#para.all

The last guest was long gone, and the cleanup had been, as always, a family effort. Everyone doing their part to return the house back to some kind of order. Everyone had a job, and Lauren, stickler for organization that she was, had been tasked with putting away the leftovers in a reasonable and tidy manner. 

It was a wonder there was any food left; her mother, as per usual had gone overboard. But it was for good reason. As tradition, their dinner usually included some of her brothers' teammates, the guys unable to travel home for the holiday, for whatever reason. There were five of them this year, nice guys who complimented the cooking and talked football with her father and charmed her mother and younger brothers. At least they'd been expected, their places planned for at the dinner table.

If anything she was the anomaly. The interloper, the surprise guest showing up unexpectedly. After landing at the airport, she'd taken a Lyft home, laughing at the look of surprise on her father's face when he opened the front door. She hadn't discussed her plans with anyone; staying at Ginsburg had been the idea...until the drama, most of it not hers, but the small part that was, it was enough to convince her that a break was necessary. Feeling tired, overworked, and wanting to be in a setting that felt familiar seemed too good to pass up. 

The food was packed up, the kitchen was clean, the guests were gone, her parents had retired to bed, and Lauren could finally change into comfy clothes and settle in a favorite spot. In the den, on the massive sectional, sandwiched between two of her favorite people. Her younger brothers had been especially excited to see her, nearly tackling her in a combo hug, towering over her in a way that made her chest ache because she missed them so much. They stuck close to her, surprising considering the last thing most 15 year old boys wanted was to be babied by their big sister, but here they were. João, taller than she'd remembered, sprawled on the sofa, body taking up a good amount of room while his head rested on Lauren's lap. 

He kept dozing off, unfocused on the show they were supposed to be watching, his content state heightened by Lauren's fingers combing through his dark brown curls. Matheus, however, was the total opposite of his twin, squished beside Lauren and talking animatedly about the show, which had been his pick and Lauren had to admit she was more focused on his commentary than the actual plot. Matty had a way of making everything feel more elaborate, injecting a streak of dramatic flair typical in the Zizes household. Lauren missed it. The noise and nonsense she'd grown so familiar with, different from the college atmosphere that had been her reality for the past few months. 

Their chatter was interrupted by Gabe, yanking the remote from Matty's grasp and tumbling over the back of the couch, nearly landing on top of the younger boy who luckily had the good sense to roll out of the way, landing on the floor between the coffee table and the couch. 

"Seriously?" Lauren glanced over at Gabe, who managed to balance a large bowl in the middle of his chaotic entrance, never spilling a chip as he stuck his landing. 

"What? He moved. That Zizes instinct comin' through." Matty seemed no worse for wear, making a comfortable spot on the floor and accepting the bowl of Doritos when Gabe passed it down, his gaze never leaving the television screen. 

Lauren rolled her eyes. "Y'all are ridiculous. You could’ve broken his damn neck.” Her grumble was cut short when, out of nowhere, a hand came whizzing by. João, reaching overhead, past Lauren to grab a handful of chips, shoveling them in his mouth with a loud crunching noise. “Dammit, Jojo! You almost hit me.” 

His ‘sorry’ was muffled by chewing and Lauren scowled waiting a beat before bopping him on the forehead. 

“Next time just ask for the bowl, dummy. How are y’all still eatin’ after all that food?” 

Gabe shrugged and sank lower in his seat, enough to prop his sock covered feet on the coffee table. “I’m a growing boy. I ain’t wanna dig around in all those bowls. You got the fridge locked up. Chips was easier.” He offered her the bowl as a peace offering and despite her glare, it didn’t stop her from swiping a few. Dark eyes, much like her own glanced at the screen and he frowned. “What the hell are y’all watching?” 

“Matty picked. I think it’s some Star Wars thing?” 

There came a huff from the floor, and Matheus lifted his head from her knee. “It’s ‘The Mandalorian’, Lo. I said that twenty minutes ago.” 

“Okay, so I was right. It was a Star Wars thing.” 

Gabe snorted beside her. “Turn it off, I haven’t watched the first ep yet, I don’t wanna be spoiled.” 

Lauren reached for a few more chips, grabbing a handful and pointing with her pinky at Gabe’s lap. “You have the remote, genius. Just switch it to something everybody wants to watch. Don’t put on those NatGeo docs, bout to put everybody to sleep.” 

Matty laughed. “Jojo’s already asleep.” 

“No I’m not!” came the sleep-filled reply from her sweatpants-covered lap and Lauren looked down at her little brother, who was busy wiping crumbs from his face. “Lo, you’re getting Dorito dust on me.” 

“Yeah well that’s what you get for almost smackin’ me, we’re even.” She rubbed her fingers together, laughing at his grumbling because despite it, she knew he wasn’t moving. “Where’s Nono?” she asked Gabe, who was still busy browsing through Netflix and vetoing Matty’s suggestions. 

“Think he’s still talking to Zara on the phone. Makin’ plans to link up after practice.” Gabe tossed the remote to Matty, and turned his full attention on Lauren. “You stayin’ for the game on Saturday? Watch us bust some Aggie ass?”

Lauren nibbled at her bottom lip. She'd forgotten about the possibility of a football game. Already figuring it would be a reality for winter break, in her haste to get away from Ginsburg for the holiday, it had slipped her mind. 

"My flight back to school is Saturday," she replied, unsure if she was relieved or annoyed. At herself. More than likely at the situation. Dinner had been spent literally surrounded by football, her brother teammates piled into the large dining room they only ever used for holidays and big parties. And at first, Lauren had completely disappeared amongst the talk of plays and stats and names, occasionally cracking a smile at a stray joke, her grin growing when her eyes happened to catch her father's. Her parents seemed happy to see her. Her father clutched her tightly and kissed her forehead, the warmth behind it making her feel most at home. 

And she supposed her mother, with her busy to-do list that involved ordering the rest of them around with chopping and shopping and cleaning and organizing didn't have much time for her usual spiel. Again, the surprise drop in was good for something. She'd managed a quick kiss to her daughter's cheek and promptly sent her on an errand. Lauren figured come Christmastime, she wouldn't be so lucky. 

For his part, Gabe took the news of her departure easily. Then again, that was his way. Of all her brothers, the two were more alike, in looks and temperament. Where Antonio was the quiet, responsible type, Gabe was loud, the center of attention and quick with a joke. The two of them bumped heads, but never really outright clashed, trading snarky comments back and forth until a peace offering (usually food) was suggested. 

“There’s always games,” he replied easily. “You’ll catch another one.” They turned their attention back to the television, where Matty had found something else to watch (Black Panther) and managed to snatch the bowl of chips from his older brother, setting it beside him so he could share with his twin. 

“Thanks, for not giving me shit about it.” 

Gabe shook his head. “It’s just football, Lozinha. I realize sayin’ that’s a cardinal sin ‘round here. But you haven’t been into this shit since we were in high school. It’s cool. Although…” he turned to his sister, big grin on his handsome face and Lauren knew it was bound to be something that would no doubt annoy her. “If you did show up, I know of at least three dudes who’d be pretty hype about that.” 

She made a face. “Please don’t push me off on your football pals, it’s so weird. Not to mention unnecessary.” 

“You say ‘unnecessary’, I say Cameron was staring hard and it wasn’t the turkey he was eyeballin’.” 

Lauren rolled her eyes, her annoyance only rising at Gabe’s loud laughter, but smiled when the twins both shushed him. She had noticed Cameron, catching her eyes whenever she looked up and making sure they were seated beside each other at dinner. 

He was sweet enough, a junior linebacker studying sports medicine with dreams of being a physical therapist, and he listened attentively while she talked about Ginsburg and her major. Their conversation had been pleasant, but it was a typical dinner talk: polite and surface-level and though she enjoyed it, hadn’t thought much more about it, especially when she had other matters to attend to, mainly cleaning. A total gentleman, he bid her goodnight and leaned in for a hug, a one-armed gesture that ended with a gentle squeeze of her hip, which...okay that might’ve been forward...but she didn’t dwell on it, simply brushing it off as friendly.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. He’s nice but he lives here. I’m at Ginsburg. Plus I’m not really looking for that right now.” 

