too much

It felt like trying to breathe while fighting a rip current. She was just as beautiful to him now as she always had been. He'd memorized every peak and valley of her, every line and scar and freckle. He'd loved and traced them all. And now she stood before him like a ghost, a specter of a past that was no longer his.

And neither was she.

She said she was really happy to see him and it was all he could do not to react to that, to lock his knees to stay upright and unaffected. Not to tell her that he felt that, too. That he still found himself reaching into a side of the bed long since gone cold. Even here, even in this unfamiliar place in an unfamiliar bed. She was written into his code now. And, he was quickly learning, there was nothing that could rid him of the imprint of her.

He laughed, but the sound was more sad than anything, his eyes dropping down to their dog instead of her. She didn't want to do anything to hurt him. A small bitter and wounded part of him wondered when she'd decided that. How long into their relationship did that become true? If he traced it back to the beginning, which ones actually belonged to him? Which ones had been manufactured? How much of a dream had he bought rather than earned?

He was shaking his head as he looked at the ground, shaking it still as he finally looked at her again. "Of course I'm happy to see you." The words were quiet, nearly lost to the breath he could see dancing in front of him. If his words sounded a little desperate it was because he felt desperate in that moment. Of course he was happy to see her. And of course it hurt him. Two things could be true. "But I..." He blew out a breath, scored a hand through his hair. "I don't really know how to do this. I'm not... prepared to do this. And, you know, I kind of fucking hate that. I used to know exactly what to say to you, and now I feel like... like...." Frustration edged out his words, hands floating uselessly in the air between them as he struggled to land on exactly how he was feeling. Probably because he didn't really know himself. "Like I don't know how to be around you."

"You feel like you don't know me. And you feel like you never knew me. And I hate how much that's true." Her voice shook and cracked, but she carried on. "You know me better than anyone ever has, but I know that means nothing when you don't know me fully. When you... thought you did, but you don't."

She bit her lip a little too hard, trying not to cry. She'd hurt him so much, what right did she have to cry about it?

"I'm going to leave you alone... I think we both need a moment. I'll give you all the space and time you need; I won't come looking for you. But... my number is still the same. And I'm in room 714 at the Jade Palace. Just... in case you want to get to know me."

She knelt down, and Fig immediately galumphed toward her again. She kissed her baby goodbye, heart shattering all over again not knowing when she'd see her (or her dad) again. She steeled herself, forcing Valletta Cambridge to take over to quiet the Cricket-like emotions flooding her. Her face and stance were calm again when she stood up, although she couldn't quite get the pain to leave her eyes.

"Goodbye, Murph," she said, and it sounded like I love you.

Her laugh was infectious, and he shook his head, mock-serious. “But really, if I do migrate, I can send you instructions. The world needs more people who can survive an endless spring and still look decent in a hat. Just imagine, sipping something tropical, toes in the sand. The only frostbite you’d have to worry about would be in overly air-conditioned cafes.” He tilted his head, his grin softening. “So what’s keeping you here, then? Aside from impeccable scarf choices and the occasional chat with a coffee-fumbling stranger?”

She closed her eyes and fell into imagining a white-sand beach and a colourful cocktail. She sighed longingly. When she opened her eyes, he was tilting his head, asking her what felt like a very genuine question. She smiled back, and looked over the park as she answered. "I was only supposed to be here temporarily. Just until I got my feet back on the ground. Unfortunately, I'm still blowing in the wind a little bit... and I guess I do kind of love this little town. It's quaint and charming and there are kind coffee-fumbling strangers, so. Maybe I will stay," she smiled. "What about you? What's keeping you from having your toes in the sand all year long?"

It was all just a stark reminder of how much he missed her. He missed skirting around the edge of a party, heads bowed together as they spoke in a secret language only they knew. Shared stories and laughs and secrets, a whole little world they'd created and cultivated together. There was a void now, where their planet had once orbited. He wondered if she felt that, too. Or if this had always been on the horizon for her.

