Teddy Writes

Crossed Wires and Crossed Hearts: Tsubasa/Maria Fake Dating AU

“I understand that we need a convincing story to effectively infiltrate FIS, but this—” Tsubasa shakes her head in utter bafflement.

“C’mon, Tsubasa,” Kanade winks at her, “You know I’m quite the catch! Definitely worth running away from your ultra-conservative family so that we can elope in America where homosexuals can legally marry. Arson will make for a fun, unique honeymoon!”

Tsubasa rolls her eyes, muttering, “Be serious, Kanade.”

Ogawa says, apologetic but firm, “The best lies have a grain of truth in them. We know this is above and beyond what we usually ask of our operatives, but what FIS is researching and implementing warrants an extraordinary response. Moreover, the marriage would protect you from being asked to enter a political marriage of insurance, at least while they work to either suborn Kanade or remove her from your life.”

“This is going to be like a soap opera, except with more espionage and murder!”

***

Being the (figure) head of the organization means Maria usually has nothing to do with new recruits; in this case, however, one of the new recruits is high-profile enough to merit a meeting with high command.

Tsubasa Kazanari is a woman just two years her junior, valuable in her disillusionment with the establishment but also in the leverage she brings with her: Tsubasa Kazanari is not only the heir to the Kazanari clan of Japan, but she is also a favorite of their parent clan, the Azuma assassin syndicate which operates on a global scale. The resources this woman could bring to FIS have most members of high command ready to do anything it takes to secure her loyalty. Or, more accurately, her neutered compliance.

“It would have been nice to tie her to us through marriage. Well, we can still give it a try. It’s not likely to work, but do your best to seduce her. Considering that she was willing to elope, I doubt she will leave her lover of her own initiative; still, we could have the lover removed and have you sweep in to comfort her in her grief. Hm, we shall see.”

Never has Maria felt more like a pawn than now. And Tsubasa Kazanari, for all her supposed power, will also be little more than a pawn. After all, spoiled rich heiresses have zero defenses against psychological warfare.

***

FIS [or whatever organization] is working to hijack the moon and take over the world [or something else equally nefarious]. Tsubasa and Kanade go undercover to gauge the extent of [FIS’] abilities, sabotage what they can, and feed information to [S.O.N.G]. Their cover story is that Tsubasa, madly in love with Kanade, has issued an ultimatum to Fudou to let her American marriage stand in Japan or lose his perfect heir [note that the marriage and ultimatum actually happen, so as to convince any scrutinizers that the cover story is real even if TsubaKana relationship isn’t necessarily real]. While in America, the plan is to get themselves recruited by FIS and work as high up the chain as they can. On the [FIS] side, Nastassja and Finé want to secure the resources Tsubasa has; Finé decides to weaponize feelings, just for funsies. They order Maria to seduce Tsubasa while they bribe or eliminate Kanade. Maria doesn’t want to seduce anyone, much less a spoiled rich heiress [2nd Div’s activities are top-secret and Fudou has begun parading Tsubasa in front of the media], but she will because her mother asked it of her. Unfortunately for Maria, she finds herself actually liking Tsubasa. Ver is somewhere, maybe as a sleeper/double agent in [S.O.N.G./2nd Div] or working in [FIS]. Chris’ story line ties into Kirika and Shirabe’s story line in Japan. If including Hibiki and Miku, then the Symphogear must exist and HibiMiku are in the background but definitely working to tip the scales in SONG’s favor.

Thus, three main story lines:

1.       Maria seducing Tsubasa, accidentally falling in love, then trying to arrange an escape for Tsubasa and Kanade (whom she assumes Tsubasa genuinely loves given the way Tsubasa talks about her). Cliché or not, Maria doesn’t discover the truth of Tsubasa’s feelings until FIS HQ is literally falling apart around them and they’re seconds from becoming prisoners and it seems they’ll have to leave someone behind.

2.      Tsubasa evading commitment of her money, personnel, and influence as long as possible, accidentally falling in love with Maria, then trying to arrange an escape for Maria while also collecting as much information as possible. She can’t admit the truth yet, but she’s sure Maria understands that their love is mutual.