“Uh-huh…” Gabe trailed off, studying his sister’s profile. “Soooo, is that ‘cause you already have something? And when are you gonna let me talk to your crew? Do they know you’ve got a hot single brother? Like come on, what good is having a sister if I can’t hit on your fine ass friends?”

“That is a lot of stupid happening in one sentence,” she replied, laughing. “I’m not letting my friends anywhere near you. Besides, you already got a school-full of folks you can charm, get outta my friends list.” 

“Jeez, be selfish. But you could be keeping me from the love of my life. I hope you’re happy.” 

“My one mission’s to make your ass miserable so yep, I’m pretty content right now.” 

Gabe snorted. “It’s possible you came back a bigger pain in the ass.”

“It’s a required Gins elective. Bad Bitch 101.” Lauren flipped her hair, laughing when João grumbled about being jostled. She ruffled his hair, letting her fingers linger to card gently through his curls. 

“Are you two done?” Matheus grumbled from below. “We’re tryin’ to watch something here.” 

“Yeah whatever,” Gabe said, leaning forward to bop his younger brother on the shoulder. “You’ve seen this like a million times. Gimme the chips and put on something we all wanna watch.” 

“I don’t mind watching it,” came a voice from behind and Lauren looked up to see Antonio entering the den, tumbling over the back of the sectional much like Gabe did, settling beside his brother, and throwing an arm over the back of the couch. 

“Are y’all incapable of sitting on the couch like regular folk? I mean, damn.” Her question was met by a chorus of boos and Gabe, having recovered the chip bowl threw a Dorito at her, which she promptly caught in her mouth. 

“Nice. Learned that from one of those Ginsburg’s electives?” 

In hindsight, Sam realized maybe, he should have expected this. Perhaps not subconsciously, but part of him was at least prepared for the talk. After all, it was all anyone in Castleport ever fucking did. And growing up the son of the town’s most infamous bar owner (and notorious drunk), he was used to it. The looks, the whispers, the same snarky comments from the people who’d mock his father but still find their asses on The Maggie’s bar stools on any given night. 

And maybe, that was the reason he never got as angry as he could have, should have. Make no mistake; he was plenty angry at the overstepping and invasion of his family’s privacy. But these people would talk their shit while lining the tills though that was barely enough to keep his temper leashed. 

Until that blog interfered. Once again, putting his family’s business on blast for all the town to see...and for what. What was the reason for bringing the attention to his father’s whereabouts? Sam wasn’t sure what irritated him more. That it happened or that if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have even known the name of the facility where his father was currently drying out. 

He’d discarded the paper with the information Quinn had given him, pushing it back towards her after their fight. And true to his word, he hadn’t mentioned his father to Stacy. He didn’t know if she’d gone to visit James, choosing instead to maintain his icy silence where their father was concerned. It wasn’t his money paying for this overpriced excursion and he wasn’t about to dig deeper. 

That attitude had obviously not been extended to the rest of Castleport. The antics of some anonymous asshole had once again put a spotlight on his family and their issues. The mean-spirited, callousness of it all called to mind the weirdness from last year. The pranks inflicted on him and others he knew. It wasn't completely off to think it was connected, the anonymity and hyper focus just as irritating as being locked in a freezing shed, but Sam couldn't connect the dots. 

Maybe the only thing it all had in common was his anger. It was harder to push aside now, though. The strain of it visible in the hunched line of broad shoulders and his jaw, clenched so tightly it gave him a headache. Hiding away wouldn't do. He couldn't do it; he had hours at the shop, clients to see and he was thankful the distance between Castleport and Portland was significant enough that he could work in relative peace, dodging looks and questions. 

It lasted until he reached The Maggie. 

The new bartender Natasha was a recent transplant to Castleport, from an even smaller town in upstate New York and Sam was glad to have her around. She was funny, good at her job, and Sam wouldn’t have to worry about replacing broken glasses. Really, all he needed to do was come in occasionally whenever office work was required. 

It could have waited until the next morning, when the bar was empty and he didn’t have to make small talk with anyone outside of the AM cleaning crew. But Sam told himself it was just a quick check-up. He parked around back and entered through the back exit, ignoring the sounds of clinking glasses and the din of voices that came from the bar. 

The office was spotless, everything in order, just the way his father had left it. At least there was some semblance of business as usual, the bar chugging along smoothly, even with the months-long absence of its owner. Marie, angel that she was, had even managed to take care of the liquor orders and the other business particulars, leaving Sam well and truly free for the evening. 

He turned to leave, this time going down the hallway, past the bathrooms and into the bar. It was packed, just like he figured. It was karaoke night and he could already see Wade, their usual MC gabbing on the microphone and getting the crowd hype in between the list of singers. 

Wild how even something like gossip wouldn’t stop people from coming in. Or maybe gossip was the reason, despite his very public opposition to it. He didn’t miss the furtive glances in his direction as he shouldered his way through the crowd to the bar. Sam barely acknowledged people with nothing more than a passing nod, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation that would no doubt bring up whatever that gossip rag had to spew. And he was nowhere near drunk enough for that. 

Not that he wanted to drink. Sometimes, he thought about it, being so bombed out of his mind that thinking was made impossible. But the idea of it, the visions of cleaning up his father’s messes, and the glassy-eyed stare of nothingness stopped him from ever going too far. He couldn’t remember the last time he was wasted. Buzzed, maybe. But getting past any point beyond that terrified him. He was already dealing with enough shit as it were, no need to add a drinking problem to the list. 

Thoughts swirling, he let them take a backseat when he approached the shiny bar top, greeting Natasha with a smile and nodding at Danny, the other evening bartender. He was a good guy, graduated two years behind Sam and coached little league baseball in his free time. 

Sam shrugged out of his leather jacket and leaned on the bar top at the very end, blocking any drunk random from coming around and into the employee area. Olive eyes scanned the room, taking note of the mood. It seemed no worse than usual, but the night was fairly young and everyone wasn’t as deep into their cups just yet. He winced as the opening notes of some stale classic rock song filled the space, followed by a voice that could only be described as ‘godawful’ singing the words off-key and loud, seemingly spurred on by the raucous cheers that rose up. 

Natasha dropped a beer in front of him with a sympathetic smile, and Sam figured his displeasure must have been evident if she was placating him with a pilsner peace offering. Long fingers gripped the tall glass, watching the white foam settle into the golden lager before he lifted it to his lips for a tiny sip. 

One beer, and then he was out. The day’s exhaustion and bullshit drama had worn him out and Sam was tired of being ‘on’. He was ready for a quiet night of sweats and clearing out his streaming queue. 

Twenty minutes and four singers later, he was still nursing his beer and surveying the action. As much as people eyed him, they seemed more interested in staring him down than actually approaching. And he wasn’t sure which annoyed him more. Being treated like some ticking time bomb, some sideshow spectacle to take it at a distance, as if his feelings were unimportant. Whatever. Soon as his beer was finished, he was leaving, anyway. He was still weighing the options of going out the back way or taking the less crowded route through the front door when the smell of sweat and cheap beer hit him suddenly. 

He glanced up, nose wrinkling slightly at the sight before him. Rick ‘The Stick’ Nelson. Former hockey captain at Castleport High and forever a jackass. Sam had never liked the guy, not since their days in youth hockey, when Rick had swiped Sam on the ice, nearly fracturing Sam’s wrist with his stick and Sam returned the favor by smashing Rick into the Plexiglas. 

Last he’d heard, Rick had been in some front office job with the Bruins, no doubt bought and paid for by his father, who owned several sports equipment stores in Maine. So it was a surprise to see him lingering around town, and hovering around Sam, no less. 

“‘Sup, Samantha” Rick offered, thin lip curling into a cocky grin as if he’d delivered the best joke ever. 

“Rick the Dick. Least that hasn’t changed. Nice to see you lost the mullet, though.” Sam shifted back slightly, needing to get away from the overwhelming smell of the other man’s cologne. “Why are you here? In my bar, and in my face.” 