Her compliment struck him like a blow and he blinked, looking away for a moment. His smile was guarded as he thanked her, looking down at himself before his gaze slid back to hers. He stared for a suspended moment. She stared back. His heart did that thing it always did when he looked at her, doubling in size and hammering against the bones of its cage. And then—

"Oh my god, are you guys Rose and Jack from Titanic?! That's so cute!"

Whatever spell he'd been under shattered and Murph blinked, looking down at himself again. He'd been going for Gatsby, but he could understand the mix up. It felt like cruel irony that they might show up here together, an unintentional matching pair. He searched for her again, wanting to follow her lead in reaction because he didn't trust himself anymore. But she didn't give him anything. So he laughed a little uncomfortably. "I should have seen that one coming. I was, uh." Was it cruel to correct it? Maybe. But it'd been cruel to be plucked out of a line of suitors for the sole purpose of being stolen from, so. "I was going for Gatsby, actually."

If he'd thought it might make him feel a little better to gain some distance from them, he was sorely mistaken. But maybe Jack made more sense here. He was just floating in a freezing ocean on a door that could have held two and yet somehow didn't. Metaphorically, of course. But it often felt like dying.

Maybe that was why he didn't think, just blurted, "come outside with me?"

Gatsby, he said. She tried not to read into that. A man who'd spent his entire adult life at parties he didn't want to attend, in hopes that the love of his life might show up and want him back. What was there to read into?

In any case, he wasn't her Jack. And he didn't want her to think he was. She nodded.

She was about to make up some excuse to leave, so her presence wouldn't bother him any further, when he asked her to come outside with him. She stared stupidly for a moment, wondering if she'd heard him correctly.

"I... oh. Yeah, of course." She would follow him anywhere. And she did, as they weaved through the crowd, keeping heart-poundingly close to each other as they did. Outside, the air was fresh and cold, if slightly scented by stamped-out cigarettes. Valley rubbed her arms for warmth. "Are you sure your, um... your Daisy won't mind us being out here together?" she asked, unable to stop worrying about the date he surely must have brought.

Valley smiled sadly. She and Murph had been great at communication... if you didn't count the fact that a lot of what Valley had communicated had been lies. She was trying not to think about Murph, but talking about marriage and love would always lead back to him. (Not that there was any subject Valley's mind couldn't link back to Murph.)

But now, hearing her voice it, piecing together what they could only guess at back then, Rory feels a tight knot of anger coiling low in his chest. Not at her, never at her — at Mitchell, at the kind of man who could take someone like Valley and try to snuff out the fire that made her who she was. Rory tamps the anger down; this isn’t about him, and she doesn’t need his rage right now. She needs his steadiness, his reassurance.

“You were different,” he agrees softly, meeting her gaze, his own steady and unwavering. “But different doesn’t mean broken. It doesn’t mean wrong. I saw someone trying to rebuild herself from ashes, someone who had every right to be angry.” He pauses, voice dipping lower, warmer. “And if I noticed anything else back then, it was how strong you were. How hard you fought to get yourself back. Not many people could’ve done that.”

He lets that sit for a moment before continuing, the edges of his voice softening further. “And George,” Rory exhales, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “That tracks, doesn’t it? If anyone deserved to have the wind knocked out of his sails, it was him.” There’s a faint trace of humor in his voice, a small attempt to offer some levity. His hand stays resting lightly on her wrist, a quiet promise: I’m still here.

Hesitating only briefly, he finds it in himself to add, “It sounds like you’ve been carrying this weight for a long time, Valley,” he says gently, his words careful and deliberate. “You don’t — you don’t have to keep justifying yourself to me. You’ve been through hell, and you’ve done what you had to do to survive it. There’s no shame in that.” He shifts slightly, leaning forward to catch her gaze again, his expression soft and open. “I’m still listening.”

"Thank you," she whispered finally. "For seeing me." She smiled a little at him, but then the thoughts of Murph flooded in again. She shook her head.

"None of it justifies Murph getting hurt. I should have left him alone the night I met him. I knew that night that he was different, even if I didn't really believe it. He was kind to me. Not just nice, like all men are when they think you're hot, but kind. Even in a dark and crowded bar, he listened to me. He paid attention. He was good. From day one, he was good, and I took advantage of him. Does it even matter that I loved him if I lied to him every day?"

