nights, he wanted the comfort of familiarity, and tonight was one of those nights. He had already been in the rideshare on his way to Arts & Drafts when he got the text that plans had changed, and though he understood, the wind was knocked out of his sails. It wasn’t like he could tell the driver to turn around, and rather than waste the trip, he grabbed a stool at the bar and scribbled notes on the small notebook he’d pulled from his back pocket, trying to work out a timeline for the further improvements he wanted to make to his childhood home. The bathroom was his next priority, maybe even adding a second one, but considering he didn’t want to move out while it was all going down, it was a delicate process.

He hadn’t made very much progress ( unless you considered his nearly empty glass progress, ) when another drink appeared: not from the bartender, anticipating a second round, but another patron. Jason considered himself lucky in that most of the time when he was recognised, ( which was, admittedly, in and of itself something he’d never really get used to, ) it was by someone who was a genuine fan. People who disliked his band, or their music, generally didn’t have any idea what he looked like, and if they did, they didn’t care enough to approach him. Of course, most fans didn’t open by insulting his drink of choice, but the guy seemed to have ordered one for himself, so Jason didn’t take it personally, only chuckling softly as he accepted the drink. “Did you have one the last time your grandfather did?” he inquired mildly. “They were on to something with this one.” It wasn’t anything fancy, usually — just gin, and sweetened lime juice. Of course, at Arts and Drafts, they hadn’t left it there, and added a little cucumber to the mix, but it was refreshing, great for a summer night. “It’s nice to meet you, Bash. So this second novel, how did it turn out?” He couldn’t claim the guy’s name was equally familiar, but then again, he wasn’t a big reader, usually.

-

Bash look a sip of his drink as he caught Jason’s expression, certain then that his teasing jest had landed. “He’s an imposing sort of guy. Not the sort that would presume to order someone else’s dinner based upon his taste, but certainly not beyond ordering his drink of choice for his company. Which is a very roundabout way of saying, yes, and many times before the last.” He had always been happy to please his grandfather, whose love was never hard earned. Still, William Thibodeau was a man of his ways, and should he enjoy a gimlet after dinner, then certainly Bash would need to as well. “I’m more of a whiskey neat sort of fellow, but it’s definitely... Refreshing.” Bash finally agreed, having already had enough to drink that evening that anything would taste fine to him. 

“Not at well as the first. Which is why I’m here.” Here either meant the bar or, more broadly, Eureka. Bash wasn’t typically quite so gregarious (and to him, this really was quite talkative, but he had plenty of liquid courage). “It was, erm,” Bash shrugged his shoulders. “Definitely not your fault, obviously. I doubt I could have gotten through it at all if I hadn’t had some inspiration.” With Nura gone, Bash’s inspiration for writing had withered on the vine. “I caught your act at Pride Fest, actually. You were, you know—” Bash gesticulated randomly. “Great, obviously. Really good. I had no idea you were actually local, though. That’s great.”

Natalie bowed her head, a wordless you’re welcome, as a wry grin pulled the corner of her mouth. “Wholly understandable,” she offered, making quick work of plucking her own selection from the shelf, a curated collection of Wordsworth; a consistently safe choice, admittedly made easier by its appealing cover. Natalie had been connecting more and more with poetry as of late, the inherent intimacy of a short form work packing a more immediate gut punch. She found she enjoyed being laid emotionally bare, allowing herself the room to suffer a bit; some kind of emotional penance. Or, maybe a reminder that she wasn’t heartless after all. She tossed the book into her basket with a small thud, and turned back to the stranger, her eyes flickering over the spines of the books he was holding. She hadn’t read half of them, but what she recognized was incentive enough to believe he had good taste. “Not much of a beach read guy, hm?” She teased. 

Bash watched Natalie made her selection, keeping his impression of her taste to himself, lest he seem even remotely condescending. He did, at the very least, appreciate that she had selected something that he held in a high regard. “— Oh, no.” He shook his head, looking down at the burgeoning collection in his hands. “That’s sort of the curse of being a writer, though. Your only interest when reading are the pieces of work you can never hope to reach the level of.” Realizing his statement might come across as condescending, Bash immediately added: “I like to think that I’m a writer, anyway. In practice... Not so much, lately.” A sheepish smile found his expression as he looked to Natalie. “It doesn’t look like you’re much of one, either. A beach read, kind of gal.”

Bash eyes drifted lazily over his laptop screen, the fluorescent of the screen making the corners of his vision blur as he stared for too long. He had been tucked into a booth on his lonesome since Happy Hour had struck, a steady streak of jack and cokes sustaining his weak attempt at another chapter in a book that felt utterly uninspired. The protagonist is too droll, his editor had complained, sending him back his failed attempt at stemming the wound of a late deadline. But he was too buzzed to think clearly where this book was concerned, and maybe, really, the entire thing was garbage. He hadn’t been able to string a meaningful sentence together on paper in much too long. 

With a heavy sigh, he dragged the file over to his recycling bin, shutting the laptop and sliding it into his satchel bag. Another drink and he’d be unable to safely bike his way back to his apartment, so he thought the better of another beverage and made his way to the bar to close out his tab. Only, the patron nearest to him caught his attention, Bash ever eager to play it cool as he quickly averted his gaze to the bartender. “What’s he having?” He inquired with a quiet voice, not wishing to garner the man’s attention yet. As the bartender replied, Bash nodded. “Great. Two of those, then.” He stood for a moment, lingering as the drinks were poured before grabbing both, finally making his approach. “I thought my grandfather was the only person left living who prefers a gimlet.” Bash stated as he offered the other drink over. “I wrote my second novel listening to your music. I’m,” Bash offered a hand over. “Bash, Bash Thibodeau.”