“Just passing through, checking out some possible recruits. Can’t believe this shithole’s still open. Gotta be tough to keep the place running when the owner’s drinking half the profits.” Rick’s grin slipped into a sneer, one Sam knew so well when it came to a particular tax bracket in a town like Castleport. Those types who always enjoyed reminding everyone else just how beneath them they really were.

Sam turned, elbows resting atop the bar to keep him from clenching his fists as outwardly, he attempted a look of bored indifference. “Shouldn’t you be moving along? There’s no jockstraps you gotta collect back in Boston? The Bruins must miss their best errand boy.” 

Rick laughed, the sound of it chipped and hard like ice and it only stoked an ugly feeling in Sam. “Nice. You were always a funny guy. Guess you gotta be, balances out the fuck-up. But hey, I hear congrats are in order. The old man’s in rehab. What’s that, first time sober in a decade?” Sam felt the hand come down hard on his shoulder and the smell of Rick’s boozy breath hitting him hard as the other man leaned in. “Shit, Rock Harbor. Gotta draw a lot of shitty tattoos to make those payments.” 

“Get your fuckin’ hand off me.” Sam didn’t bother turning to face him. He knew baiting when he heard it, knew it wouldn’t take much more for him to react, and he wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed at Rick or himself. 

Nah, it was definitely at Rick. 

He could see the look of concern that Natasha sent his way but he brushed it off with a minute shake of his head. He wasn’t going to drag anyone else into this shit. Rick was looking to be an asshole, and Sam didn’t want to play that game. 

He jerked out of the other man’s hold, his elbow clipping Rick’s bottle of beer and Sam winced when it slipped and dropped to the floor, smashing in a mess of glass and beer. 

“What the fuck, man!” Rick sputtered, loudly, drawing the attention of a few people sitting around. “It was just a joke, no need to smash my drink.” 

“That was all you,” Sam replied simply. He was in no mood for the show Rick was clearly gearing up for, especially as more people seemed to be paying attention. “You talked your shit and now your drink’s gone. Time to call it a night.” 

That didn’t sit well with Rick. His face, as ruddy as his rust-colored hair, contorted with anger and he glanced around at the growing audience before replying, raising his voice dramatically. “That’s how you treat a paying customer? Shit, everyone in here knows you need the money. Your daddy’s rehab bill ain’t gonna pay itself.” 

There was an audible gasp at that, and Sam exhaled, slowly. The ugly feeling rose, churning hotly in his gut and he could feel the twitch in his fingers. It grew watching Rick, who now that he’d gotten some attention, decided to kick it up a notch. He pulled out his wallet and tossed some bills in Sam’s face, the crowd’s reaction louder as the bills fluttered to the floor. 

“Better pick those up, Evans. That’s at least three therapy sessions for your drunk ass father. Better yet…” More money followed, landing right on the others but not before clipping Sam in the collar and his fingers flexed before curling tightly. The nails dug into the flesh of his palms and his peridot eyes were hard and flat as Rick fixed him with that stupid fucking sneer. “That’s for you. Just in case. ‘Cause it’s obvious fuck-up runs in the family.” 

Sam didn’t even know when he reached for the other man. But it was only when he felt that first punch connect with Rick’s cheek, and heard the exclamations did he realize what he’d done. 

It didn’t stop him, though. 

Something inside him snapped, the throb in his knuckles jolting him into the moment, focused and steeped in a hot fury that shook his hands but they were steady when he delivered another blow. It was so satisfying, seeing the blood, Rick’s lip already swelling before he managed to even hit Sam back. 

Sam barely registered the right hook to his eye, ignoring the pain of it and busied himself with busting Rick’s nose. The crunch of cartilage and Rick’s pained groans as Sam delivered another blow was the only sounds he could register, ignoring the way the music stopped and how people clamored out of their way, the noise of voices and shouts fading while he pummeled Rick, not even bothering to dodge the other man’s wild defensive swings. He didn’t feel anything, only that angry, ugly heat burning in his belly, letting his blows land hard and fast. 

Rick was on the ground when the bouncers finally managed to make it through the crowd to see what the commotion was about. Sam stood over him, chest heaving. He licked his lips, tasting the blood and the sting of an already swelling cut on his bottom lip and that only made him angrier. He watched the bouncers help Rick to his feet, cursing and swaying and Sam stepped forward,ready to bust him up again but was met with a hand to his shoulder from Kevin, one of the bouncers. 

He looked around, at the various reactions from the crowd. Stunned, impressed. Disgusted. 

Fuck them. 

Fuck this. 

“Get him outta here,” he told Kevin, who simply nodded and led the way while Rick shouted back at Sam, the words inaudible over the chatter of the crowd. 

Adrenaline pumped through him, his hands shaking with it as he grabbed his jacket from the bar top, not even bothering to look back at the bartenders as he stepped over the small pile of bills on the floor and moved toward the back door, finding it easier to get through the crowd with nearly everyone giving him a wide berth. 

Quinn felt like she'd been bracing for impact all day. Actually, from the moment she'd driven away from the facility - the swipe of the black credit card her father hadn't really bothered her, not really, though she knew it would come around eventually. 

What bothered her was Sam. 

She'd made her peace, or at least told herself she had made her peace with Sam not wanting to speak to her anymore over it. As she methodically wiped down the Maggie's bar, she reminded herself that mattered less than James getting help. 

She finished her deep clean and moved on, picking up the inventory clipboard and her pen. She had to know how many glasses that punk replacement had actually dropped, and she had to keep herself busy, because Sam was due any minute, and she couldn't keep staring at the door like that. So she brushed her jaggedy pink hair behind her ear, set the clipboard down, and started to pull (freshly cleaned) glasses down to count. The more she could do before Sam ordered her out of his bar, the better.

The day had been uneventful and short, with only a few clients on the books at the shop so Sam opted to cut out early. If he were lucky, he could manage to get a nap in before having to make his way to the Maggie for the evening. He reached the house in record time, stepping into the silence and finding nothing unusual about it. It was always quiet.  It could use some dusting, no doubt yet another thing he'd have to tackle before the holiday. Stacy would be home and the last thing he wanted was her, seeing how things had moved further into disarray. In the kitchen, he found a glass on the small table, half full of whiskey and a ring of melted ice around the base. That, that was unusual. His father almost never walked away from a drink, unless he had another nearby. It prompted Sam to look in the living room, but found no trace of glasses or bottles. It was possible James had retreated to his room but that was empty as well. Bed rumpled, curtains drawn, a stale smell of liquor and sadness emanating from it that Sam didn't linger long. He'd searched the whole house and called around to some of James' friends, the ones he hadn't managed to alienate, but no one had seen him. Sometimes, James would take walks, leaving the door unlocked, and glass in hand. Just to really give the town something more to laugh about. The headache was already forming when Sam got back into his truck, driving to all the spots his father frequented. The bench in Knights Park where James and Maggie ended their first date. The diner, where thoughts of Tina and the last time he managed to discover his father in a place where he shouldn't have been (sprawled on their front porch) hit him. The last stop and ideally the place where he would've most likely been, Sam reached the Maggie, finding not his father but...Quinn. Resurfaced, clipboard in hand, and sporting pink hair. Sam was momentarily confused at the sight, of her (and her hair) before he spoke. "Is he back there? I've been all over town and no one's seen him...can't decide if that's good or bad."

Quinn looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look on her face, which she would've been amused about, in other circumstances. 

"It's a good thing," Quinn answered, keeping her voice soft as set her pen down on the clipboard. "He's in treatment." Quinn took a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. "This is the address and room number." Quinn held Sam's gaze, determined not to shrink or stutter. "I took him last night. He's there for at least 30 days, probably longer, depending on how it goes." Quinn swallowed. 

"He's doing it for you. And for Stacy." Quinn hesitated. "And your mother," she added something like a smile ghosting her face,  "because he knows Mrs. Evans would've kicked his ass already. His words."

"What?" Sam, who was still stuck on the fact that Quinn's hair was pink (seriously, when the fuck did that happen?) had to mentally run the tape back. Olive-colored eyes narrowed as he moved closer, noting the folded paper in her hand as she spoke of an address and a room number. For treatment. 