3.      Kanade playing coy with bribery, dodging impatient assassination attempts, sabotaging what she can without detection, perhaps getting a bit of revenge on Finé on Chris’ behalf, and investigating Maria to ascertain her suitability as a partner for Tsubasa by playing the jealous, territorial wife. Escape? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it! OT3 is also a totally valid option.

Optional three side story lines:

1.       Shirabe and Kirika are in Japan, doing something. Double agents? Something with Ver?

2.      Chris is maybe also in Japan, maybe doing something. Possibly related to #1 or #3. Or she’s with Finé and secretly plotting against her.

Every now and then she pulls out the Dream.

           Well, honestly, she pulls it out every opportunity she gets: mostly in-between spaces, idle times (which galls because she didn’t used to have “idle” times, not until Emi packed her bags), and whenever her attention wanders. It’s pathetic, her friends might say, but the Dream keeps her company in empty spaces, the ones between home and school, between class and class, between wakefulness and sleep. She hides it in the margins of her notes, on coat hangers in the closet, in kitchen cabinets, amongst the little ornaments on her desk—anywhere that Emi had touched.

           She is in one such place, the smaller coffee place on campus, the one Emi had preferred because they have a set of soft, dark leather couches clustered around low round tables in one corner. Today there’s a louder group than usual at the couches, overpowering the rest of the low conversations, the orders and names intermittently called out, and the pop music playing in the background. Pretty much done with a frappé, still hollow with dissatisfaction, she lets her mind drift around the Dream’s coffee place, where surely Emi is just out of sight. If she wanders long enough, breathes carefully and slowly enough, maybe she’ll catch notes of Emi’s sharp perfume within the rich coffee smell, maybe she can track—

           “Hey! Fancy seeing you here!”

           She jerks up, bewildered and stricken gaze finding someone standing at her table—a girl, a familiar-looking girl with dark hair in a tight bun, dark eyes behind circular glasses, and soft cheeks. A name, she wracks her mind for a name but stumbles over her Dream, over Emi-Emi-Emi, have you come back? She blinks. “Sorry?” she asks, sheepish and still a little unfocused, eyes roving over the dark blue apron of the girl without comprehending.

           Where is Emi?

           “You don’t recognize me?” The girl sits down. There’s a dusting of acne along one cheek. This table meant for two shrinks in half. “We were in the same discussion for AfAm 4A last quarter. I really wanted to talk to you, but I was always running late and you always left right when discussion ended, so when I saw you were still here at the start of my lunch break I was like, ‘Oh my gosh!’ and I had to come over, you know? It was too good an opportunity to miss!” The girl inhales deeply, wide smile twitching and eyes crinkling.

           It takes her a moment, muddling her way out of the Dream’s coffee place and back into the real world, and then another moment to orient her thoughts.

           Last quarter, AfAm 4A, discussion. She doesn’t remember. Of last quarter, she remembers Emi: at the park, the beach, the school pub, the living rooms of countless “friends.” She remembers she’s lucky she passed all of her classes, the least of her priorities. She remembers finding the Dream at the back of the fridge the morning before finals, because Emi’s timing had been salt thrown on her wounds. Had Emi penciled it into her planner, between dinner at Lizzie’s and study for int’l law? Had she written on a sticky note somewhere, in her unchecked chicken scratch, End my four-year relationship with María?

           “Um.” She shakes her head to dislodge the Dream, which insistently recalls the myriad of notes that used to be, that are, that will be strewn across her apartment. “What a small world, eh? I’m María, by the way. Third year psych major.” María half-smiles, the most she can muster when she’s here and not… not wherever Emi is. She pulls her hands under the table to fidget with her pencil, to run her thumb over and over along the grooves where the pencil’s brand used to be; Emi would have scolded (at home, of course) her for such a lackluster introduction.

           The girl grins, “Silly me, of course!” Her hand touches the bridge of her nose, then the side of her glasses, then taps the table. “I’m Alice, third year com-sci major. I actually work the early mornings here, but Sid, my coworker I mean, couldn’t make it for the second shift and begged me to switch with him, and I agreed because who passes an opportunity to sleep in, you know? I noticed you were here a couple of hours ago, when my manager told me to work the till, so I told myself that if you were still here during my lunch break, I’d come talk to you!”