Alas, he kind of has to. According to Nilay, saffron’s quite essential to the paella that she wants to make tonight, and she is the better cook of the two, so. No real reason that he can’t return with what she wants. Other than stubbornness, of course, or — stock issues, which is somehow worse. He continues to squint at the empty labels, shaking his head. “None of the above, I’m afraid,” he says. “Although a small country would be nice, I have to admit — but, uh, no. No, I'm just following orders.” He holds up the paper list in his hand, wiggling it around a little. There’s about three things crossed off which clearly means he's doing an excellent job here. “Didn't quite realize I’d have better luck signing a deed.”

She scrunched her nose at his question, and shook her head. "Definitely the furthest thing from it. But I do know my way around this store, if that's what you're really asking. I don't have a kitchen currently, but I love to browse in here, it's aesthetically pleasing and often amusing. Did you see the $20 watermelon?"

Vaguely, he was aware of Fig as she ran circles around them, her long lead lassoing around them like she might keep them right here forever. Part of him hoped she was successful. The rest of him wished he could go back to five minutes ago and pretend like he hadn't just undone nearly a year's worth of healing.

If that's what you could even call it.

The awareness that this was a conversation and that he was expected to speak hit him at once and he blinked, too aware now that he'd just been staring and running a hand over his beard as he tore his gaze away. He looked at Fig instead, who was now sniffing at Valley's shoes, tail still wagging happily.

He couldn't hide the surprise, or the subsequent flood of hurt, at the mention of Rory and the fact that he was here, too. He'd lost Rory in the divorce. It only made sense since he'd been Valley's friend long before he'd been Murph's, but he didn't realize until now how much of a loss that had been too. "No, I, uh. I didn't know that. It was Terry, actually. They told me about this place. They live here, too."

Now he was wondering if Terry had known. Surely not, surely they wouldn't have devised a plan like this when the intention had been to get him out of his rut, not lead him right back into it. That sort of underhanded cruelty was reserved for someone like Ben.

Something she'd said kept circling in his mind. She hadn't planned on being here for as long as she had been. Did that mean she intended to leave? Why did that suddenly fill him with something that felt far too similar to panic? Shouldn't he want that? He couldn't imagine anything he wanted less.

He was staring again, scouring his mind for something to say. There were so many things, so many questions he needed answers to. Not a single one of them would form on his tongue. He had every right to demand them, he knew. But all he could think about was the quiet way she'd left. In silence and surrender. She hadn't fought him, hadn't tried to take a single thing. All of it had been so, so confusing. And yet, presented with the opportunity to ask her anything, the only think he could manage was, "are you, um," he swallowed down the lump in his throat, his voice sounding croaky, "are you doing okay?"

He asked her how she was doing - a question one would casually ask of any stranger in an elevator - and her heart melted. Because he wasn't asking casually; he expected an answer. He wanted to know. He asked it the way he'd asked about her favourite song on one of their first dates. He asked it the way he used to ask if she was hungry or cold. He asked because he cared.

She'd been so broken when she'd met him, so hurt in so many ways, that the very idea of someone actually caring had been suspicious to her. She wondered what he wanted to do with the information he asked for; what plans he could possibly have for the ammunition she gave him in the form of tiny truths. But all he'd wanted was to know her.

Once again, her newfound commitment to honesty stopped the easy answer on her tongue before she could speak it. She took a moment. "I, um... I'm... shocked. And slightly cold. And my heart feels like it's trying to break through my ribcage. But, I'm really happy to see you. And Figgy. Please tell me if you're not happy to see me. I don't want to do anything to hurt you."

(And knowing what he knows now, about Valley, about the things she’s gone through — less so, he thinks.)