His reaction was slow to build, confusion giving way to anger, the heated sensation of it spreading the more Quinn spoke and he barely let her finish, the mention of his mother snapping him into focus and his gaze hardened. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He was gobsmacked by it all. 

The boldness of her butting in and the casual way she upended his life, as it were as easy as ticking off a box on her checklist. Sam would not be surprised in the least if that fucking clipboard actually had a 'butt in' written somewhere. The audacity of it all, as if his father was something to be handled, as if it were her problem, and then to bring Sam himself into it...and Stacy.... "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Your friend," Quinn answered evenly, resolutely refusing to flinch. Boys who got loud were the worst. 

"I spoke with Stacy. She and I agreed this was the only card left in our deck. He can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this, and please don't tell me you can, because that would be insulting to both of us." 

Quinn let out a slow breath and resisted the urge to cross her arms, to ruffle her feathers and raise her hackles. She would not be angry with Sam. She simply refused to be. 

"He knows, I know, Stacy knows, you know that it's not fair or right to strap this to you like a big, boozy anchor. It's not right. So he's trying to correct himself so that you and your sister have a hope in hell of ever getting out."

It was the thing he hated, what Quinn had always done, even when they were younger. Speaking in that bossy way she had, as if everyone else were merely the pieces she had to move to suit her needs. It grated him then, but over time, it hovered been irritating and amusing.   But today it needled him. He didn't need her pushing her way through, behaving as if she were the only one who knew best, roping his sister into her nonsense and then pretending like she cared. "You disappear for weeks, with nothing but a text, and then show up pulling a fuckin' move like this without telling me.  And you drag my sister into it? And I'm supposed to think you've got my best interests in mind? Seriously? That's bullshit, Quinn." Sam took a deep breath, his tone still hard and flat, voice rumbling in that quiet, angry way he hated to be. "Whatever the issue with my father is, that's my business. I was already looking into some places Hunter gave me a list of. Which you would've known had you bothered askin' instead of doing what you always do. How the fuck is hiding this from me helping? What, did you need to be the one who saved my father from himself? First the bar now the owner? What the fuck else are you planning to overhaul in my family's life? Just so I can know when to move out of the way, since apparently you're the one calling the shots now."

It took a godly amount of restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at him, but she did resist the urge, if just barely. She let him snap at her, fine, sure, and moved around out from the bar to stand properly across from him, nothing in between. "Tell me this," Quinn said, "tell me what 'having your best interests in mind' would look like. If not this, what? Letting you skulk around like a bad Sam impersonator for the rest of our lives? Letting your sister tell me that this needed to happen and proceeding to do absolutely nothing in response? Which, just so we're clear, I didn't drag Stacy anywhere, and haven't since she was ten years old and I wanted to go shopping and babysit at the same time. She's an adult. We had a conversation, one that wouldn't have been the least productive with you and me, or with you and her. So was I supposed to argue with you about it, even though you apparently already knew it was true?" Quinn snorted. "That's the bullshit part, Sam. That you're pissed that you weren't 'the one who got to' kick his ass to get clean." Quinn used the air quotes, and then she did roll her eyes. "It doesn't matter who kicked what. It matters that he got into the car instead of knocking back a shot. It matters that he's actually following through with it. There's no 'credit' except his credit for getting up and making a change." She rested her hands on her hips and met his gaze. "Furthermore. You are my business, as long as you are my friend, Sam. You know that. You know I wasn't trying to sneak anywhere or hide anything. I'm standing right here. You know that if I was really trying to be underhanded about it, I'd be underhanded, and no one would know anything about it for a very long time." Quinn sighed, her expression going just a little soft. "I understand that I--that I disappeared on you. I understand that I hurt and disappointed you when I did that. I apologize for that, Sam, I do. I won't apologize for doing what needed to be done."

"Everybody's an adult, who can make decisions. Except for me. I'm the one that's gotta be handled around the issue and shut out of the big kid conversations? You did something with my father and didn't even fuckin' discuss it with me, and took it to my sister like I'm some irrational asshole and I need to be grateful? 'Cause he actually went with you? Do you even hear yourself?" Sam could feel himself getting worked up and he took a step back, needing to put some distance between them. "You're never fuckin'  sorry, Quinn. So I don't ever expect you to give an actual fuck about invading my family's space or guilt tripping or threatening my father into following your orders. You overstepped. Plain and fucking simple. I don't give a shit what you talked about with Stacy. You had no right to do what you did. And if you didn't want to swoop in and play savior, answer me this: Who's footing the bill for this massive change? 'Cause my sister's a broke college student and no one bothered to clue me in on anything. So unless my father managed to hit the numbers in the time it took for you to drive him to this life changing facility, I'm guessing this sober sweat out is sponsored by the bank of Fabray ." Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed out a tired, bitter laugh. "We should be so lucky. Castleport's favorite daughter, returning home and making my family her personal fuckin' charity case for the holiday. I'll look out for the write-up in the Gazette. I know how your family's paper loves to keep tabs on my old man's public antics."  Sam stalked past Quinn to move behind the counter, his face hard and expressionless as he threw a passing glance in her direction. "We're done here."

Quinn could have snapped back. She could have argued each and every one of Sam's points until they were both furious and going for the jugular. She could see it - she could feel it, the words heavy on her tongue, exactly how she'd fight it. Fight him. How she'd say, oh, you think you're angry now? You think we're done? We're just getting started, Evans, and don't think you can go round for round with me about this, because she was Quinn Fabray, and Quinn Fabray didn't lose arguments. No, Quinn lost friends. Quinn lost family. Quinn lost jobs and boyfriends and futures and pasts. That was part of who she was, part of how she was, and she'd accepted it a long time ago. Fabrays were lonely creatures by nature, the sort that never really ever had the capacity for anything like companionship. They were built, on their best days, for partnership, but even that was a stretch, a rarity. Frannie and her husband were outliers, and even then, Frannie made every important decision for the two of them. Quinn was just so damn tired of losing things. She was so, so tired of trying to do what was right and getting screamed at for it. She was just tired. "It wasn't an order," Quinn said, without bothering to turn around and look at him, because if she did, she'd probably lose it. "And you're not a fucking charity case." Maybe that was what she was angriest about. Or maybe it was the mention of her family and their finances. Or maybe it was the accusation that Quinn didn't actually care. Because she did. "I do hear myself. I never heard myself tell you you had to feel anything." Now she did at least tilt her head toward him, slightly over her shoulder, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed away from him, because her nails were digging into her skin in a bad way, in a way that told her to just walk the fuck away, to walk away from the whole damn friendship because it was crashing and burning anyway and as per usual, it was her fault.

She was really tired of losing people, but away was the only direction people walked anymore, so she turned around to look at him. 

"You don't care what I talked about with Stacy - fine. I'm not sorry - sure. I don't care about invading your family's space - you're three for three. I'm a rich girl who's just here to flaunt how together her life is, how much I love taking people under my wing, as long as I get my name in the paper or mentioned in someone's early Sunday gossip. If that's honestly what you think is true about me, then maybe we are done here." Quinn's nails dug deeper into her skin. Focus. 

"But that's - frankly, I knew that. I knew doing what I did might make us go back to whatever we were before. Or worse. I accepted that. It was less important than the good this will do you in the long run, whether or not you ever say so out loud or even to yourself. If you keep throwing a tantrum about this for the rest of our lives, so be it. I'll walk out that door and not look back or so much as darken your doorstep again if that's what you want. I'm willing to do that not because I don't care about you or this place, but because I do, and I know that in the long run, this will help. Even if he can't stick with it. Even if it's not lifechanging. I'm willing to do it because I know if the situation were reversed..." 

Quinn trailed off and shook her head. 