           “Whoa, slow down, man. Deep breaths. You’ll scare her off,” a second intrusion says, a large silhouette pausing as it passes near them, this time making both María and Alice jump. A dark blue cap leans forward, a large hand settles on Alice’s shoulder, and the intrusion continues, “You have to give people a chance to get used to your chatterbox personality, ease ‘em into it, and for Pete’s sake don’t forget to breathe!”

           “Alright, alright, now go away!” Alice’s hands flutter, her head shaking emphatically. “Shoo, go on! Avery’s going to yell at you if you don’t get back to work, Fred.”

           “Just tryin’ to help.” Fred grins, winks at Alice, waves at María, and hustles elsewhere.

           The silence that follows is nearly unbearably awkward. Emi would have laughed and made some sort of joke to break the tension, but María, well. Her thoughts these days move sluggishly like honey, rusty like a bike forgotten in the rain. She has forgotten pretty much all the conversation tricks she learned for Lizzie’s “dinner parties,” those stupid tips and tricks Emi had drilled into her mind so as to not embarrass Emi by putting her foot in her mouth around debutants (not debutant-debutants) and lawyer’s sons between glasses of fancy wine. For all the work Emi had put into those lessons, María had easily forgotten within the three or four weeks she has been free from those pretentious dinners.

           In the Dream, on the other hand, María commands conversations as fluidly and as effortlessly as Emi wants—leading with compliments, asking questions, and getting people to talk about themselves with all the subtlety of Emi’s seduction technique (fingertips brushing a knee, soft shoulders rolling, red lips quirking in a secret smile).

           “Sorry about my coworker and… all that,” Alice says, shoulders pulled inward and hand drumming faster on the table, a pace mirrored by María’s left knee bouncing up and down. “Maybe I should go….”

           Go?

           “No—no, it’s fine,” she says, hating the way her voice cracks on the first no, but hating more her misstep. She wants to shake herself for not letting the girl leave on her own. She can’t take back what she said now, not when a smile blooms on Alice’s face, slow and wonderous and altogether too intense for someone like María. What had Alice seen, observing María all that time? What had made her think approaching someone like María was a good idea? What had drawn Emi to María, anyway? What had made Emi overlook the clear disparities between them?      

           She clears her throat. “I like to come here after my 9 o’clock class. My next class is nearby, but not until 3. Commuter’s curse,” she says and tries not to flinch from Alice’s bright eyes. “Do you commute?” She will stick to small talk. Hopefully, that and Alice’s excessive responses will carry the conversation long enough for Alice’s lunch break to end. How long are lunch breaks? She shouldn’t have told Alice about her class schedule, and she definitely should not have allowed Alice to stay, and the disappointment Emi would have felt stings just as much as it did when Emi still cared.

“Nah, I share an apartment with a few friends, you know the ones in front of campus? The Irving Co. apartments?” Alice gestures to her left toward the aforementioned apartments. Her smile has yet to fade.

           “Kind of hard not to know them,” she replies with her eyebrows cocked in deadpan amusement and her shoulders shrugging, but confusion tilting her head forward just a little. What an odd and unnecessary thing to say. “They’re right next to the only shopping plaza within a walking or biking radius of the school and most students live there.” That had been one of many reasons Emi had moved to María’s tiny apartment the next city over, and it’s the main reason the house in her Dream is perfect.

           “Right, thanks for that, Captain Obvious. Silly me,” Alice laughs and scrunches her nose. “My dad says it’s only appropriate, you know,” she adds, rolling her eyes, “he says malls and stuff have no business being around an ‘institution of learning, distracting hardworking students with their materialistic temptations.’” Alice curls the first two fingers of one hand to show the quotation marks, flapping the other in a what-can-you-do? gesture.

           María casts around her mind again, this time for the arguments Emi had mustered to convince herself of coming here. The only one she remembers is: “On the bright side, here you can go jogging at 3 A.M. without dying or worse.” Emi had said it jokingly, nudging María’s side; here, María repeats it in the same joking tone, but without the shared knowledge that María had loved going on late night runs.