The comfort of their presence in his life was enough to keep him going, most days — even if it was confined to FaceTime calls, text messages, emails. He’d never had siblings, but he supposes both of them must be the closest he would ever come to. In the midst of his heartbreak over the loss of his girlfriend exists some muddled sort of heartbreak over the loss of Valley and Murph as a unit, as well — thinks it’s unfair, almost, that the three of them should have to lose love like this. Especially when it’s so alive, so present, still. So tangible, even in its perceived absence.

Squeezing her hand, Rory gives her a nod. “Alright,” he finally replies, voice slightly hoarse. He takes his hand back, then, and steps forward. His fingers tremble slightly as he reaches for the padlock. The cold metal is rough under his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he’s felt standing beside Valley. With a quick, practiced motion, he slides the key into place, the click of the lock sounding louder than it should in the quiet space around them. Rory hesitates for a moment, breath caught in his throat, before he exhales and pulls the door open.

The storage unit yawns wide before them, revealing a dark interior, and then — light filters in, illuminating the stacks of canvases. Each one is carefully wrapped, corners protected, layers of dust gently veiling the topmost pieces. A stillness hangs in the air, as if the space itself has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment.

Rory steps forward, the faint scent of aged wood and paint mingling in the confined space. His gaze sweeps across the room, heart heavy, the familiar ache settling deep in his chest. These were hers — her work, her soul. Pieces of her he had locked away, along with so much else, because the weight of remembering had been too much to carry at once.

His throat tightens, and for a beat, he can’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against one of the canvases. Even through the fabric, he can feel it — the emotion, the memories — like she’s still here, in some way, lingering in the strokes of color beneath the surface.

Valley walked in as though walking into the light after being in the darkness for entirely too long. She looked at the artwork that her friend had made, and felt Eliza's laughter. She felt Eliza's eyes lighting up the way they always did when Rory walked into a room. She felt the warmth between the two of them that had made Valley believe, despite everything she'd gone through, that real love was actually possible.

It was like she was still here.

She understood, of course, why Rory had locked all of this away. He was afraid to feel the weight of it. The real, true, horrifying weight of the emptiness where the love of his life should be. Valley had only felt a fraction of that every day she woke up without Murph, but it was enough to understand all this.

"She was so... brilliant," Valley said, after a while of wandering and looking in silence. "In every sense of that word. She shone. She sparkled. She still does."

Her hands shook, and her breath shook, and she tried to steady both. He asked if she was alright - she didn't even know his name. Although she was still shaking, she nodded. "Yeah, are you? I kind of tackled you, there," she blushed.

She listened as he spoke, and knew he was right. This would be a top priority for emergency workers. They wouldn't be stuck here forever. But it was the not knowing that was getting to her. Not knowing how long it would take, not knowing whether the elevator was about to snap a cord and crash into the basement, not knowing whether this man - although he seemed very nice - was a safe person to be stuck in such a small space with.

"I'm... Valletta," she said, figuring getting to know him was pretty much the only thing she could do right now. "What's your name?"

The bar is packed tonight, a sea of bodies moving to a rhythm Damian barely registers. He’s in his own head, humming with the warmth of cheap whiskey, feeling pleasantly detached from everything he’s been running from. He’s weaving through the crowd, headed back to his spot at the counter, when he feels his shoulder knock hard into someone solid. The force nearly sends him stumbling back, but he catches himself, glancing up with a lopsided grin.

The guy he’s bumped into doesn’t look amused. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man with a glare that could probably cut steel, and he’s already halfway through muttering something under his breath that sounds like trouble. Damian can feel the anger radiating off him, sees the way his fists clench by his sides. But instead of backing down, Damian just flashes a lazy smile, half-squinting at the guy with cheerful indifference.

“My bad, man,” he says, voice light and unbothered. “Didn’t see you there.” His tone is almost too casual, like he’s talking to an old friend rather than a guy who looks one more shove away from starting a fight.

The guy scowls, stepping closer, towering over him. “Watch where you’re going next time,” he growls, eyes narrowing, fists clenched like he’s waiting for Damian to make a wrong move.