“Never mind. I'm sure you'd be perfectly respectful and let me have all the space I needed to drown myself in guilt and the appearance of responsibility while the misery chipped away at my soul. But - well, I guess I wouldn't have that problem, because I'm Princess of Castleport who doesn't know what hard work or suffering is like, and everything I do is either calculated, careless or intentionally hurtful, right? You wouldn't ever need to do anything like this, because Quinn and the Bank of Fabray don't have any real problems, so I just want to glide in, wave my magic wand and fix other people's, specifically people who I don't care about and who I'm secretly just using for...attention, I guess, or the rush of pretending at being a good person or...whatever it is you think motivated this. You, known for being so level-headed and wise, would never dare overstep with me if you thought it would help me and that I was too stubborn to take the steps myself. You'd never be so...what, hateful? Disrespectful? Insert whatever adjective you like, I don't care. If you don't want him there, you have the address and a car. Go get him, if you don't think this will actually help him, and you, and Stacy. If you genuinely think it was a mistake, go undo it. Tell me to get out or tell me to finish the inventory and I'll do whichever one you like." 

She let the challenge hang there for a long minute and tried to ignore the regret she already felt creeping around the pit of her stomach. 

Goodbye, Sam. It never made sense that they were close anyway, did it. They shouldn't have been. Maybe this was just the natural order coming back to itself. Maybe Sam was just a blip, a glitch - someone whose feelings she'd been apparently only imagining to understand all these months. Maybe Sam hadn't actually seen her the way she thought he did. It was a disquieting thought, but one she had to wrestle with - maybe he was the one who'd had her fooled, instead of the other way around. 

And people thought she was a good actress.

Sam's jaw tightened, teeth clenched so tightly it felt like he'd snap in half if he didn't ease up. He pressed his palms to the bar, needing that bit of grounding as Quinn spoke, completely twisting his words and if Sam wasn't so damn furious he'd probably be impressed by the spin of it. "Knock it off," he told her, broad shoulders as he pushed off the counter. "Don't tell me you care about me and then dismiss my feelings to a tantrum 'cause you're not getting the reaction you wanted. What did you think would happen, Quinn? You went behind my back. I don't care how great the good was, I would've never--" His words caught in his throat, and he took great care to swallow down the rising emotion.

"I never said your life was together. Or you didn't have problems. Otherwise you would've never been back in this bar or have that hair and no one, not even your parents, I'm guessing would've heard from you in months. But you made me feel like this project you had to take on. And maybe if the situation were reversed, I would've reached out to you. But you didn't do that. You treated me like an obstacle, instead of the friend you apparently give a shit about. And you can justify it however you want and explain it whatever way's gonna ease that guilt and call me a hot headed asshole, but I would've never made you feel this way." Useless, as if all the work he'd been trying to juggle, and the effort it took to maintain everything, to keep the bar afloat, to manage his father, look out for his sister, boiled down to nothing when someone else, someone he once trusted could yank the rug out from under him. Could make the burden he carried for years disappear with a swipe of a card. As if it were that easy. And he supposed it was with money and connections. And that gnawed at him, the anger and bitterness rising in his throat, tasting sour. "What's done is done. You did what you wanted, like you always do." He pushed the paper back at her, uncaring about the location, the name of the place, or how long James would be there. "I didn't have shit to do with this, so we'll just keep that energy. You can take Stacy if you want, since y'all are making the decisions now. Whether it helps or doesn't, it's not my problem or concern. You started this. You can see it through. I'm done."

Quinn sighed. He was probably right. Because friends don't make friends feel 'this way'. Sam was much, much better at being a friend than she was. And she had treated him like an obstacle, because he sort of was one, since he already had too much on his plate to give it the attention it needed, and anyway he would've just told her to fuck off, which was counterproductive. 

Quinn took the paper, tucking it back into her pocket. "Fair enough." Her voice came out flat, and she couldn't argue with him. She knew he'd be upset, angry, furious - there wasn't any point in trying to change that. 

It would just make it worse. She would just make it worse. 

She let the silence drag, then shook her head. "I'm going to do inventory," she said, only getting close enough to him to grab her clipboard and pen. "I'll be in the back if you need anything." 

With that, Quinn made her way past the bar and into the stockroom, determined to keep the shaky feeling in her hands and the terrible disappointment in her heart to herself, at least until she was alone.

For the first time in...Lord knows how long, Sam woke up on his own. No alarms and no obligations. Alone, of course. But alone was good in a large bed that wasn't his, in a room with a closet that was double the size of his own back home in a house that if he closed it eyes and listened closely, carried the gentle sound of waves. 

He could see them too, if he wanted. Slip from warm sheets and cross the floor to the balcony. But it was still New England in November and he'd meet nothing but the cold winds coming off the ocean. So this was how the other half of Castleport lived. In beachfront properties they hardly spent time in, except in the sweltering summer months, in big beds, and little cares. 

Sam rolled onto his side. He would have to get up soon. See where everyone was in terms of cooking duties. He didn't imagine that his Thanksgiving would be...this. In an Airbnb courtesy of a hookup Santana had because of course she knew people. He didn’t even know how the hell he’d even pay her back for it, feeling funny at even accepting the offer until Santana mentioned it was practically given to her for free. It was just the four of them. Him, Santana, and their siblings. 

He was glad for the buffer that Santana and her brother Steven provided, along with the chance to get out of their childhood home for the holiday. The thought of having to be in that house now...away was good. Since her arrival the night before, he hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to his sister. After helping Steven carry in the bags (theirs and some grocery ones), he settled on the massive couch in the large living room in front of the very large flat screen. Stacy had tried to approach him there, wanting to engage him in conversation, to discuss the facility that their father would call home for the next 30 or so days, but Sam sat in silence. His gaze refusing to leave the television as he casually flipped through the channels. 

Stacy’s scoff stayed with him when she turned to leave, stalking away in a cloud of auburn hair and a startlingly bright green sweater, but Sam refused to call after her. The anger he felt at her going along with Quinn’s plan to effectively shut him out of James’ treatment had yet to subside. It sat with him, in the pit of his stomach like an ugly, thorny weight. 

Waking up in a bed with a view of the ocean could only do so much, but he was determined not to let it spoil the day. Reaching for his phone, he checked his messages, scrolling through the various texts from well-wishers...which seemed like such a weird thing to do for a holiday based on eating and football. Still, he sent out a few messages, because he was thankful for the people he still had. 

And tried to ignore the feelings about the others. The Thanksgivings of old: Quinn dropping in for dessert with his family, his mother insisting on cutting an extra large slice of her chocolate mousse pie for the girl. Or the ones after Maggie, spent with Mercedes and the chaotic warmth that came from a Jones holiday with his girlfriend doting on his little sister. Wouldn’t do any kind of good to dwell on old shit. 

With a groan he got up reluctantly from the warm cocoon of blankets, and showered in the adjoining bathroom, taking the time to savor the hot water from a pipe that didn’t need a good five minutes to warm up. He loved the charm their old house had, but character couldn’t compete with a modern water heating system. 

Sam had taken his time, toweling off and getting dressed, emerging from the bathroom to find Stacy perched on the edge of the bed. She’d made it for him, the corners of the sheets tucked in tightly and the blanket folded at the foot. Her sweater today was oversized and a soft dark gold, that complimented her auburn curls and reminded him so much of their mother. Especially with that look in dark eyes, the determined one that he should have expected. 

But Sam wasn’t in the mood for any more words on the matter. He’d had enough of them with Quinn. And if the pair of them wanted to go over his head, he was no longer dealing with the issue. He tugged on the olive-colored long-sleeved thermal, smoothing it down while he turned in the mirror, paying his sister dust. 

“You really won’t talk to me? Really, Sam?” 

He raked a hand through his still-damp hair, deciding to let it air dry after finger combing a bit of moisturizing pomade through it. He glanced up, gazing at his sister through the mirror, waiting a beat before joining her on the bed. Only to tug on his boots. 

“You wanna talk to somebody, talk to Quinn. Y’all are running things now, right?” 

It was a low blow, and he barely flinched when Stacy shot off the bed hands on her hips. “You’re such a goddamn hypocrite, Sam. This is why people don’t tell you things. If it’s not something you wanna hear, you shut them out. I did what I thought was best for Daddy, and Quinn supported that. Why can’t you?” 