           Emi had said, mouth already stretching into a grin and away from its earlier pinched, suffocating irritation, “Seriously, who thinks it’s a good idea to go for a jog at two or three in the morning?”

           “Me, obviously,” she had replied, eyebrows high, and Emi had laughed, full-bodied and bright and free. María had rolled her eyes, saying, “That wasn’t even that funny. You have a terrible sense of humor.”

           Emi had been barely managed to gather herself long enough to retort, “You goof,” and María hadn’t been able to contain her self-satisfied grin (and guilty relief at having avoided a tantrum).

           “I guess,” Alice says, “but I wouldn’t want to be the one to test that. I’d much rather be warm and toasty in bed, you know?” Alice raises her eyebrows, one thick eyebrow going higher than the other.

           María finds herself glad, now, that she had not wasted a single moment with Emi. “So, no late nights for you, eh? No all-nighters, no parties from dusk ‘til dawn? I find it hard to believe any college student hasn’t had their share of 3 A.M. shenanigans,” María says, thinking of the long set of stairs at the student center terrace, where she and Emi had spent so many late-night and early-morning hours, sharing a bottle or case of whatever Emi’s cousin Matthew had given them for the day. From there, they’d been able to see that the lights in the dorms never completely go dark. She doesn’t go there anymore, but she’s sure the lights still shine like beacons at night.

           “Okay, maybe a few all-nighters to finish assignments, but that’s hardly anything that can be called a ‘shenanigan.’” Alice pauses, then repeats, “Shenanigan. Shenanigans. What a funny word. I’ve never heard it used in the singular. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone other than old people use it, either.”

           “I could argue that not having crazy 3 A.M. stories makes you more of a boring old person than me,” María says with a playful smirk that uses the rest of her limited energy. Of course, it invites instant protestations and rebuttals from this girl, who’s frankly no different from countless people desperate to prove themselves. That reaction takes the responsibility of the conversation out of María’s hands in the nick of time; Emi has left María perpetually tired.

           Or—she had been a staid, tired person before Emi, hadn’t she?

           And is one, after Emi. Those early morning hours she used to spend in a haze of heat and alcohol and Emi-Emi-Emi have turned into hours spent tossing and turning in her desolate bed, the Dream and her thoughts roiling endlessly in her mind. The most exciting thing she’s done lately is talk to this random stranger: leagues away from what Emi considers (considered, not that Emi’s dead, though she might as well be now that she’s on the other side of the country) exciting.

           Frankly, no matter what kind of rosy picture the Dream likes to paint, she was staid and tired even when Emi had been with her. Mustering up the energy to endure hours of schmoozing at Lizzie’s “dinner parties” had been almost as taxing as the actual events. They were exercises in keeping a polite, interested smile on her face for hours, sipping at fancy wine that had only sometimes tasted better than cheap wine. Once Emi decided they could go home, the exercise would transform into one of not passing out (especially if someone had brought whisky or other such liquors) and not instigating a vitriolic argument while Emi discussed the salient points of the party. She had tried, she honestly had, but she could only muster up so much energy for Emi.

           “… more creepy than anything, I guess. We were on a trip in San Francisco, saw the Golden Gate Bridge and everything, and on our way back to the hotel—this was late in the day, you know—one of the tires went flat and we had to …”

           Alice happily continues chattering, and María lets herself sink back into the Dream. She thinks of Emi’s voice, first.

           Emi’s voice, the way it pitched high whenever Emi saw a dog, the way it went breathless with laughter whenever María told one of her deadpan jokes, the way it had been rife with apologetic sadness when Emi had packed her things and left.

           It had been such a nice, lazy Sunday. They’d dragged themselves out of bed to get sandwiches at a Vietnamese place Emi knew, then they’d doubled back to eat at the little park by their apartment, Emi lamenting for the umpteenth time the lack of pond and ducks. María had actually been a bit dizzy with hunger by that point, the sun high in the sky hurting even through her mirrored sunglasses, and she had gladly sunk flat on her back into the grass under the nearest shade tree. There, she finally took off her sunglasses, tucking them into her shirt pocket.

           “Don’t you want to sit in the sun? It’s warmer here,” Emi’s voice had said from somewhere nearby. Bags rustled and bottles clinked.

