#untethered

A cruel instinct made Sal want to sneer something like 'do this a lot, do you?', only he bit down on it, because even in his fucked up head, he realised that it was a bit too obviously showing his hand. Or perhaps Buck knew anyway. Still, he didn't waver.

"Alright," Sal allowed, not even sure how he hadn't ended up at a resounding 'no'. It was something about Buck. This ridiculous puppy of a man, who smiled brightly and immediately promised to text Sal the address from his car.

"See you in a bit!"

He wasn't wrong. Sal arrived at the dinner-style place less than twenty minutes later and parked next to Buck's jeep. Perhaps there were some backroads he didn't know of, because Sal was very sure he'd pulled out of the parking lot at the firehouse first.

If Sal's nondescript irritation at the situation as a whole showed at all, Buck didn't let on. He just led Sal into the restaurant, and never once, between going inside and sitting down and ordering, stopped keeping up a conversation that was somehow easy and flowing without becoming superficial. Sal couldn't pin him down. Not at all.

"Did you know that spider silk is one of the strongest naturally occurring materials by weight?" Buck asked, with his chin resting in his palm. It looked lazy, almost, but the way he kept considering Sal was too calculating for that. "Once a net is spun, it's structurally sound. Durable too."

"I feel like you're trying to make a point," Sal said. "There's no need to lead me to make my own conclusions; you could just tell me."

Buck gave him a lopsided grin. "Have you always been this alike? Or is it because you've been partners for so long?"

The way Buck said that word, partners, was heavy beyond reason. Back in the day, Sal had realised its weight once, just once, and then forced himself to shove it all back down and never think about 'this is Tommy, my partner' ever again.

"It was like that for me with my partner for a while. Eddie," Buck went on, when Sal made no move to reply. "But that one ended a bit badly. He moved. Then came back. He has a bit of an anger issue."

Sal controlled his flinch. But something must have shown in his expression, because Buck's eyebrows rose. "It's a different story."

"When I left the 118, it was out of anger as well," Sal heard himself say, aware that the words could cut him, but unable to stop himself. Damn those pretty curls and the honest expression on Buck's face. Part of Sal wanted to give away much, much more than just a few minor truths about the past.

"That's not how Tommy tells it," Buck said. "He said Bobby transferred you because you were too good at leading."

Sal looked up from his food, a little stunned. "It feels like that's a little biased."

Buck shot back immediately: "Sure. Because Tommy cares about you."

Sal had walked into that one. Barreled straight into the knife that was always right there, just waiting to cut him. Sal should know better at this point.

There was a merciful streak in Buck because he pivoted the conversation. Not quite without letting on that he was doing it, but still. Sal asked him about work, and Buck sighed, making a motion with his hand that indicated it was all a bit difficult even before he admitted it. Sal really had no leg to stand on in demanding more details, so he didn't.

When they finally paid and left, the parking lot was already mostly empty; it distinctly felt like that was by design. Or if it wasn't, Buck at least took hold of the opportunity before Sal could even fully gather it was one. One moment, he stood next to his car, trying to find a way to say goodbye without being too mean or too honest.

The next, Buck stepped into Sal's space, hand curved around the side of his neck, and kissed him. Unhurried, open-mouthed, like he had all the time in the world. Sal could feel the kiss hook into his heartstrings, and it was hard to fight the meaning behind it.

He swallowed hard when Buck let him go. "You and Tommy are together."

"Will you keep using that as an excuse?" Buck asked, unimpressed. "Tommy knows I'm here with you."

Sal laughed, a jaded sound. "So what? Is it an open relationship now? And you've decided to play—"

"No." Buck backed away a little, something sharpening in his voice. "It's just you. You know that."

Something shifted in Buck's expression, quick and quickly gone. He looked almost hurt. Sal's mouth snapped shut.

Buck sighed. "Honestly, you want to know what's funny? You both do the exact same thing. He soft-pedals to avoid scaring you off. You bolt before he gets the chance. I'm surprised you're even talking to each other still."

"Hey—"

"Oh?" A flicker of something that wasn't quite a smile. "So when Tommy called you a friend because he didn't want to spook you, you didn't flee your own apartment because you wanted to be more than that?"

Sal took a step back, out of Buck's immediate reach. He felt unbalanced, and it took a moment before he found his anger: "You're—"

"A nosy bastard?" Buck's grin took an edge. "Nah."

He held Sal's gaze, and something in his expression settled, not softer, exactly. Quieter. More dangerous for it.

"I already love him. And I could fall for you so easily."

The silence stretched. Buck let it.

"So yeah," he said finally. "I'll push a little."

A funny thing was happening in Sal's chest. One which he felt entirely objected to, weathering an uncontrolled storm. He did that well, usually. But 'I could fall for you' and 'easily' wasn't a combination of words Sal had heard before or even thought he'd hear.

"Think about it," Buck pressed, still pushing. "Here, give me your phone."

Sal did, too unbalanced to resist Buck's open hand, palm to the sky with an ease that belied the weight of what he was offering. Maybe Buck didn't realise it, or maybe he was always this open with his affection. Sal could believe it with everything Tommy had told him.

"There," Buck said and handed Sal's phone back. "You have my number now. Think about it. If it's too hard to talk to Tommy, text me."

"What makes you think that texting you is easier?"

Buck's smile was instant, wide and true. "You don't love me yet, Tori."

Yet. Like inevitability. So fucking confident. Sal could have teased, could have said something about arrogance. But Buck was the furthest thing from that, and the implication was startlingly clear.

You love him.

When Buck touched his arm just above his elbow and pressed another quick peck to the corner of Sal's mouth, he was still absolutely frozen.

"Text me," Buck said, and Sal's gaze fell from those startling eyes to the screen of his phone. He'd saved his contact as 'Evan'.

+++

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The smell of broiling honey ham filled your nostrils. Humored voices of your father and Joel echoed from the outside as they grilled their sirloins over burning charcoal. You set the counters with the food that was already cooked and ready to eat, leaving them out like it were a buffet. The warm desserts were placed after the savory vegetables plated on some of your mother’s finest china. You and Maria waited for the ham, as it was the last thing to be ready—she wanted it to be fresh.

During this time, you changed into your evening clothes, which was none other than a pair of overall shorts, a white frilly crop top, and your cowboy boots. Clean ones, of course.

You haven’t seen or heard from Ellie since your little squabble. Joel had come in with a nicely cooked pie in his hands, without her, claiming that she had to make a quick run. Then, you noticed Cat was gone, too. Perhaps, there was some correlation there. You didn’t want to pester because of how tender everything was after your confession. That didn’t mean you weren’t curious, though. While you felt an immense pressure lifted from your shoulders, there was an underlying level of an unnerving feeling.

Old habits die hard, they say. And you find that to be true.

“So’s… your friend still comin’, honey?” Maria checks for the crispy brown on the shell of the ham in the oven. “Or is that called off since your realization…”

In the midst of sorting out your mother’s finest plates, you paused. “Shit,” You cursed, clenching a fist and shutting your eyes, tightly. Abby was still coming over for dinner—you completely forgot all about that! Fuck. You looked at the time on the oven, squinting your eyes. 5:57. “Is it too late to cancel on her?” You muttered, peering at your mother.

“What time did you tell her to be here by?”

“6-ish…”

Maria took in a deep breath, glancing up at her ceiling. “To be frank, Bug,” She inhaled through her teeth. “At some point you gotta throw in the asshole towel—“

There was a knock on the door. You cringed, gritting your teeth. “Please, can you answer it?” You beg, furrowing your eyebrows.

“No.” She deadpans.

“Well, I can’t… Because— because I have to go help dad and Joel with the steak.” You pressed your lips into a line, preparing to walk out to the back porch. You didn’t know if the culprit of the door knocking was Abby, but all the odds were pointing to her. If it were Ellie, she wouldn’t have knocked. And, if it were Cat, she’d be behind Ellie.