It pained him, hearing the emotion in his baby sister’s voice. Sam couldn’t even recall the last time they fought. Everything he did, he did for her. Any money he could spare, he sent her way. He was so proud of her, it hurt. To lose her mother even younger than he did, and left with a father who could barely take care of them and a brother who wasn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a shining example unless it involved squandered potential. 

But she managed to excel and shine, and do all the things that made him want to protect her from all the ugly shit that happened at home. And Sam wasn’t sure if he was just angry at himself for putting effort into maintaining an unnecessary facade or at Stacy, for exposing just how useless he was in all this. That he could look at the measure of it all, and find that he wasted so many years waiting around this damn town, all for what?

“I didn’t shut anyone out,” he replied simply, pushing off the bed to his full height. “I was pushed out. You two decided I wasn’t needed and made your own choice. So I’m respecting it. And I got nothing else to say about it. You wanna talk to me? Talk about anything else. But this? I’m done with it. You and Quinn made decisions about him...y’all can handle whatever the hell happens from it. I mean it, Anastasia.” 

His tone was void of anger, but carried a hint of exhaustion that seemed to zap a good bit of the goodwill that came along with the swanky house. But, it was Thanksgiving, and he didn’t want to spend it angry and tired. He’d spent enough days in the last year like that. At so  much. 

Even more so after...Sam shook his head. He didn’t like to think too long about the blackout. About finding that car out on North Road. About Rachel… 

Not today. 

Today, he’d try to concentrate on the good things he could still grasp. Cold winds coming off the ocean, in a house by the sea, in a bed with soft sheets, in a room with a closet twice the size of his own back home. With a shower that didn’t need five minutes to warm up. That wasn’t in a house empty of laughter but heavy on memories and shame, and dust, and and and….

Not today.

Today, was for thanks. For the people who mattered most to him...those he was still talking to, anyway. If there was a lesson to be taken from this Thanksgiving to the last, it was that life was just...too damn short.

His sister was standing in front of him, eyes glassy and Sam reached for her, arms curling around her shoulders as he held her in a hug, waiting for the moment he felt her arms around his waist before he pressed a kiss to her temple. 

She didn’t deserve another house with bad memories, or another holiday with tears. Not on his account. 

“Let’s go help San and Steven” he told her, giving her shoulders a small squeeze before separating. Things were...not good. They wouldn’t be. 

Smiling, Sam ushered his latest client out the door and turned back to clean up his station. It'd been a day of back to back bookings, with new clients, regulars and returnees. He preferred the busyness of it all. His mind tended to wander with downtime, about things...well, if wandered, is all. 

This way came with zero though beyond sketches, shading, and ink. The occasional small talk alongside the buzzing of the needle that now, felt more familiar than anything. It was easier to keep moving, to mask the weariness and the myriad of other feelings that seemed to overtake him for the last two months. 

In Portland, the questions didn’t come as frequently. There’d been talk about the goings on in Castleport and the occasional raised brow when one of Sam’s co-workers, in the midst of chatter about the missing woman asked him ‘Hey, aren’t you from there?” 

He simply nodded and went back to his sketchpad, shutting down any further discussions that involved flat out interrogations. 

It was evening, late and cooler as fall settled in good and proper, and Sam wasn’t looking forward to the drive back to Castleport. The ugly, lurching jolt that tugged at the pit of his stomach whenever he drove past the spot. There would still be markers there, flowers and tokens of remembrance placed at the site of the crash that baffled Sam almost as much as it irritated him. Who would willingly stop along that road? He couldn’t stand looking at it. Recalling the night of the storm, wandering in the dark, the sound of the heavy rain pelting his rain jacket and the thin beam of light as his only guiding souce in the pitch blackness. 

Until he’d spotted the car....

Shutting his eyes, Sam took a deep breath and grabbed at his things. He couldn’t go home just yet. It would mean driving down that road again, and taking the familiar route to check on the bar and do all the extra work that’d been dumped in his lap since Quinn had taken off with nothing more than a text. 

He cleared out for the night, shrugging into his black leather jacket, thankful for the warmth against the cold. He’d only managed to slip his phone into the  pocket when a sound made his shoulders tense. It was a voice, husky and very familiar, and the nickname he hadn’t heard in a very long time. 

“Sev?” 

He turned, olive eyes meeting chestnut ones, and his own widened in surprise. “Sloane?” 

“I thought that was you. I would’ve been here sooner...but traffic.” 

Sooner...? He wasn’t expecting her...ever. But there she was, painted lips and dark, slinky braids that hung to her back and a smile that seemed nervous and that confused him more than anything. 

Her arms were crossed and he knew she was cold, despite the layers under the leather jacket she wore because she was always cold, and he liked that he remembered that...even if the remembering itself annoyed him. 

And Sam should have asked a number of things in that very moment. 

‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘Where’s the shirt you stole from me and never gave back?’ 

‘What do you want, the check should’ve already cleared?’ 

A number of perfectly logical and reasonable questions. Yet he went with the most unexpected. 

“Wanna get some coffee?” 

Brewbacca was only a block up, which suited him fine as he didn’t feel like walking much and at least coffee would do a better job of filling up a silence he wasn’t used to with her. They’d found plenty of ways to communicate without words. But that was then. This was now, one divorce and one big ass settlement later. 

Still, she looked good. And they fell instep together.  And he still held the door for her, because they were divorced, yes, but he was still raised with manners. He ordered an Americano, while she opted for a latte and their drinks were piping hot when the server delivered them to the table they’d managed to snag near one of the wide windows. 

He’d dumped two sugar packets into his cup, along with a generous splashing of cream, and watched as her tanned fingers, delicate and inked toyed with the sugar before stirring with her spoon. 

And it was only after taking that first sip did he pose the question he should have when he first spotted her on the street. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Wanted to check out the new spot,” she replied, sipping her latte. “You’ve posted about it enough on social media, figured it was worth the trip. And...well I know what happened. I wanted to see how you were.” 

It didn’t make much sense, considering their contact for the last year and a half was entirely through social media. But Sam had documented his move back to Castleport, leaving his job in Boston, and finding a new one in Portland...so perhaps it wasn’t farfetched that she’d know where to find him. 

But the why…

Okay, that wasn’t hard to understand, either. Sloane wasn’t a cruel person. She was prickly but so was he. The tender side was slow to show but he knew her warmth well. 

...Well. 

That kind, as well. 

So perhaps the why wasn’t a total mystery. The circumstances were different. This was the closest she’d ever been to Castleport but he’d spoken of his hometown often. They traded stories, of her bayou upbringing  and his on a different kind of water, in small towns that were thousands of miles apart but with streaks of similarities. Namely two people who’d wanted to do nothing more than escape, meeting in a bigger city and connecting in the most whirlwind of ways. 

“How are you…” Sloane trailed off, filling the awkward pause with a sip from her cup and considering her words before trying again. “I’m sorry. About your friend.” 

“Thank you.” It was a sincerity to his gratitude, and he buoyed it with a smile, quiet and crooked before lifting his cup. “For that, and for coming out.” He wasn’t okay. And he wasn’t going to talk about it. They both knew that.

Still, the conversation was pleasant even after the bout of weirdness; mostly Sloane talking and Sam listening. The rhythm of it nothing new; he wasn’t much for the gaps but he liked watching her, animated as always but this time not as dialed up. 

Soon their cups were empty and Sam knew they would more than likely be parting ways. Which was for the best. The alternative of inviting her back to town didn’t sound the least bit appealing. Still, it was late, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you driving back to Boston tonight?” 

He was relieved when she shook her head, his curiosity not lasting long when she added, “I’m staying with a friend. She lives twenty minutes from here, in Bay Harbor.” 

Sam nodded. “I know it.” 

And so he walked her out, their trek back far less awkward then the walk to the shop. Her car was parked not too far from his truck and he waited until they reached her driver’s side to speak again. 

“Thanks...for checkin’ on me.” 

Sloane offered him a small smile and before he could protest, wrapped her arms around his middle. 

Sam was surprised, but his body reacted reflexively, muscled arms curling around her slender shoulders and pulling her towards him. His cheek resting at the top of her head was instinctual and Sam worked to suppress his shudder because he didn’t know how long it had been since he allowed himself the concept of comfort. 