           “No. I like the shade.”

           “I know, but it won’t hurt you to get some sun every now and then, María. You don’t want to get a vitamin D deficiency, do you? You’re pale enough as it is.”

           María flopped a hand in dismissal.

           “C’mon, the sunlight will warm you up and make you feel better. Honestly, María, your hangovers are always worse the morning after a party….”

           She hadn’t wanted to move, but she had wanted to be near Emi and the strange mixture of concern and resolve in Emi’s voice had jolted a bit of energy back into her limbs. So, she’d groaned, sat up, and squinted at Emi, who was busy popping open their cider—only a little bit alcoholic, and sweeter than whatever they’d been drinking the day before—the keychain bottle opener glinting, winking.

           Emi’s short hair had fluttered around her face, soft despite the frown. Her bright red lipstick and little beauty mark at the corner of her mouth had looked so inviting, and her soft shoulders had looked so nice in her sleeveless white shirt; her legs folded neatly underneath her, knees peeking out from her black plaid skirt, flats showing off the strong lines and divots of Emi’s calves. María could see where yesterday’s high heels had chafed against Emi’s skin. With the breeze and a lack of sensible dress, it was no wonder Emi wanted to sit in the sun.

           María’s stomach had been protesting in hunger, but she’d lied back down, sleepy again. Her deep breaths had been of crisp air. Sunlight had warmed her face. She’d crossed her arms behind her head. A dog had barked, tags or something clinking, and Emi had cooed, effortlessly bright again, “Who’s a good boy, huh? Who’s a good boy?”

           When she had opened her eyes, she hadn’t seen Emi’s expression or the dog. She’d only seen the bright blue sky above her, clear and endless and deeply calm. Emi had talked baby nonsense to the dog until another voice, half-exasperated and half-amused, had dragged the dog away and Emi had fallen into humming, a half-coherent tune that had played too many times at Matthew’s house the night before. María’s breaths had been slow and deep.

           It had been a such pretty sky, the kind of sky she’d—the kind of sky that—the kind of sky she had wanted to see for the rest of her life. With Emi. The kind of sky that fits seamlessly in the Dream, not in real places with real people.

           Later that day, she had found little burrs scattered in her hair. In the Dream, Emi helps her take them out. In her memory, Emi was long gone by the time María noticed the mess in her hair.

           “Say, whatever happened to that girl who was always with you?”

           María startles, pencil clattering to the floor. Alice is looking at her expectantly, thick eyebrows in askance and dark eyes making intense eye contact. It makes María wonder: how much has this person seen?

           Can anyone just look at her and know, in that single glance, that Emi had taken everything and left only a Dream behind?

           The silence stretches until she asks, “Who?” It’s pointless, of course. María knows who.

           “Uh, um,” Alice blinks, “she was always dressed like she had somewhere cool to be, she had this really cute bob cut… oh! She had a—what’s it called—a beauty mark? She always ordered a macchiato and a matcha frappé, and sometimes a slice of lemon pound cake, and you guys would sit at one of the couches with your friends, you know?”

           She stares. Her heart beats: Emi-Emi-Emi. Someone had seen Emi, had remembered details of Emi that María had forgotten in a mere three weeks. How had she forgotten that Emi could never step into this coffee shop without ordering at least one macchiato?

           Alice hesitates, ducks her head. That intent gaze finally falters, glancing away as the girl shifts in her seat. “That makes me sound like a stalker, doesn’t it? Sorry. I just meant… I work here, you know, and after a while you recognize the regulars, especially if they always order the same thing. I was just curious. I switched shifts this quarter because of my schedule, and….” Alice shrugs, helpless and embarrassed.

           The only response she can give is: “Emi left.”

           “…Oh…?” Alice tilts her head, utterly naïve like a puppy.

           María breaks eye contact. The leather couches are empty now. She can easily see herself there instead of here: an arm around Emi’s shoulders, Emi’s body safely tucked into hers.

           She lies. She says, “Yeah, Emi took one of those poli-sci internship opportunities for the quarter. DC, I think. That’s why she’s not around,” as easily as she would say something about the weather being pleasantly sunny, when frankly she would prefer to snarl the words, slam doors, and shatter plates against walls like she had when Emi had left on the kitchen counter her key to their apartment (María’s erstwhile and henceforth apartment).