Before you could get far, she tugged on the back of your overalls, pulling you to a stop. “Answer the damn door.” Maria commanded, flashing her stern, bright eyes at you.

You pouted, stomping your foot. Nervousness arose in your chest, tightening and constricting. With a sigh, you approached the front door. When you pulled it open, the sight of a tall, muscular blonde grinning at you—caused a knowing smile creep onto your face. “Abby,” You sighed her name, taking in a deep inhale, leaning on the door.

A bottle of wine was held in her hands. “I hope I’m not too early.” She chuckled with a hint of nervousness. It was sweet.

“No… Not at all.” You ran your tongue over your lips, awkwardly reaching to hug her. You slid your arm around her waist, instead of her neck like usual—pressing your sides together, platonically. As if she were an acquaintance. Don’t think she didn’t take notice to that. “Come on in.” Gently, you take the bottle from her hands, peering at the label. It was a red wine, Pinot Noir, not your favorite.

You shut the door behind her, sighing once it clicked with your hands braced against the cool wood. Like that could cure the queasiness building in your stomach. With dragging legs, you walked her to the kitchen. Where your mother feigned unawareness. “Maria, this is my friend, Abby.” You introduced her without focus, setting the bottle on the kitchen counter behind the desserts. The use of your mother’s name was you trying to quip at her for making you answer the door.

She tucked her long, golden hair behind her ears, reaching a hand out to shake mother’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to put a name to a face.” Maria spoke, firmly taking hers. “How did you meet my daughter?” She followed up, quickly.

You rolled your eyes, scoffing under your breath. That was question was irrelevant to ask. She was asking her with the tone of a protective parent, but Abby was only ever going to be a friend—especially, after the last few days.

“We met at a fundraising event last year. My dad, he was a top bidder, and her agent, Isa, was a very persistent businesswoman.” Abby chortled, charmingly. She always managed to slip her financial status within her conversation—she was good at it. In that statement alone, she announced to your mother just how much she knew you. Enough to know the name of your agent, enunciating Isa’s name in a way to exploit your closeness—because how would she know how grueling that woman was at times? As well as letting her know that she could support you in ways others probably couldn’t.

My dad, he was a top bidder.

What the fuck did that matter? Her presence alone was getting under your skin; more than it ever had. And you weren’t sure if it was her fault, or your own.

You yearned for the girl who claimed to love you earlier in the day. That’s you’re fuckin’ problem. Always wanting to be perfect— but you’re not! Not even close. And I fucking love you for it. You could hear her raspy voice crowding over Abby’s friendly words. How Ellie achieved simultaneously calling you out, while passionately confessing her love for you—again—seamlessly… You’ll never know.

“Abby,” You spoke up. “Why don’t you help set the table? I’m gonna go check on the steaks… Maybe, after, I can give you a quick tour before dinner.” The only way to survive that was to push through—make her feel at home, try not to be weird.

“Sounds great!” She rubbed her hands together, excitedly. You hand her the delicate plates, giving a smile that barely met your eyes.

On the way toward the porch, you make eye contact with your mother. Curt. Stern. Irritated. Maria didn’t care to give a reaction—you must lie in the bed you made. Even though, you didn’t intend to forget to call things off with Abby. It’s been a very busy, dramatic two days.

Slipping through the back door, you look for the comfort of your father’s eyes. “Bug! Come taste this!” Tommy clamped his tongs, motioning to his tray of steak.

“I think you should taste mine first—“

“No! She’s my daughter— she’s tastin’ mine first.”

You waved a dismissive hand, chuckling under pouty lips. “I’ll taste both, but… I have to ask you somethin’ first, Joel.” Your face fell into a serious expression.

His brown eyes twitched, amused features melting from his aged face. “Yeah…”

“Ellie’s coming back, right?” Your fingers intertwined with themselves, while you chewed on the soft skin inside of your mouth. “The secrets out now, so… She can come back.” You shrugged, childishly. “And dinner’s gonna be ready any minute now— mom’s only gonna hold off for so long. She likes her ham hot.” Words flooded from your glossy lip, followed by a timid gulp.

“What made you think she wouldn’t come back, sweetheart?”

“It’s not like you explained where she went, Joel.” You deadpanned. “I was left to my own devices— as in, my own dysfunctional brain. You know what happens when I do that.”

He pursed his lips, fighting the grin he wanted to share. Joel glanced at his brother, huffing. “You didn’t ask, either, Bug.”

You paused, crossing your arms. “Did you ever consider that I didn’t want to? If you haven’t noticed— which I know that you have— she’s pissed at me.”

Joel inhaled, cutting off a piece of his steak for you. “I’m not pissed at you, though.” He hands it over to you on a fork, and you take it mindlessly. You weren’t known for having anger issues, but it seemed as if Joel was testing you.

“Joel, can you stop being a dick and tell me where she is?” You whined, childishly, before putting the square piece of meat into your mouth, chewing with identifying eyebrows. You looked up at the darkening sky, humming. His piece blossomed with flavor. It was a little tough, but you didn’t mind it because of how flavorful it was. “This is… Great. A little tough—” The voice of your father cut you off, mid-thought. Joel shrugged, nudging Tommy’s shoulder, teasingly.

Tommy scoffed, cutting a piece for you. “He manipulated you into trying his steak first— here’s mine.” He gasped, leaning the fork your way.

With a shrug, you took the fork, pulling the meat from the prongs with your front teeth. You hummed, again, peering at your father with wide eyes. Tommy’s was more tender, with a softer, pinker inside between the char. “Okay…” You roll your tongue in your mouth. “Whichever one of you tells me where Ellie is first, wins.”

“Honey, that’s not fair—“

“She’s dropping off Cat at the train station. I suggested they break up, and I’m sure they did— Ellie should be on her way back by now.”

A mischievous grin coursed over your features that were being bitten by the crisp, autumn air. “Silly, silly, Joel.” You shook your head. “You win on flavor… Dad, you win on texture— meaning overall, my favorite is yours. Congratulations.” You pat your fathers’ shoulder, pressing your lips into a tight smile.

You pivoted on your feet, chewing on the inside of your lips in thought. Ellie was dropping Cat off at the train station—you wondered what brought her from the ledge of revenge to return home on Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, you didn’t get the chance to apologize to her for your thoughtless behavior. But… Partially, you were relieved that you didn’t have to face her. However, there was a pull in your gut that you had to apologize regardless of her absence.

It was a tug of war with your morals and ego.

Basically, you snatched the screen door open, huffing and getting the attention of the chatty blonde and your mother. She was chewing on a piece of ham, moaning in delight. “Mrs. Miller, I hope you don’t mind if I have more than one serving later…”

“There’s plenty of ham to go around, hon.” She waved a hand, the ends of her lips curling.

Your eyebrows jut together, but you covered that small change of expression with a tight smile. “You ready for that tour, Abs?” You snapped your fingers. It was an awkward and very rare movement from you, but it was barely noticed. Not by Abby, at least.

She wiped her lips with a napkin, dusting her hands on her tight jeans. “If you don’t mind?” Abby politely spoke to your mother, and for a moment, it didn’t bother you. A few months ago, these little moments were what you wished for. You envisioned her eating your mom’s cooking with a smile, conversing with her in your childhood home—but she didn’t want that. It was bitterly humorous how much of a natural she was in the scope of things.

Maria nodded, giving you an off glance, and jutting her blonde eyebrows upwards. You took her hand, dragging her out the front door, shoving through the screen door. Once you were out in the brisk, autumn air, you slid your hand from hers—crossing your arms over your chest like a shield of some sort.

“I thought your bedroom would be the first stop…” Abby chortled to herself, glancing down at you. However, you barely reacted. Perhaps, she was joking or jesting—trying to make you laugh.