Much too soon, she was pulling away. He drank in the sight of her full lips, painted red and twisting into that familiar grin and he hated how much he still warmed at the sight of it. They weren’t suited in most of the ways that mattered but he was grateful to her all the same. 

“Take care of yourself,” he told her, opening her car door and watching as she slipped inside. 

He caught the ‘you too, Sev’ before shutting her door, his gaze following the car as moved out of the lot and disappeared down the road. 

Lauren pushed out of the coffee shop, walking a few paces away from where patrons passed through into the busy campus spot and paused to put in her earbuds. Finding a job on campus and around town was proving to be a major pain in the ass. Everything from work study assignments to in town gigs had been snatched up long before she'd started looking. 

It was her own damn fault, really. Adjusting to the new reality of sophomore year was taking a lot longer than it did in her previous semesters. Then, she'd been lucky enough to snag a choice spot in the library. Working the front desk usually meant long stretches of time spent watching movies and doing her homework in between stacking books to be reshelved and answering the occasional question from a lost student. 

Now she was left scrambling. Her softball scholarship covered her tuition and the basics of housing (on campus) and meal plans, but the rest (like living) was up to her. Refusing to touch her savings meant budgeting herself to only the essentials but even those were starting to feel beyond her bank account. New camera lens, an extra external drive to house her pictures, a new fall coat...the dollar signs were giving her a headache. 

Lauren sighed. A Latte Fun was her last resort. She'd tried the barista thing back in New Orleans, slinging coffee the spring and summer before her freshman year and it wasn't terrible, just not ideal. Still, a job was a job, and the coffee shop would prove helpful. Not to mention workable with her schedule. She just didn't know when she'd actually sleep. Of course this was all pending, she wouldn't know about the job until later, but the interview had gone well. Still...she needed a backup, just in case.

There was a sharp pressure building at the back of her neck, a sure sign of stress and Lauren absently rubbed at the spot as she made her way back to campus, where a long night of editing was in her future. She'd picked up a side gig, snapping pictures of Homecoming Weekend for Ginsburg's Alumni Association and needed to get the files for last weekend's big game to the webmaster by morning. 

The sound of her phone ringing paused the music that played softly from her earbuds and Lauren was prepared to ignore the FaceTime request until she saw the name. She hit 'Accept' and the familiar sight of her eldest brother's face coming into view made brought forth the first genuine smile she'd had all afternoon. 

"Hey, Nono."

"Hey! You busy?"

Lauren shook her head and took a break from her walk to sit on a nearby bench. "Leaving the coffee shop. What's up? Where are you?"

Antonio flipped the camera, giving Lauren a brief glimpse of the gym in the background, decked out in LSU purple and gold before turning it front facing. “Just finished up, bout to meet Gabe for food. Haven’t heard from you in a minute.” 

“Yeah, I know” she replied, ignoring the tiny pinprick of guilt that followed. “Still tryin’ to get settled with school and stuff.” 

Brown eyes, much like her own, held a sympathetic gaze and Antonio shook his head in the camera’s view. “Figured you were busy that’s why I reached out. It’ll be your turn to hit me up next time. Everything okay?” 

“Yup!” Lauren nodded, backing up her strained response with a smile that wasn’t as bright as her first one, looking as tired as she felt, and she was seriously regretting a video call. Because she knew her brother and knew he’d pick up on her weird mood right away. 

“Something’s wrong. What happened?” 

There it was. The worry that she didn’t want to hear. She was fine to handle the problem (that wasn’t even a problem) on her own. As the first of the bunch, Antonio had the responsibility of wrangling the others and keeping them in line. He was their parents’ pride and joy, the dutiful eldest son who’d followed in his father’s footsteps. 

Star footballer, exceptional student, LSU’s twice elected homecoming king leaving college a legend, with a degree in hand and a top pick in the NFL draft. He was the blueprint the others were expected to follow and it drove Lauren crazy that on top of everything, her successful, saintly, stupidly handsome brother was also a total sweetheart. 

He was good for a deep talk, looking out for his siblings in a way that Lauren always appreciated...but not now. She didn’t want to hear about how ‘things would work out’. She just wanted to hide under her covers for a little while, just enough time to suck it up and stop feeling sorry for herself. 

“It’s nothing. Got a lot of work to do, and I’m still lookin’ for a job. But it’s fine, really.” This smile was better than the last, going for subtle as she continued, easing back into a drawl that matched his own. “Congrats on the game, by the way. Y’all ate Florida up.” 

Whether or not Antonio bought it, his face gave nothing away. Instead, his lips twisted into a grin that bordered on cocky and for some reason made Lauren miss home more than anything...if only to throw a pillow at his head and wipe it off his face. “Yeah, we did alright.” 

“Y’all are number one in the division, it’s more than ‘alright’. How’s Gabe?” 

He shrugged. “Still a jackass. You gotta come home sometime, get your brother together.” 

Lauren laughed. “He doesn’t listen to anybody.” 

“Yeah? Sound familiar?” He grinned at the ‘shut up!’ that followed and the laughter that came after. 

“I know he was on best manners with the parents there, though.” 

“Oh you know that. We missed you at Homecoming.” 

She shrugged. “It’s Homecoming here, now. Our game was Saturday too. We won, by the way.” 

“‘We’?” 

“Showing my school spirit. I had to take pictures of the events for the alumni association so I went to the game. And I gotta do a few other appearances. For softball stuff. Whatever.” It wouldn’t do to point out that her parents had yet to attend a homecoming at Ginsburg, despite never missing one, or any home game for her brothers at LSU. That ship had long sailed and Lauren had no intention of bringing up old shit. 

For his part, Antonio skirted past the topic, recognizing Lauren’s dismissiveness. Still, he couldn’t help but ask his next question. “You sure you’re okay? You don’t need anything?” 

“I’m fine. Just tired. Long weekend. Long week ahead.” 

“Okay. Well good luck with the job stuff. When’re you hearin’ back from them?” 

“I don’t know. Sometime this week.” The ‘hopefully’ was silent, but her tone said enough and Lauren shook her head at her brother’s look of concern. “I’ll be fine.” 

The angle of the phone changed slightly, Antonio’s face tilted upwards and he hummed an absent ‘Mhm’ at his little sister before the connection blurred and went on pause. 

“Antonio? What…” It was only a minute or two before he returned, now in the driver’s seat of his truck and grinning at a perplexed Lauren. “Where did you go?” 

“Check your phone,” he told her, ignoring the question altogether while setting his phone in the holder on the dash. “Should be getting an alert now.” 

Sure enough, the muted tone beeped in her ears and Lauren paused the video feed to check the text notification from her bank’s app, and the alert that $300 had been added to her account. The culmination of the rough day, and her brother’s kindness brought a lump to her throat and she swallowed it down, taking a deep breath before resuming the video. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Nono.” 

Antonio rolled his eyes as if Lauren’s stubbornness was a mild inconvenience and not the Zizes trademark. “Yeah, I did. You need it, I got it, and I know you ain’t askin’ anybody. Especially not Ma or Dad. I got you.” 

“Thank you. I’ll pay you--” 

“Nope. That’s yours. It’s fine. Just get somebody hot to play me in the movie you write about us, all I ask.” 

That made Lauren laugh out loud, drawing a few looks from people ambling on the sidewalks but she paid them no attention. “Issa deal.” 

“Good. I gotta get Gabe but I’ll tell him you said hey, okay? Love you, Lozinha!”

The call disconnected and Lauren paused her music. Antonio’s generosity wouldn’t completely solve her problems, but it made things feel a little less chaotic. She would still pursue a job, whether it was at the coffee shop or somewhere else because she wouldn’t rely on that kind of bailout, no matter how much Antonio insisted it was what he was there for. 

Sam ended the call, feeling no less annoyed than when his phone rang an hour before. The irritation warred with his guilt, hearing the confusion in his younger sister’s tone from the bomb dropped at the Gazette that slowly gave way to frustration once Sam had finally explained all the happenings from the past few months, from the Spring Fest debacle, to the bust up with the building bid.