           “Good for her! I’ve never been to the capitol. Everyone’s always saying that studying abroad or even going to somewhere like Sacramento and DC for an internship is, like, the best decision you could ever make.” Alice’s eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline, clearly impressed and not at all realizing that María’s far from happy for Emi.

           When Emi had run into their living room, socks sliding on hardwood, waving her phone wildly in front of her, shouting, “I got in!!” María had been proud and happy, had taken Emi out for celebratory drinks at a nice little hipster bar, had teased Emi that she’d be the next president in no time. Why wouldn’t she have been happy? She hadn’t realized at the time that the damn email had been the final nail in an invisible coffin. How long had Emi planned their end?

           “I’d wager it is.” Right now, of course Emi must be having the time of her life in DC, where NYC and Baltimore and all those other cities are only a short train—or is it metro? Subway?—ride away.

           “I wouldn’t do an internship, but if I could study abroad, I’d go to France,” Alice drums her fingers on the table. Her gaze slides into the middle distance. “My high school French teacher said that Bordeaux has a similar climate to SoCal’s, but I’d like to see Nice, Strasbourg, and of course Paris, the City of Light! And, depending on where, I could probably manage to visit Germany, Switzerland, Italy, even the UK. I’d go for a year, of course. Summer or a quarter isn’t nearly enough time, you know.”

           María shrugs, blinks her drooping eyes. She waves a hand idly, saying, “I haven’t given much thought to traveling. I’m more of a homebody, I guess. Emi is really the one who has plans to visit pretty much every state and every country out there.”

           Or, had plans. They would have gone together—perhaps, for a honeymoon, they could have gone to Japan and seen Emi’s grandparents. María would have liked to take Emi to see the cathedrals and churches in Mexico City. In the Dream, she explores possibilities, has a multitude of conversations with Emi that end differently: they go to Hawaii, to Italy, to France, even to Peru because María wanted to see what all the fuss was about llamas.

           Alice hums tunelessly. The Dream switches back to the coffee place and draws on memories to fuel more make-believe scenes of Emi and her cuddling on those stalwart couches. The conversation doesn’t immediately pick up.

           That’s probably what had irritated Emi the most—no matter how much fun they’d had, María had never been one to come up with original ideas. Emi had had to orchestrate pretty much everything, from the clubs to dinner parties to bonfires at the beach, while María had almost always voted for less intensive. If Emi could have seen the Dream, if María had dared confess, she would have sputtered in disbelief and sharp disappointment. Where is the spark, the vitality? What’s the point? That’s not who we are, María.

           “Maybe you should get something to eat?”

           “Hm?” She blinks and refocuses on Alice.

           Alice shrugs, motioning vaguely between María and the empty cup in front of her, and says, “You look half asleep and you’ve been here for hours with only that frappé. Maybe it’s time for lunch? You still have like an hour before your class, right?”

           “Hm, yeah, I guess I’m feeling a bit hungry.” She shrugs back, fingers drumming on her leg and a question about Alice’s work half-formed in her mind, but something about the way Alice simply stares expectantly at her—it reminds her of something. No, it suggests something, something about Emi, who had listened to María talk for ages about Arkham’s preposterous deficiencies and the deficiencies of the Batman franchise in general, and then Emi had said, “Does that mean you won’t watch The Dark Knight Rises with me on Saturday?”

           She had huffed, scowling at the thought of enduring two entire hours of that nonsense, and muttered, “No, I’ll go with you, but only if you really, really want to go.”

           “Even though you hate everything about Batman?”

           “Well, yeah.” She had blinked, “Don’t you want to go see it? Everyone’s been raving about it all week, and I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing the end of the trilogy.”

           “You’ll go watch a movie about something you utterly loathe just because I want you to?”

           “I expect to get lunch out of it,” she had said, confusion making her tilt her head.

           Emi had stared at her, cheek resting against her knuckles, a knowing and indulgent smile on her face, and it had taken María a bit to realize what it all had meant.