Internally, you cringed. “My bedroom is the least fascinating thing here.” You narrowed your eyes at her, leading the woman down the porch. “So, what interests you the most? Horses? Goats? Cows?” You perk an eyebrow, peering up at her. Eyes switching between her semi-awkward stature and the background of the front of the house. You yearned for the dull high beams of Ellie’s truck.

“Horses are cool…” She nodded, surveying your features, trying to determine your thoughts. Abby has never been so focused on you, and frankly, it made you feel weird. A part of you wanted to relish in the fact that she was giving you the energy you had been wanting from her all along. But the wound that was severed by the touch and attention of your past lover—nothing could compare! It would be greedy for you to welcome this modified version of Abby Anderson. Deep down, if it came down to it, you’d choose Ellie over Abby; no questions asked.

“My dad, he has a soft spot for animals… The last time I saw a horse I was, like, fifteen.” Abby continued, while you led her toward the horse barn. “He took me to some ranch for my birthday.”

You hummed, raising an eyebrow. “It wasn’t this one, right?” A chuckle fell from your lips, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your overalls.

Abby guffawed, pushing a straying piece of her hair behind her ears. “No, it wasn’t this one. The ranch I went to, their horses were very easily frightened—which was odd because their whole shtick was horse-riding.” She deepened her eyebrows at the memory, shrugging her shoulders. “I almost fell off one of ‘em.”

“Geez, Abs.” You puffed air from your lips. “Well, my parents have always spent lots of time training these horses— so, you have nothing to be worried about.” Your fingers grazed the material of her shirt on her arm, pressing your lips into a smile. “The only one that isn’t formally trained is Sarah, but she’s only a few weeks old. And to be honest, she takes to new people very well.” As you approached the barn, a few of them still grazed around. It was Shimmer and Sarah out along the fence, and Hamlet sort of just watching them.

“Alright, I’ll have to trust you.” She pursed her lips.

“I’d never lead you into the fire, Abby…”

You opened the gate, walking into the enclosure of the barn. Abby appeared apprehensive about walking into their space. Her previous experience with a horse must’ve truly affected her. Warmly, you held out a hand for her—giving her the option to take it. You wiggled your fingers, sporting a slightly teasing smile. Abby took your hand, firmly, holding onto your hand as if she never wanted to let go. Spark.

Her fear was endearing; it was like seeing her in a different light. How confusing.

“Over there, that’s Shimmer and her baby Sarah. They’re both the most affectionate. Sarah takes after her mother in that way. And lingering off to the side… That’s Hamlet—he’s a bit of a loner. He likes to walk around and keep an eye on everyone.”

“Like a protector?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” You nod, still holding onto her coarse hand. “I could introduce you to Shimmer? Like I said, she’s super sweet— I’m sure she’ll adore you.” You wanted to give her the option because that was just the type of person that you were. Despite your flip-floppy relationship, in a sense, you allowed her admittance of a small fear to soften your heart to her. The tethering of your hands, the feeling of leading her—controlling her, guiding her—it gave you a sense of comfort. It was a connection that you were waiting for. However, still, it didn’t feel the same compared to the auburn-haired artist. Now, that there was a chance to compare.

Her palms were too coarse, more focused on her inner knuckles, remnants of her history with heavy lifting. While Ellie’s exposed her love of physical art, music, drawing, painting. The callouses relied on her fingertips rather than her palms—and for some reason, that mattered more to you.

With her hand in yours, you lead her toward Shimmer, cooing as you approached her. You muttered sweet words to the much shorter horse, Sarah, before guiding her hand to touch Shimmer. You palm over the back of her hand to reassure that Abby was safe—that she wasn’t going to hurt her.

You weren’t leading her into the fire.

Her soft, blue eyes gleamed at you, but it was hard to notice at first as you were focused on Shimmer. Your other hand scratched at the side of her neck, burrowing your nails under her coarse fur. A nervous tick; an attempt at ignoring the harsh gaze of the blonde next to you. Abby’s dilated irises penetrated the side of your face with the weight of a glare. You swallowed a lump in your throat, averting your eyes from Shimmer’s copper fur toward her enamored features.  

There wasn’t much time for you to take in her look of yearning before she enveloped you into her arms, attaching her lips to yours. She shared her warmth with her firm arms cradling your bare ones, and it did, in fact, warm you up. But it wasn’t warm. Although, your arms automatically wrapped around her shoulders—fingers imbedding into her fine, blonde hair—you allowed her touch to consume you. Her desperate touch. Her lips plead against yours, pleading for you to dive into her as she wanted you to. As you used to with fervor. Abby noticed your lack of enthusiasm, or more so attempt to replicate your past enthusiasm. She prided herself on her intelligence, meaning that she knew something had changed between the two of you. Either you gained more self-respect for yourself, or there was someone else.

Someone who touched you better than she did. Someone who had the time to love you how you wanted to be loved.

Off in the dark, a truck pulled onto the graveled driveway of the younger Millers’ home. When she put the car in park, leaned her head against the stirring wheel, releasing a groan of relief. The trip to the train station was long, and initially silent. Until Cat became livid enough to make Ellie pull over for an hour. She was sobbing, screaming, unleashing her pent-up anger on the artist—and deservingly so; Ellie knew that much. Debatably, it was one of her best fuckups because it brought you back to her.

It all began with the tempting of a fruit. The garden of Eden—your quivering lips in a filthy, bar bathroom. Historians call that the fall of man, however, ever since she succumbed to you, she’s felt higher than she ever has. A burning joint was nothing compared to you.

Ellie’s poor decision making was worth Cat’s wrath if it brought her back to you.

But there was a lingering pressure that haunted her mind like a juvenile insecurity. A two-syllable word that was a poltergeist in her mind—fickle. Was the reigniting of a fire, the fire that Ellie sparked, received for the sake of receiving. Maybe, you didn’t love her like you claimed—but that didn’t make sense. Not for you!

The disorganized artist worried and worried and worried. When her dull high beams reflected off the white, farmhouse ahead of her; her nerves only increased. There was this need to prove herself to you that she couldn’t shake.

After gathering courage, she hopped out of her truck, slamming the door to release the energy that harbored at the pit of her belly. Ellie shoved the key into the driver’s door, locking all of the doors with a huff. Her toes pivoted, hands sliding into her front pockets as she approached the house—mentally readying herself to see your face again. The last time the two of you spoke, she proclaimed her love for you despite your blundering imperfections. Ellie was sure that you didn’t take well to that; she needed to explain!

Her beat-up converse crunched over the gravel; she could feel every pebble under her deteriorating sole. In the dark, her earthy eyes squinted in the direction of the barn—to get a look at the grazing horses she spent time with earlier. Ellie wanted to check up on them from the distance in which she walked. However, she was met with a sight that burned her from the inside out.

It was you wrapped in the arms of the same woman from the bar. Tall in her stature, in a black shirt that hugged her protruding muscles perfectly. Long, glimmering, golden hair that your fingers punctured. To feel a combination of emotions was an understatement.

Her fingers tingled up her slender arms, lips arching in disgust. “What the fuck is happening…?” Ellie muttered with grit, starting to stalk toward the house, scoffing under her breath. But, before she reached the stairs to the porch, she turned on her feet again. Consumed with frustration, she began to lead herself toward the horse barn with stiff shoulders and balled-up fists.

Ellie appeared on the opposite side of the fence than you and Abby with a look in her eye that could be confused for estrangement. While you were already breaking apart, placing your hand on Abby’s firm chest, unable to meet her eyes—afraid to expose your apprehension. The artist’s appearance caused you to nearly jump out of your boots. You jumped a few inches from the taller blonde woman, placing your fingers over your glistening lips, ruminating with regret.

“I’m afraid we haven’t gotten the chance to meet— I’m Ellie.” Her raspy voice was taut, and too formal. It was barely the voice that you were used to. She failed to offer a physical greeting, like offering her hand; she just kept her hands had her sides.