“I knew my gut feeling was right. Why the hell didn’t you tell me any of this before?” He could hear the hurt too, knowing Stacy was completely justified because they rarely kept things from each other. She’d been in Boston since the semester’s end, staying in Sam’s apartment while interning at a rehabilitation clinic in the city as part of her graduate program and while the two hadn’t seen much of each other, there’d been plenty of chances for Sam to fill her in...and he didn’t.

He’d always wanted to shield her from the brunt of their father’s bullshit, and the instinctual big brother move was back to bite him in the ass. Though he apologized, Stacy simply responded with a huff that let him know she’d need more time to cool down before they could really talk about things and his feelings on the matter, and her icy anger was no less than what he deserved.. But it was Stacy’s parting words that stuck with him most, about their father...things he’d considered himself since the night after the cruel videos of James sprawled out on their front porch.

“Dad needs help, Sam. Real help. He can’t fix it himself and we can’t do it either.”

There was no denying it. James’ sobriety ebbed and flowed like the tide, fluctuating between states of slightly sober and barely functional. With the bar more or less running smoothly and off his daily docket, it left too much free time that the elder Evans filled with his favorite vice. The house, that Sam had painstakingly tidied with each visit, was once again in disarray and Sam was at a loss. Things seemed to have taken a dip after Spring Fest and the Gazette story only worsened his father’s mood.

Shoving the phone into his back pocket, Sam grabbed the large black garbage bags and headed from the newly cleaned kitchen to dump them into the cans around the side of the house. It’d taken all morning to get downstairs in some kind of order, and now his father had found his way to the living room, settled in his favorite chair with a copy of the Gazette in hand.

Sam caught the bottle of beer sweating on the side table next to the recliner and bit back his annoyance...a move he seemed to be excelling at, as of late.

“That family’s a damn curse,” James mumbled, tossing down the paper in disgust and reaching for his beer. “Clarington was always a pompous shit, walking round town with his nose in the air. Sounds like the son ain’t any better.”

Sam made a non-committal noise at that, as he swiped up the paper, ready to throw it in the recycling. However pissed off he was at Hunter, he didn’t feel like joining in on James’ rant against Castleport’s elite.

“Don’t know why you trusted anyone in that family, in the first place. There’s no being friends with any of those people, Sammy. They all lie and cheat their way into anything good in this town” James paused long enough for a slow pull of his beer before he was back into it and Sam knew he would power up for a good twenty minutes more if he didn’t put a stop to it.

“That’s why I never took a dime off those bastards. Clarington stopped me at every turn with the bar, even offered me money to not open the place but I told that sonofabitch where he could put his check. That’s the problem with these rich assholes. Clarington, Fabrays, all of ‘em…just take and take and leave us with the scraps.”

Sam scoffed. “A Fabray is about the only reason your precious bar’s still got the lights on and customers on the stool, so maybe reel in the high and mighty martyr act.”

James snatched back the newspaper from his son’s grasp, glassy green eyes fixing him with a hard stare. “You come back to town whenever you feel like it, and decide to play shop, like you know better than your own father and suddenly you’re the expert? Can’t even buy a damn building but wanna lecture me on my business?  Someone’s putting on airs and it ain’t me, boy.”

Sam shook his head, feeling the words jab at him, hitting hard just as his father intended. It’d been something he’d agonized about, ever since he’d proposed the business plan with Hunter. Feeling inadequate, unequipped, reaching beyond his so-called place in the Castleport hierarchy to something he could call his own.

Something without the memory of his gone but not forgotten mother, something he built on his own strength. And in one fell swoop, it’d all been yanked from under him. Outbid, outsold, outclassed.

It felt like a public smackdown, a reminder printed in black and white that the ultimate decision was out of his reach. The very thing he’d been afraid of had happened, and really it felt like his own damn fault for believing, even for a second, that it would be different.

“Talk to me about integrity when you can put in a full day’s work without the booze.” Sam heard the venom in his own voice, thick with barely concealed anger and the shock that registered on his father’s face and knew he’d taken things too far.

Getting the hell out of Castleport and back to his regular routine was absolutely necessary.

There’d been too much of the back and forth lately, the result of it a few hundred more miles on his Jeep and a whole new rear window for the effort. Thinking too much on the latter only pissed him off, so instead he channeled his focus into work.

The busy bustle of Mystery Ink was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of Castleport, where his routine was easier to navigate. His schedule was packed, the uptick in clients more than likely blamed on the upcoming holiday. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was about February 14th but the days leading up to it was typically crowded with all types of people looking to express their sentiments, schmaltz or otherwise, on the day of love, ink-style.

But Sam took at advantage of that, letting his mind settle into the comforting adrenaline rush of work mode--the buzz of needles, ink palettes, sketchbooks, and late night artwork. It was exactly what he needed.

Though, in those small breaks, between clients and chats with his coworkers, it was tough to turn off certain thoughts about his hometown, at least not completely. His two-thirty client had wanted a galaxy of stars, a blend of shading and geometric blocking that was in this year, but at least it wasn’t the typical design. It proved to be a challenge, exactly the kind of art and ink he preferred...even if the stars aesthetic reminded him of Rachel.

She used to add them to everything...even instagram captions. Sam recalled a time in high school when he’d asked to borrow her notes in World Civ and there they were, tiny stars dotting her neatly written ‘i’s. It was the weirdly cute, if a little grating kind of self confidence boosting shit she did that Sam had to give her credit for, it certainly made her memorable.

Then again, Rachel didn’t pop up in his mind too much, at least not as often as before. When the news was still fresh and Sam, like most of the people who knew (and in his case, only sorta tolerated) her, were confused and mostly curious about the case. When it seemed like the police had some actual footing, the texts and the discovery of the guy that Sam had immediately gotten a bad vibe from, off their messages alone. And Rachel was a handful, but she didn’t deserve the aggressive attention and stalking that came with being involved with a guy like Brody. He’d always believed something had happened, even if he wasn’t sure what the hell it was. Call it a gut instinct.

And it also wasn’t entirely surprising the cops had dropped the ball in their own investigation. Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust and busied his hands with the Cafe Bustelo at the coffee bar, filling his Spiderman mug with the robust roast before adding enough milk and sugar.

He could recall just how utterly useless the police had been, in his personal encounters with Castleport’s finest. The many nights his father had spent in the drunk tank or had his keys taken away, or needed a police escort home. The pitying looks that followed a disapproving tone that reeked of judgment and it annoyed the absolute shit out of Sam. Much more than his own run-ins when he got bold enough to take his art from the classrooms to the sides of buildings around town.

Rationally, he knew it wasn’t all the police’s fault...there were plenty of dead ends in Rachel’s disappearance, but it was instinct (and common sense) not to trust the cops.  The one sure thing had seemingly slipped from their grasp with little effort. Knowing Brody was out there, most likely knowing a hell of a lot more than the police let the public in on...that was weird as hell.

Not to mention the necklace...the blood…

Briefly, Sam wondered about Mercedes. She was close to Rachel, and he was sure the news was only worrying the hell out of her. He hadn’t seen her around much, but that wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary; they tended to float and out of each other’s orbit, it didn’t seem like it wasn’t changing anytime soon. Still, he’d send a text or something to be sure.

He was doing it again, the mental slide right back into the whirlwind of bullshit and drama of Castleport. And Sam reasoned that maybe it was inevitable. He’d long stopped feeling tethered to the city he’d called home for the past years, but it was as if deciding to open his own shop back in Maine had knocked something loose inside of him.

And It wasn’t sustainable, living with one foot planted in the past but with everything happening, with his father and the bar, with his former classmates, and Rachel herself...it weighed on him. Tugged him further into his hometown that felt less and less like the place he remembered the longer he stayed and the longer Rachel stayed gone.

“Yo! Evans! Your four-thirty’s here.”

Jolting out of his thoughts, Sam pushed away from the window ledge where he’d been perched, coffee long cooled in his mug and flashed a brief smile in the direction of Janae, the shop’s front desk manager, setting aside the ramble of disappearing former classmates and bloody necklaces. At least for now.