           This—

           —She stands, then blinks down at Alice, having no idea why she had stood. Her hands settle on her notebook. “I guess your lunch break must be nearly over by now, eh?” she asks as she bends her head and packs everything in her messenger bag for lack of a better thing to do. Somehow, she remembers to pick up the pencil she’d dropped earlier. Her eyes have begun to feel gritty and her body heavy and her lungs slow.

           More than anything, she wants to find a soft bed where she can sleep as long as she wants, because she clearly has not slept for long enough.

           “Yeah, almost.” Alice stays sitting in her chair, staring. More damn staring, as if this day isn’t long enough, as if there is something María should do, should say, should realize. But it can’t be. Can it?

           Finally, she slips an unused napkin into her pocket, straightens, and dares meet Alice’s stare. “Well. I should get going if I want to get something substantial to eat before class.” She takes a step back from the table. Alice only nods. “…I’ll see you around, maybe?”

           “For sure!” This time, Alice stands, dusting her hands on the blue apron of her uniform. Alice offers another grin, then leaves without another word. Just like that. Alice leaves, like there had not been a hint of—something, something other than a spontaneous, lopsided conversation between strangers.

           Alice leaves as easily as Emi did.

           María exits the coffeeshop. She doesn’t get lunch. Instead, she wanders around campus, passing by her lecture hall thrice before settling on a bench half-under shade. Behind her mirrored sunglasses, ripping the saved napkin to little pieces, she stares at the people walking past.

           Eventually, she pulls out the Dream, turning it over in her mind’s hands. Her favorite part, the part that hurts the most, is the house. Where is the house? Anywhere, anywhere at all that can give Emi what she wants: roaring night life, fancy Saturday brunches, the whole nine yards. It’s also somewhere it can give María what she wants: lazy Sunday picnics at the park, quiet evenings wandering around tide pools, and—she’s sure she can come up with other places if she gives it enough thought. Point is, the house is somewhere perfect for them both.

           Except for the fact that the house is utterly, irrevocably imaginary.

           She doubts she’ll ever see Alice again. In fact, she’ll probably never step foot in that coffee shop ever again; it’s too expensive a habit to continue, and without Emi... it’s pointless, isn’t it? Pointless, expensive self-flagellation. Her apartment holds more than enough of Emi’s presence without any risk of being bothered by nosy people.

           On the other hand, well. She doesn’t have anyone to talk to about Emi: Eric maintains a righteous anger on María’s behalf despite it being utterly unnecessary; Mindy gives her pitying looks whenever it so much as looks like she’s pining even though it has only been three or so weeks so what can you expect, Mindy?; and Pat simply cannot relate.

           But more than that…

           She trudges back to her lecture hall, joining the masses that wait. None of them know her or Emi (an admittedly dubious assumption to make now, given what Alice the coffee shop girl had known); they don’t know that with Emi she’d nearly become an alcoholic, that with Emi she’d discovered life could be simultaneously depressing and exhilarating, that with Emi she had thought she had a future worth wanting. A future with a house that pleases them both, with happy days and nights discussing how psychology and law are represented in the media, with kids that have Alice’s energy and María’s height!

           Silly things that probably would not have happened even if Emi had stayed.

           That stings the most, and to have a complete stranger express a modicum of interest and then just leave—well, is it her, or is it them? Who was the problem? Who ruined their relationship?

           No, no, she cannot allow those questions. She had loved Emi, and Emi had loved her. Whatever else she may think, whatever else may be true, she cannot deny that they had loved each other.

           And Alice? Well, first of all, Alice is not an opportunity for a rebound no matter what may or may not have been there. This is just, just forlorn curiosity, which is a step up from the void of potential that Emi left behind in María. That is reason enough to return, isn’t it? How long since she last felt anything other than a grey misery? That’s the second point: Alice is someone new, someone who does not know Emi. All Alice will ever know is what María chooses to tell her. Alice won’t assign emotional weight that María herself does not give, and that is the third appeal.

           She tucks the Dream back in her pocket. It will continue to keep her company in empty spaces, continue to superimpose her unfounded wishes on reality, continue to spin tall tales of what could have been. Dreams, insubstantial things that they are, fade. Someday the Dream will fade and leave her with only the memories, distilled to their simplest form and aged in barrels of lighter emotions.