You hid your face in your hands, cursing to yourself. Fuck. Fuck. Abby lips parted, awkwardly. “Uhm, Abby Anderson… I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her slender eyebrows jutted upwards, and she held out her hand, but wasn’t met with warmth. It was true that she knew about Ellie—the past version of her, at least. She’d heard the story of her poking and prodding at you in your youth, but even with that, you never spoke ill of her. By the time you met Abby, there was a level of accountability taken over the situation that didn’t exist years before.

She was nothing more than a story about your first love.

Ellie glanced at you, bitterly. “Yeah, I’m sure you have…” She ran her earthy eyes up Abby’s tall, muscular figure with a frown.

“Ellie—” Her voice cut you off before you could speak, causing you to look off to the side in contempt.

“Dinner’s ready, right? We should probably head inside… Wouldn’t wanna leave Maria waiting.” The auburn-haired woman stalked off before either you or Abby had the chance to react. You sighed, barely sparing the blonde a glance before following behind her. A frown pressed deeply onto your lips, mind racing behind your shifting, watering eyes. Abby muttered a ‘what the hell’ under her breath, smacking her hands against her thighs. But you didn’t say anything, just gnawed on the inside of your lip, anxiously. The tables turned too fast for your liking.

The auburn-haired artist didn’t care to hold the screen door open for you and your guest, quickly entering the house. Tommy and Joel were inside sorting the steaks out in a singular disposable tin pan. They looked up simultaneously, like brothers, at the sight before them. Joel squinted at the sight of a fuming Ellie, or the sight of her trying to hide her frustration and anger. And Tommy looked to you with a similar look, and a simple jut of his eyebrows at the blonde woman behind you.

“Steak! I’m fucking starving.” You heard Ellie mutter, walking to the counter after taking a plate from the dining table.

A sigh left your lips while your father handed you an empty plate, but you passed it over to Abby—still, not sparing her a glance. Then, he handed you another one. The blonde man leans down, speaking in your ear while your mother tried to break the awkwardness of Abby’s presence. “Something happened?” He muttered, putting food on his plate.

“Mhm…” You glanced at him with wide, weary eyes.  

Somehow, everyone found themselves sat at the dining table: you between Abby and your mother, and Ellie between Tommy and Joel—you were looking straight at each other. You pleaded with your eyes for her not to react; that you could explain if you were given the chance. But that was too much to say with only a pointed gaze.

“So, Abby, what do you do?” She asked the blonde beside you, cutting her steak, forcefully.

“I’m a surgeon— an intern at Bellevue Hospital.” She nodded, forking the vegetables on her plate.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Tommy nodded, he glanced at her. His comment made Ellie’s eye twitch, subtly. “I have a friend who works in the medical field— have you figured out your specialty yet, or…”

Abby hummed, sipping water from a shiny glass cup, looking over the rim to meet your father’s eyes. “Not quite. My dad’s a general surgeon, so that interested me the most— but the more I work with surgeons under different specialties, the more I find myself interested in other things.” She swallowed, blinking. “Like, now, I’m considering orthopedic surgery.”

“That’s the one with the bones, right?” Joel questioned, partly chewing on his food.

“Yes, sir. That’s the one.” She chuckled, leaning her forearms on the table.

You watched Ellie take a gulp of her beer before speaking once more. “So, if you’re a surgeon… And y/n’s a writer— how’d the two of you meet?”

Maria smiled, glancing at her husband. “Well, Ellie, they met through her agent, Isa. At an event— what was it? A gala?”

“A fundraiser.” Finally, you spoke up to correct, holding up a finger that proclaimed your usual know-it-all behavior. Then, you reached for your wine glass, taking large gulps to down the substance—hoping it’d ease your uneven temper. You noticed that your lover, the auburn-haired one, had played the word fundraiser on her tongue. Under her breath, she talked to herself as if she was mocking the way you said the word.

The muscular blonde beside you cleared her throat, leveling her bright eyes onto the woman in front of you. “What do you do, Ellie?” Abby wondered with a barely noticeable sneer, but you caught it.

From the corner of your eye, you peered at her, stiffening your frame.

Her round, olive eyes glared at her—a glare that nobody at that table could miss. Everyone but Abby knew Ellie through and through; her anger couldn’t be hidden. In fact, she was the last person at that table who could ever hide her anger. “I’m an artist.” She curtly responded.

“So, you draw?”

“And she paints.” You fill in, turning your head in the direction of your guest. Her inquiry seemed backhanded—passive aggressive—and that struck a nerve. As if drawing was insignificant. “She’s really good at it.” Your eyes meet hers and for a moment her harsh, green eyes softened.

“Have I seen any of your work anywhere?”

“You don’t seem like a coffee shop person, so I doubt it.” Ellie grimaced, rolling her eyes. “I’m getting another drink.” Abruptly, she stood out of her chair, to walk into the kitchen that was hidden behind a wall and corner. The wooden legs screeching against the floor, causing you to cringe.

Abby shrugged, peering at you with a slight curl to her lips. “I love coffee.”

You scoffed, shutting your eyes. Without saying a word, you stood to your feet to follow her into the kitchen. Before you slipped away, you managed to slide your fingers along your guests’ shoulders as a way of reassurance—mainly so she wouldn’t get the urge to follow you.

When you entered the kitchen, Ellie was found with her hands braced on the counter and her head hanging low. The heels of your cowboy boots clicking against kitchen floor, slowly. Apprehensively. Nervously. You played with your fingertips, puffing air from your lips. “Ellie…”

“What the fuck was that?” Her eyes met yours, stressed and irritated with striking red veins.

You shrugged, pressing your lips into a line. “I was sticking up for you—“

“That’s not what I’m talkin’ about and you know that…” She scorned, barely even blinking her eyes. They bored into you in a way that almost petrified your frame.

You swallowed, casting your eyes up to the ceiling, guiltily. “It just happened.”

“It just happened?” She perked a scarred eyebrow, chortling, dryly. “It just fucking happened— I bet you could say the same for what happened between us, too, huh?” Ellie turned her body toward you, keeping her other hand leaning on the counter. Her voice was level, trying to keep the conversation down so other wouldn’t hear it—because even when she was angry, she still felt the need to shield you. Or more so, keep your relationship problems undercover. “Tell me, y/n… Am I fucking idiot? You made this big fuss about me breaking up with Cat, and the second I do, I see you eating Abby’s fucking face!”

“I wasn’t eating her face…”

“Semantics!”

“It was out of nowhere— I didn’t ask her to kiss me, Ellie!” You tried with a deep furrow in your brow, lips quivering. “It’s just… It’s just we have history—“

She laughed, bitterly.

“We have history and she’s stuck in a cycle I haven’t had the chance to break.”

Ellie squinted her eyes at you. “What the hell does that even mean?” Voice pulled taut, stepping closer to you. “You said that if I got rid of Cat, you’d get rid of Abby.”

“I forgot she was coming! Did you forget the day we had?!” The space between you was closing in the heat of frustration. “We didn’t exactly end on good terms earlier— excuse me for letting something as minuscule as Abby attending dinner to slip my mind.” You rambled with a secretive voice. “I had a very eventful day—“

“And you think I didn’t?”

You groaned under your breath, bunching your hands into fists at your sides. “I never said you didn’t… I just said that I did. There’s a lot on my mind.” A sigh fled your lips, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. “You know, I told my parents about us— right after our argument, because I couldn’t let them hear it from you or Cat.” Your voice softened, peering into her dilated eyes. Your trembling fingers tethered to the cotton that covered her arm, sliding down, attempting to reach for her hand. “I made peace with what we did… Because I wanna be with you, Els.” The choice to quote her own words wasn’t intentional, it was your truth.

