#angstfactory

[Aggie]: Please tell me you're not listening to the radio, right now.

[txt: Jess] I know we aren't great again yet, but you got me thinking after our last "talk".

[txt: Jesse] About our ideas for the ranch. And I think they could still work.

[txt: Jesse] I'm visiting family in OK for a few months, but I'm gonna figue out what I can get moving for it while I'm gone.

[txt: Jesse] Think you could stick around town a little bit longer?

Her entire world was a mess. Disheveled inside and out, hair a mess from her tussle with Lilith, even sporting a darkening bruise to the apple of one cheek, designer dress not only dirty but torn in a few places. She'd realized, there in her car, that she had no one to run to. Sure Jonathan would hold her and console her but he was paid to do that. She didn't have any friends left in Carroll. Holden was gone who knows where, Val justifiably hated her now and here was only one person she could even think of that might give her the time of day. Jesse.

"Hey... I'm gunna be okay... and so are you." Sitting on the bench outside the club, still closed due to the early hour, the pair sat and waited for Sada to show up. Penny was both shocked and kind of nervous about being on such a long drive with her intimidating boss, unsure how any conversation would go all things considered. What she really worried about, though, was Jesse.

"You hanging in there?" Aspen couldn't imagine how stressful it had to be to be stuck in this place with two nail biters and no bag with the things to care for them. Not even bottles or anything like that. Hand bouncing the little sheep in front of one of the twins to keep his attention on it. She'd offered to join him in the little back room area of the hut to give the others a break from the noise of the twins. "We could try and get some jackets or something and make them a bed? Your arms gotta be killing you by now."

Neglecting actually eating on her lunch hour for trying to find a part for her old Volkswagen, Birch gave the yellow soft top an affectionate pat as she got out in the parking lot, lifting her squirming pink piglet from where she'd unclipped his harness from his basket through the back window. "Okay, let's go see if we can find Mister Cabriolet somethin'ta help us get that top'ta go down."

Decked out in her parade finery, she felt incredibly over dressed, though there was little she could do about it considering she was about three hours from walking the parade with a gaggle of five year olds in their parent's varying interpretation of 'christmas tree' costumes. Pushing her way into the office of the salvage yard, a friendly smile already on her face. Best way to make a good first impression was a smile, her Mama had always said.

Joel would never be caught dead calling himself a philanthropist, but he did have excellent taste, which naturally included art galleries. Unfortunately, this one belonged to Elio—a regrettable detail Joel chose to overlook. Ingrid had insisted it would be good for him to spend time with Fitz, given that she and Fitz were apparently planning on getting married, for reasons Joel neither understood nor cared to interrogate too deeply. The whole arrangement had an unmistakable Regency-era flavor to it with strategic pairings, polite outings, the quiet horror of lifelong commitment, but Joel wasn’t in the habit of telling people how to live their lives. Well. He was, just not with his friends.

If Ingrid wanted to marry Fitz, who was Joel to judge? People tended to bore him long before vows became relevant anyway. If that weren’t the case, he’d likely be on his third marriage by now purely out of curiosity, if nothing else.

Joel glanced at Fitz as he lifted his champagne. Fitz was tall, well-built without looking deliberate about it, the kind of frame designers cut suits for. His dark hair was neatly styled but already coming loose at the edges, as if he’d run a hand through it one too many times. He had a straight nose, a strong jaw softened by a mouth that rested easily into something close to a smile. His posture was relaxed, shoulders back, comfortable in his body, comfortable being seen. Objectively, Fitz was handsome. The sort of man who photographed well without trying, who looked appropriate in a gallery opening and just as easily out of place anywhere else.

If Fitz were engaged to anyone else, Joel would already be testing the weak points of the arrangement.

“So,” Joel said, nodding toward the piece in front of them, “what do you think of this one?” The artwork was a study in restraint: layered folds of red and gold forming a rich, textured backdrop, interrupted only by a single, delicate butterfly suspended at its center intentional, and begging to be overanalyzed.