#matt 002

Her girl's night out with Mickey was winding down. They'd had a great time, too - the food had been amazing, Sara had a new favorite drink in the form of a non-alcoholic, virgin margarita, and she had more than enough photos on her camera's storage card to create a miniature replica of Şerefe for Aslan.

Even after a few good hours together hanging out, Sara - for whatever reason - surprisingly didn't feel tired. Just happy. Buzzed, even without the alcohol. She didn't want to keep Mickey from Aslan for too long, either - it was both hilarious and a little gross every time they looked at each other from across the bar. And even though Sara had promised her friend that she was going to go slow on dates from now on, she found herself wanting to message Matt to see if he was free. If he wanted to hang out for the rest of what remained of this Saturday night. It didn't have to be a date or something serious - just hang out in a bar together, get to know each other more, and see where they landed.

She got Mickey's opinion and approval, just in case. Didn't want her to think she was bailing on girl's night, or breaking some unspoken girl's night rule by asking to meet up with her brother. And they continued to talk at their table until Matt arrived. "Thanks again for tonight, girl. We'll do this again soon?" Sara asked, drawing Mickey into a goodbye hug.

Sara adjusted the off-the-shoulder sleeves of her dress and practically skipped to the entrance of the bar to meet Matt. "Hey, Lavender." She grinned, eyes shining in the dark of the crowded space around them. A complete contrast to the way he met her at the Peach Festival, curled up and crying on a park bench. "Thanks for comin' out. I know it's late, but I didn't feel like going home yet." She explained, rolling back and forth on her tip toes. "How are you? Can I buy you a drink?" She offered, arms swinging in the direction of Bobby manning the bar. The fact that she wasn't drinking alcohol was besides the point.

The whole thing felt so familiar. Weirdly, almost uncomfortably familiar. Three years ago, she’d worn something else. Three years ago, her hair was different, and his hair was different, and their relationship was very uncomplicated. Three years ago they were in New York. Back then she’d been anxious to spend an evening with Matthew -- much like she was now -- but it was a different kind of anxious: First date anxious. Butterflies anxious. This was much more complex than that. They were far, far removed from first date territory. 

Holland missed Matthew. She’d thought about him often in the past year, about this moment specifically, the one in which she’d get to see him again, to hear the full story, to fill in all the blanks that Matthew left behind. She thought about what she’d say, how she’d say it, how she’d feel, where it might be -- but in all her thinking, Holland never supposed that they’d end up here, in Silver Lake, in the same bar she used to sneak into on Friday nights when she was still underage. Most noticeably, Holland never thought she’d be this calm. That she’d end up swapping memories back and forth, almost fondly. 

“Oh, come on,” she said, eyes darting up from the table top. “That was your idea.” Holland breathed out a laugh. “I told you way back up on twenty-fifth that it was going to be too tall to get into the apartment, but you still had me drag that sappy fucking tree all the way home and up four flights of stairs. And then you had me help you push it into that corner until it broke. That was all you, Mr. Big-Ideas,” Holland argued, starting to smile at the memory. They’d both ended up sticky and miserable, wondering why they’d bothered trying to be festive in the first place. She laughed. “-- And I was stuck trying to scrape pine needles off the ceiling like, six months after you left.” 

Ah. There it was again. Holland paused. Her smile fell. She looked down, and dragged her beer back to her lips, trying not to show that she’d just thrown herself off-kilter. No matter how hard she tried, it always came back to that one simple truth: He’d left her. That’s why they were there. She could drink and try her best to avoid the topic all night, but it seemed that one way or another, it’d come up. 

Holland took a hard right turn. “You should’ve left a note. I mean, you’re a fucking writer,” she said, trying to play like she was making a joke of it. “You’d think you would’ve had something to say.”