When she had scolded you in your own bedroom, it wasn’t a great feeling, but she wasn’t wrong. You needed to stop wanting to be perfect all the time—nobody makes the best decisions every chance they get. Sometimes people fuckup and that’s okay.

The image of you searching her eyes made her heart melt. She wanted to fall into you—to kiss you, and say everything was fine… Even if it wasn’t. Ellie felt your hand creeping into hers. Your soft fingertips tapping her stiff palm. She found herself proud of you for admitting your faults to your parents—it was your greatest fear, but you did it anyway. Perhaps, you have changed or you were learning to. However, the looming presence of that buff surgeon irritated her.

Jealousy was a raging bitch.

And, speaking of… There she came, strutting into the kitchen with a look of concern. “Hey, is everything alright?” Her deep blue eyes only looked at you, gaging your stability—she couldn’t care less for Ellie’s.

Ellie swiped her hand from yours, running that same hand through her hair. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” She reached into the fridge, snatching a glass bottle of beer from the door. Just as quick as she did that, she fled the scene. Not sparing you a glance.

Eerily, your hand felt cold. You pouted, watching her leave, scratching your eyebrow. Abby uttered your name, sliding her hand around your waist. Your body tensed under her touch—it wasn’t what you yearned for. “Everything’s fine, Abby.” You breathed, gently touching the hand on your waist, removing it. However, you hid your form of rejection by turning to her, plastering a fake smile on your face.

“Joel started playing his guitar… Didn’t want you to miss it.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before— but I don’t want you to miss it, so…” You take in a deep inhale, averting your eyes. “I’ll meet you in there. I need a minute.”

Abby appeared taken aback and confused. You weren’t acting like the person she thought that she knew. And to be fair, it all started at the Tipsy Bison. “What’s going on— is something wrong—?”

“I just need a minute, alright?” You stressed, pinching your features. Almost snapping at her, but not quite. Still, your tone unnerved the blonde. She twitched, backing up from you with dejected shoulders. Abby scoffed under her breath, leaving you to pace in the kitchen alone—just like you wanted.

Because of your sudden stance at the dinner table, standing up to trot after Ellie, you forgot your empty wine glass. Instead of ducking toward the table to grab it, you just grabbed a clean glass from the cabinet. You poured a full glass of the Pinot Grigio that Ellie and Tommy had brought—nearly filling it to the brim. God, you needed a cigarette. The nicotine could hold you and console you better than a full bottle of wine. Better than the large, calloused hands of Abigail Anderson. But, better than the nimble, lightly calloused hands of Ellie Williams? Her arms? The whisps of her bluntly cut hair tickling your skin—no. Nothing was better than that… Than her.

The melodic sounds of Joel’s guitar filled your ears, and the impressed chuckles of his brother—your father. You missed hearing him play. His pleasant strum eased the spirits slipping down your throat. Then, you heard another tune, and it pulled you from the confines of the kitchen.

Your fingers held the bulbous part of the glass, resting your elbow over your arm. You moved as if you were being drawn spiritually to the living room, appearing behind Abby.

Ellie had propped herself on a stool in front of the television, with her own guitar, the one that had an inscription of your initials on the neck. It couldn’t be seen from the position you stood, but the feeling of knowing it was still there made your heart lurch.

Your parents sat on the couch, and Joel had been on a loveseat toward the side, fiddling with his own guitar. Nervously, Ellie plucked the copper strings of her guitar, attempting to quickly tune it. Her freckled cheeks were warm and a light shade of pink.

Her earthy eyes looked up at your sudden appearance and you smiled behind your full glass of wine, shyly. The corners of her plush lips curled in a subtle way that your guest would miss it—or at least you hoped that she did. Or… Maybe you didn’t. You’ve proven to be a shameless person over the past few days.

When she began to strum the guitar, she played the tune of a song that was familiar to you—Keane—Somewhere Only We Know. It was one of the songs featured on her MySpace account, in her bio. One of the first things a lurker would notice after seeing her fandom username.

Her soft, timid voice rose from her throat, singing the beginning of the song. You sipped at your white wine, lowering the glass so she could see the smile unable to fall from your lips. There was a rasp to her voice that exposed her skills to be an effect of her hobby-ing. Ellie sung not because she was good at it, but because she wanted to—it gave her comfort. And, perhaps, that’s what she needed.

“So, tell me when you’re gonna let me in… I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin.”

Your epidermis burned, cheeks heating up as if it were w furnace being heated by charring charcoal. Let me in. It was selfish for you to apply yourself to the words she spoke that was written by another person. But you needed to let her in! Irrevocably.

However, for you to do that… You needed to let Abby out.

You reached up for her shoulder, tugging her closer to your level, so you could whisper in her ear. “Meet me in my bedroom in five minutes— upstairs.” Your lips moved close to the shell of her ear, fingers tapping along her strong shoulder. She didn’t know where your bedroom was, but you were certain she’d find it.

Maria side-eyed you as you slipped away with slumping shoulders. Ellie noticed your departure, stammering on the lyrics she was singing, but she kept going, dejectedly.

The navigation from the living room to your bedroom helped you realize the sum of what you drank. You stumbled on your way up the stairs, holding onto the railing, shutting your eyes and shaking your head to gather yourself.

When you entered your bedroom, you set the glass on your bedside table, meandering to your reading nook. You had swiped the pack of cigarettes from your dresser, opening up the window and lighting up to calm your wired nerves.

The cool breeze wafted into your bedroom, sending a chill down your spine. Between your index and middle finger was your burning stick of nicotine and tobacco. Remnants stuck to your clothes before slipping out the flushing window.

You practiced how you were going to break it off with her. Direct or indirect—which one was best?

Abby, we need to talk…

Abby, I have something to tell you—

“There you are…” The blonde woman peeked into your bedroom before walking inside. She shut the door behind her, and you frowned out your window. “Your room’s pinker than I thought I’d be.” Abby chortled, preparing to join you on the nook, but you spoke before she could.

“We can’t see each other anymore…” You puffed smoke from your lips, eyeing her from the corner of your eye.

She bunched her eyebrows together, lips parting. “What—?”

“And don’t act like we weren’t seeing each other, because we very much were.”

Her hands hit her thighs. “I wasn’t going to.” A deep sigh came from her mouth, fingers reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Fuck, I should’ve seen this coming.” Abby muttered, shaking her head.

You tapped your thumb around the mouthpiece of your cigarette to get rid of the ashes. “I should’ve never invited you here. I knew better, but—“ The corner of your mouth lifted and you laughed. “I wanted to be an asshole. You don’t deserve that, though. Even if you led me on for a few months.”

“Is that what all this is about? What happened with us?” She ran her hand through her hair, cheeks reddening. “y/n, I wasn’t thinking and…”

“It doesn’t matter, Abby.” You looked at her, intently. “I need someone who makes time for me— even in the oddest of situations, and that’s not you.” You tried to keep your business to yourself. The relationship that was blooming between you and an old flame; it was sacred. And, she didn’t need to know that you were taking on homewrecking as a hobby.

She scoffed, averting her eyes from you. “What did you think me driving down here was, then? Skipping out on my friends to come to a place you didn’t even want me to be—“

“I didn’t ask you to skip out on your friends—“

“Well, I did anyway!”

A beat passed between the both of you.

The blonde woman frowned. “For you, because I wanted to make up for…” Her voice trailed off, eyes welling up with tears. “It was all for nothing, clearly.”

Earlier, you had made promise that you wouldn’t lead her into fire. Yet, that’s exactly what you did. “Abby, I still appreciate you coming and being so helpful and kind to my family but… To be honest, it’s too late for me.”

Her hand wiped against her face, roughly. She trained her eyes on a spot in your room that was interesting enough to keep her emotional gaze—instead of looking you in the eye. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

You deepened your eyebrows. “Do I think you’re stupid—? “

“It’s Ellie, isn’t it?”

Your lips fell open, gaping like fish gasping for air. “You textbook lesbian…” Abby muttered to herself, chuckling, dryly.

“Abby!” You scolded, glaring up at her.

“What? It’s the truth. I never had a fucking chance to begin with.”

In a fit of frustration, you dabbed the end of your burning cigarette onto one of your pillows, burning through the material. “That’s not true!” You stood up, abruptly. “I gave you a chance months ago, and you fucking blew it!” You pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re career meant more to you—“

“Since when is that a bad thing—?”

“Fuckin’ other girls meant more to you!”

She gasped. “Oh, come on, you know that’s a reach…” Her eyes rolled, dismissively.

Stubbornly, you crossed your arms. “Do I?”

Abby scoffed, laughing, dryly. “Ever since I met you… I liked you— I was into you. I wanted you.” She confessed, tiredly. “My unavailability wasn’t some made up lie to pull a fast one. I was an overachieving, fourth-year med student who didn’t wanna risk too many distractions.” The woman explained, pausing for anxious breath. “Yeah, I know, I said some things that probably hurt your feelings—“

“Probably?” You perked an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Hurting your feelings was the only way I knew you wouldn’t expect anything of me more than what I was capable of— and, at the time, relationship-wise… I wasn’t capable of anything.” Her shoulders shrugged, weakly. As if she’s been keeping this to herself for some time.

Weirdly, you’re shoulders relaxed at her explanation. While you didn’t agree with her techniques to keep you at arms-length, you weren’t in the position to keep holding onto that frustration with her. You had other priorities. “I guess you’re right… I fucking blew it.”

Now, you sighed, averting your eyes around your room in thought. “You know, maybe, we were always meant to be friends?” You offered, rocking on your feet.

“You think I wanna be friends with you, right now?” Abby raised an eyebrow, looking at you from the side of her irritated eyes. But, there was a light smile on her lips, exposing that she wasn’t completely upset. Just disappointed that things didn’t work out as she’d hoped. “Seems like there’s something going on with you and that artist downstairs… That’s not something I wanna see— at least, not anytime soon, so…”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, whenever you have some free time on your hands, whenever you, you know, find someone else, or whatever… Maybe we could get some coffee— as friends.”

She genuinely chortled, cheeks blushing. “Yeah, whatever, Miller.” Abby jutted her thumb toward your door. “I’m gonna head out.”

You nodded, walking her to your bedroom door, following her out. “You want me to make you a plate, or anything?” That southern hospitality that was bred into you through your family could never be mistaken for being gone. Those years in the city hadn’t deteriorated you in that way. Even when you were breaking up with someone.

The woman pressed her lips into a line. “You know, what? Yeah, sure.”

“Good, because I was gon’ make you one anyway.” You nudged her side with your elbow, grinning ear to ear.

There was freedom that came to your unabashed honesty. As you walked down the stairs, your limps felt lighter, and that drunken feeling had almost spared you completely. Almost. On the last step, you nearly tripped but the sturdy railing kept your body level.

As you rounded the corner, Ellie brushed passed you and out the front door with her hand clutching her guitar. Her emotional eyes had caught the smile on your lips and perceived something that wasn’t true—just a shady assumption.

And she had every reason to assume.

The television had been turned up, and the sounds of the football game was blaring through the lower level of the house. You held up a finger to Abby, walking to your mother. “Hey,” You greeted, massaging your father’s shoulder as a physical greeting. “Would you mind makin’ Abby a plate to take home?”

She raised an eyebrow, an impressed eyebrow. “Oh, she’s leaving so soon?”

“I’m throwin’ in the asshole towel.” You shrugged, referencing her comment from earlier.

Maria chuckled, but her husband looked up at you with deepened eyebrows. “What the hell did you just say? Asshole towel—?”

“Just focus on the game, honey.” She patted her husbands shoulder, jumping to her feet. Maria met you around the couch, leaning close to you. “You go’n ahead and check on Ellie.”

You smiled, kissing her cheek, lovingly. Before you left out the door you, pointed at the tall doctor lingering in your kitchen. “Text me when you get back into the city, okay?”

Abby gave you a thumbs up. “Yeah,” Her eyes turned to your mothers frame. “Thank you, Mrs. Miller.”

Then, you slipped out the screen door, busting into a hasty speed walk. The uneven gravel wrecking havoc on your ankles, due to your slight impairment.

The porch light at the guesthouse flickered—it must need its bulb to be changed. When you appeared on the porch, your fist trembled as you raised it to knock on the door. Knock, knock, knock. You wrapped your arms around your body to keep warm.

A few moments passed and she didn’t respond.

You knocked the same pattern, and waited. Only for her to not respond, again. Behind you, you heard the engine of Abby’s Jaguar sounding off, beginning to roll along the gravel. But, you didn’t care much for it.

Heat in your cheeks blistered. “Ellie, I know you’re in there… Please, can you just open the door?” You tried with frowned lips. “It isn’t gettin’ any warmer out here…”

There was a brief silence before you heard her raspy voice on the other side of the door. “What? Abby can’t keep you warm anymore?” She scoffed.

You sighed, leaning an arm on the door frame. “No, she can’t because she just left.”

The door swung open, revealing a disheveled artist, fingers covered in charcoal. “Really?”

“Really.” You met her eyes with sincerity.

Ellie groaned, releasing the tension that she’s been harboring, leaving the door and walking into the living room.

That was her letting you inside, so you adhered, walking into the guesthouse. You shut the door behind you, eyeing her slender retreating frame. She meandered into the living room, placing hers on the stool in front of her easel. It was a new canvas, still being sketched on before she added the paints.

The pan of the pie sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, with a fork inside of it. She had taken the pie for herself, and instead of making a plate, she ate it from the tin.

Ellie continued the project she was working on, barely even giving you a glance. To break the silence, you spoke. “I meant what I said earlier…”

You couldn’t exactly see what she was sketching because you wanted to keep your distance for her sake—to respect her uncertainty. “I don’t know…” She muttered, shaking her head.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

The woman sighed, turning her body toward you on the stool. She pushed the pieces of her auburn hair behind her pierced ears. “I’m an artist who’s only sells my paintings to local coffee shops for under a hundred bucks, because I’m too scared to try anywhere else— she’s a fucking doctor… And she’s ripped!” Her hands slapped against her thighs. “Why do you wanna be with me?”

Taken aback by her outburst, you blinked. A soft scoff left your lips. “Well, I don’t like you only because you’re an artist… And I didn’t like Abby only because she was a doctor— what kind of person do you think I am?” You questioned, softly. “I wanna be with you because I love you, Ellie— Abby could never make me feel what you make me feel.” You giggle behind your finger, briefly averting your eyes. “It’s like… I can fuckin’ smell colors and taste sounds—“

“Okay, now you’re just saying whatever.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked why I want to be with you. I’m just being honest.” You shrugged, approaching her. Gently, you caressed your fingers up her bare arms, sliding up her neck to the crevice of her jaw. “I know it wasn’t easy to see what you saw earlier, and I’m sorry— I mean, just seeing you hug Cat made me wanna blow up.” She leaned into your touch, keening to you.

Smiling down at her, your eyes casted to the canvas on the easel. It was an outline of you—matter of fact, your naked body. “Ellie,” A gasp fled from your lips. “This better be an example of your photographic memory.”

Her hands had snuck along your hips, pulling you close enough for her head to rest on your chest. “It is… What do you think— I’m some sort of creep?”

“I find it funny that when you’re mad at me… Your first instinct is to draw me naked.” You snicker.

She hummed against the center pocket of your overalls. “I wasn’t necessarily mad— I was just… Sad.” Ellie looked up at you with a pout on her lips, batting her big, green eyes at you in a way that compelled you. “Abby is so much more than me— fuck, she’s financially worth more than me.” She inhaled, deeply. “What made me upset was that I understood why you’d choose her… She has a great career—“

Interrupting her, you plotted your lips against hers until her reciprocating was less confused and more enthused. Your finger dragged along her scalp, gripping slightly. When you pulled away, she leaned forward for more. “I don’t wanna talk about her anymore.” Your thumb grazed over her eyebrow, ingesting her soft features. The freckles that littered over the bridge of her nose, the subtle cracks in her lips. “I’ve been waiting to get you all to myself for days now— I refuse to waste it away because of some girl.”

“Some girl, huh?”

“Mhm.” You hummed. “I missed that cover of Keane that you had sung earlier… You think you could play it for me?” You pursed your lips, and she pulled your hips closer to her, pulling you between her legs.

Ellie peered up at you with yearning irises. “I can play whatever you want.”

A giggle escaped from your lips before you plotted them against hers once more, pulling her up to her feet. You pulled her to the bedroom, where her guitar was thrown over the messy, unmade bed.

She propped herself on the edge of the bed, and you plopped onto the ground so you could properly be her audience. You hugged your legs to your chest, looking up at her with a level of awe that you haven’t had in a while. Reflections of your past looked back at you—Ellie gripping the neck of her instrument, strumming the metal chords that’s been with her for years. Those chords had witnessed the glimmering eyes you were giving her; at a much younger age, before shit went haywire.

The smooth tone of Somewhere Only We Know glided through your ears, ignoring the chords she lagged on, or messed up because it didn’t matter. When she finished, Ellie barely got the chance to look at you before you leaped up to kiss her again. Gently, you pulled the guitar from her hands, leaning it up against the bed, tethering to her as if she were a wave crashing along an eroding boulder.

To love her freely was a weight lifted off your shoulders. It was a rush of water sprinting up the sand within a storm. A breaching of magma exploding from the mouth of a volcano—a expression of a release of passion. The inevitable.

No more Cat. No more Abby. But, besides the good sex, and the warmth of each other’s genuine embrace, and the comfort of knowing each other through and through… What else was there?

Chapter One: Broken Silence

The light. It's brighter than last time.

You squint behind your oval, rose gold sunglasses, cursing the dim lamp for burning your eyes with such blasphemy. With a quick shift of your head, you angle the intrusive glare out of sight. A shiver racks your body as the a/c unit blasts cold air directly over your skin, setting the blinds into a slight, rhythmic sway. The stark white room feels trapped between the warm glare of the lamp and the dull grey light bleeding through the window. You listen to the rain, the pitter-patters of it beating against the window in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. You could feel a phantom slick of water sliding down your skin. The cold and wet feel that made your skin crawl just thinking about it. To many this would be peaceful but for you, it felt like a reminder back at the estate. When the storm rolled through the night, the clouds were dark and gloomy. You could hear the priestess chant, the master is displeased. We must atone. We must offer.

“How are you feeling today, Irene?” A warm baritone voice breaks through the silence.

We must atone.

We must offer. 

The memory echoes, pulsing behind your eyes. You could feel your lips part wanting to finish the rest of the chant. We must atone…for our sins. We must offer…the one—

You blink, staring at Dr. Carter who was seated right across from you. You forgot he was here, how quiet and motionless this man was. For a moment you didn’t move, then you picked up a pen and wrote down on your notepad: “Just like any other day.”

The sharp tapping of Dr. Carter’s pen against his notepad snaps you back to the present. “Just like any other day? Elaborate, please.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, Irene.” Dr. Carter said sternly, his voice carefully stripped of the frustration building beneath his surface. You knew how well to get under his skin. “It’ll give me an understanding of what this feeling of ‘just like any other day’ means to you.”

You sighed heavily. “It just feels like nothing is happening. Like–” You paused your writing trying to find a good word for it. “Like I’m trapped?”

“How trapped, Irene?” Dr. Carter shifted in his brown leather chair, his hands folding on top of  his clipboard. “Trapped like you were in the estate?”

You paused. You stared at the notepad debating how you wanted to answer that question. You knew this all too well, reading in those therapy books gave you insight. In a way, it prepared you for times like this. This is how a therapist gets you—they bring up the past by relating what you’re feeling, then get you to open up to speak freely. But, you were too smart for this; you weren’t going to step into that trap like the others would. “No, like ‘I have no say in doing this therapy’ kind of  trap,” You wrote, looking up at him.

His dull brown eyes stared at you. There was no emotion on his face but you can tell by his eyes was conflicted—frustrated. Many times he gets too close to cracking you open and many times you push back with the same force. It was a tug-of-war to see who could get the other to break first. And you were sure this man had more gray hairs now than he has ever had before. You watch him pull back the blinds taking a peak outside, his eyes glued to the rain. “What about the rain? Does that remind you of anything?” Dr. Carter adjusted back in his seat, setting his pen over to the side.

“Besides it being hot, rainy, and humid like Okefenokee Swamp, not really.” It was a lie, you knew it and he knew it too. Yet, he didn’t pressure you into it further.

“Then what about your parents?” You flinched from his words as if his words were a hot iron, threatening to re-open a burn that never truly healed. “Did your parents ever make you do something in the rain? As a punishment, perhaps?”

Your right hand clenches hard around the pen, as if a physical force could hold down memories crawling their way to the surface. Your jaw ticked. You knew he would go for that blow and had tried to prepare for it, yet the mere mention of them still cut deep. You just shook your head in response, not daring to write it out. You couldn’t trust yourself even if you tried. You could feel your hands tremble without looking at them. Your body knew too well of what happened. It was imprinted in your very bones like a branding on a bull. You took a deep breath then slowly drew it out, recomposing yourself. Dr. Carter had always told you that whenever your anxiety kicked up, you just needed to take slow deep breaths to calm it down.  Sometimes they help and other times, they feel like a nuisance.

“Irene,” his voice was soft and gentle, almost enough to quiet the roaring in your ears. “You’re safe here. There’s no need to be afraid. Ground yourself.” You watched as he leaned close, the smell of aftershave, cigarettes, and cheap cologne filled your nostrils. Dr. Carter gently tapped on your notepad laying in your lap. “Write down, I have no fear of my past and I am safe in the light.”

Your body went entirely rigid, the blood turning to ice in your veins as the air left the room. You froze, a sudden, numbing cold seizing your chest as the color drained from your face. You look down at the notepad then back at him, a silent, desperate question hanging in the look you gave him.

“I know this is hard.” He emphasizes, “but I know you can do it.” Dr. Carter picked up your pen and handed it towards you.

You swallow nervously; with a quivering hand you reach forward, plucking it from his grasp. You stare down at the notepad, feeling the blank paper mocking you. Your stomach twists at the sensation of following Dr. Carter’s order. The pen tip trembles, letting a heavy drop of ink bleed onto the page. At first, it is just blobs of ink and scratches of text before you slowly start to form words. You watch as black tendrils crawl along your skin like cracks splintering through ice. Your hand goes numb, forcing you to drop the fountain pen. Your eyes blur as the deep burning flares in your chest, as though your lungs have been set ablaze. Something wraps around your neck, pressing its cold fingers into your skin. Your hands go instinctively to your throat, you clawing to gasp for air that has been sucked dry.

“Irene!” Dr. Carter called in a panic. His body moved swiftly to your side, taking a hold of your wrist preventing any harm to yourself. His voices were muffled but they were still clear enough for you to make out his words. “Take deep breaths, Irene. Just like we practice, slow, controlled, steady breaths.”

You followed his instructions taking deep breaths while you prayed to your God for forgiveness. Your tears streak down your face as fear takes over you. Never again…you thought…I won’t do this ever again! But, you will, you always come back despite your protest. Despite telling yourself this is a mistake—that he is just another specialist your Aunt and Uncle are wasting money on, bound to fail like all the rest. You close your eyes hearing a sigh from Dr. Carter, you weren’t sure if it was for relief or disappointment. Perhaps he believed his exercise would work, and maybe on others they would. But you—were a lost cause. Always have, and always will. 

“Irene,” Dr. Carter says, pausing as if he’s trying to analyze what to say next. “Have you ever been in contact with anyone?”

You tilt your head in confusion.

“What about in the last two weeks? Have you ever called anyone outside of Louisiana?"

“No,” You signed with your hands. “Why are you asking these questions? What does it have to do with me?”

You know you shouldn’t be signing with your hands. It is completely banned in the United States, an offense that could easily land you in jail. But, writing your answer feels far too slow.

You watched as Dr. Carter took a deep breath. There was conflict in his eyes as if he was fighting whether to tell you or not. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, whatever internal battle he had within himself, one of them won. “Your Aunt told me the federal government wiretapped the hotel two weeks ago. They’re saying a woman was making a call from the hotel straight to Calloway's estate. What was discussed is unknown. They were speaking in another language. However, they were able to translate a few pieces. The man on the phone mentioned something about a priestess dying and needing the next Myra. Do you know anything about that?” 

You were hesitant then signed. “Yes.”

“Was it you who made the call?” His eyebrow raised, his gaze locking into yours.

“No.” You answer quickly. You both sit there in silence.

It gave you enough time to process everything. If there’s a woman communicating from the hotel to the estate. It must mean they had someone followed or perhaps, he manipulated her. Your eyebrows furrowed trying to make sense of the situation. However, there was only one fact that can be certain: the hotel had an internal compromise. Whether it is a woman feeding your parents information or worse—she is a spy for the FBI and they’re pretending you made the call. Are they trying to flush you out? Get you alone? What did they want from you? It is easy to brush off the FBI with private tutors and give them limited access to only what you want them to see. But now? You are in the open, a sheep in the wolf's den. You had to tread carefully. One small mistake can burst open a pandora’s box. And your semi-stable structure could come crashing down.

“Irene,” Dr. Carter spoke, breaking the silence. “I know these past five years have been hard for you. And I understand that, you could miss home—”

"But I don’t!” You sign quickly, cutting him off.

But, Dr. Carter raises his hand, stopping you from signing more. “I wasn’t finished, my dear.” This causes you to huff and cross your arms. “As I was saying, I understand that you could miss home but I can also see you want to be free from it. I’m not asking this to corner you nor do I think you’ve done anything wrong,” he offers a small, reassuring smile, his voice entirely too calm. “But, if someone out there is trying to frame you, I need you to be completely honest with me so I can protect you. Are you certain that you didn’t make that call?”

You straighten your back, then sign. “Yes, I am certain.”

Dr. Carter nods, “Very well.” He sets his clipboard on the small oak side table. “Your Aunt and Uncle were the ones wanting me to ask you this question. They knew you would never do such a thing but as you know, your family has—” Dr. Carter pauses, searching for the right word to say, “an interesting background history that the FBI would love to get their hands on. Especially with you.”

And it was true. You remembered seeing a dark Ford V8 sedan parked outside of your school. It was always there, 3 o’clock on the dot, when all the students got out to return home or look for a parent picking them up. There were two men in the car, one blonde and the other brunette. They would often wear sharp dark suits with crisp shirts and matching fedoras, looking entirely too formal for a casual drive. They never got out of the car; they just stared straight through the windshield watching you. It was strange, you never thought anything of it at first until you mentioned it to your Aunt and Uncle. You watched their expressions shift from happy to pure concern, but they were quick to mask it. You knew something was wrong. A certain restlessness settling in your chest like a calm before the storm. Until one day, you overheard their conversation while walking by your Uncle’s office.

“What are we going to do, Cedric?” Your Aunt Iris asked, concerned filled her voice.

“Nothing.” Uncle Cedric answered, “if we take action against the FBI or even withdraw Irene from the high school, it would raise their suspicion and allow them to use the court to get a warrant. For now, we lay low and pretend everything is okay. They must already know Irene had told us about their stake-out at the high school. We just carry on, my love. Irene needs us more than ever, and if we act rashly she may feel like her whole world is collapsing. We made it this far by getting her out. We can't let the walls fall around her.”

You stood there feeling perplexed about the situation. The sound of footsteps from inside made you hurry down the hall turning the corridor and using the wall as your hiding place. You peered around catching your Aunt and Uncle leaving the office. Just in the nick of time. You sighed with relief, you were worried that you would get caught, but your silent quick feet let you escape in time. A blessing, you might add; all those years in the estate taught you the ways to stay silent as a mouse. You hummed, feeling your hands twitch at the thought of the estate—the prison—your home. Shaking off the feeling, you went back to your bedroom to do homework that was due tomorrow.

“And Irene?” You looked up at Dr. Carter, who broke you out of your trance-like state. “If you ever need anything, please stop by my office.”

You nodded, then stood up placing your fountain pen in your pocket after you placed the cap on. You handed back the borrowed notepad to Dr. Carter and gave a smile of goodbye as you grabbed your coat on the way out. You took a deep breath, feeling a gush of fresh air filling your lungs.

“Therapist,” a rich baritone spoke out. “They always love to dig into things they aren’t supposed to, am I right, my dear?”

Your sage green eyes shifted over to the brown leather wingback chair. And there he sat with a composed stature, with his tailored red vest fastened over his crisp white shirt, with two black bands on each side of his arms. His red tie was securely tightened with a gold clip to the left side of it. His legs were crossed as he held up the newspaper but you could see a glint in his oval glasses.

With a small, quiet sigh, you pulled out your familiar small notepad and quickly wrote, “Alastor, what are you doing here? Aren’t we supposed to be meeting tomorrow for rehearsals?” 

“Well, my dear,” he said, folding up the newspaper and setting it back on the stacks next to him. “I figured it would be more gentleman-like if I escorted my future fiancée back to her home.” He grinned, his voice a low, smooth purr. 

You looked away feeling your cheeks heat up. “I see.” You wrote holding it out towards him.

Alastor didn’t look at the notepad. He stood up, towering over your frame. You felt small compared to him, and a slight gulp escaped your throat from his imposing charm. The smell of sharp oak cologne filled your senses. It was nice, but you didn’t dare act like you enjoyed his scent.

“Does my lovely fiancée not want to see me?” A finger hooked under your chin,  pulling you to look at him. You could feel your breath get caught in your throat. “It’s not very nice, darling, to ignore this favor I’ve done for you. Can I at least get a ‘thank you’?”

Your hands gripped the notebook and pen tightly. The sound of the radio playing softly in the background filled the deathly tension between the both of you. You quickly took a step back and curtly thanked him. His grin never wavering as he grabbed the umbrella next to the chair he was sitting at.

“See that wasn’t so hard.” His voice sounded as if he were antagonizing you. “Come, our chariot awaits.”

You walked forward next to him. The buzzing static from the radio caught your attention. “In this world all secrets can be hidden. Like the abyss to your dark past that you’ve kept to yourself, my dear. But every secret doesn’t stay long. It spills out like ink on paper, and yours will be shed soon.”

Your heart pounded against your chest as you looked up at Alastor who was adjusting his jacket, seemingly oblivious to what you heard. You swore you heard his voice come through—it was crisp, almost mechanical. The speaker hissed with a cruel, rhythmic hum. You question if your mind has gone truly crazy especially the after shock you went through. Was it him or did Alastor truly speak through the radio? Your mind felt like it was racing, but it came to a stop when Alastor gently nudged you. Your eyes shifted, noticing he was holding out his arm towards you. You took that as a sign it was time to go, your hands gently wrapped around his arm as he opened the umbrella. You looked back at the radio again. A deep–seeded worry filling inside of you. You couldn’t shake the terrifying thought that this was just the beginning—or worse, that your mind was truly unraveling, and you desperately needed to go back on your medication.