Damian just laughs softly, swaying slightly on his feet, still smiling like he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Hey, c’mon now, no harm done, right?” he says, unbothered by the guy’s looming presence. His smile doesn’t waver, even as he watches the guy’s face twist with irritation. There’s something almost amusing about it, the way this stranger is puffing up, clearly looking for any excuse to swing, like he’s spoiling for a fight. Damian can see it in the tension around the man’s jaw, the way his hand flexes at his side.

“Seriously, man, chill,” Damian slurs the words, chuckling as he raises his hands, palms up in mock surrender. “It’s a crowded bar, you're a big dude — probably happens all the time.”

But his calm seems to only stoke the guy’s anger further, his eyes narrowing as he steps even closer, his chest puffed out. Damian’s grin only widens, like he’s oblivious to the threat. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Got a smart mouth, huh?” the guy sneers, his voice low, biting.

She sat up and held up the glass of whiskey in her hand, wondering if she should finish it, or just go home (if one could call a hotel suite home), but then she felt something chillingly familiar that made her almost drop her glass.

She couldn't tell you how she felt it, exactly. But it was an instinct a person developed after living with an angry man. You could detect them, even in a room this full and loud, even if you couldn't hear him clearly. A tone of voice, a posture, something cut through the loud and the full and the drunk, and Valley's head snapped around.

It was Damian. She'd met him exactly once, at the farmer's market in the summer, and seen him around briefly a few times since, but she remembered him. The anger wasn't coming from him, it was directed toward him, and some instinctual protectiveness got her up out of her seat.

Brows furrowed, she walked in a surprisingly straight line, slowly toward Damian and the tall angry man he seemed to be teasing. She couldn't hear them clearly yet, but both of them seemed to be asking for something. Both seemed to be saying just give me one reason. There was a look in Damian's eyes - behind the smirk, a hidden layer - that Valley recognized but couldn't name.

Five years probably wasn't that long to most people, but it was longer than Valley had ever been married. She and Murph had almost made it to five years... almost.

"What's your secret?"

Theo accepted the steaming cup of coffee from the barista with a murmured thanks, then turned his attention to the person who’d commented on the cold. His grin was immediate, teasing. “Oh, it’s definitely winter’s opening act. You can tell because everyone’s still pretending they don’t need gloves. Including me.” He raised the paper cup like a shield, his fingers already pink from the chill. “But come January, we’ll all be bundled up like mummies, questioning every life choice that brought us to Illinois.” He paused, his grin softening into a curious tilt of his head. “You must be better prepared than me, though. What’s your secret? Layers? Thermal socks? Some ancient ritual you’d be willing to share? I'm not a creature of the cold. I'm meant to migrate South, like birds do.”

"The trick is to find a really chic-looking pair of leather gloves, lined with something lovely like cashmere, and then you'll want to wear them all year. But holding onto coffee works too," she smiled.

She was sure her smile visibly faltered with his comment on questioning the choices that brought them here, but she sipped her own coffee and ignored it as always.

"I think my preparation is just five years in San Francisco. It never gets particularly cold there, but never hot either. Just a slight chill in the air all year round. Definitely teaches you about layering and where to get scarves and hats that don't make you look like a toddler in one of those snowsuits that makes them all wobbly," she laughed. "But that being said... if you do migrate south, please bring me with you."

The Unequal Marriage (circa 1862)

When she mentions Arthur, Rory allows a small smile of his own, imagining her younger self in that unlikely pairing. He remembers that time too — remembers how folks raised their brows or muttered behind their hands, but more clearly he remembers how Valley didn’t seem to care, how she carried herself with that unique blend of resilience and charm. Reminiscent, even, of Eliza after she’d been disowned — head held high, nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. And he’d understood then, as he does now, that there was more to Valley’s choices than anyone else would ever see. He’d understood then, as he does now, that it had never been his business to ask after said choices, despite his curiosity.   

Rory’s eyes soften as he meets her gaze, a steady anchor for the storm of memories and half-explained truths she’s working through. “It was never my place to question your choices,” he says quietly. “Always figured you had your reasons.” He takes a slow breath, keeping his tone low and free of any accusation. “Still do, really.” He thinks of Mitchell, then, and how stark of a contrast he’d been after Arthur. Ellie’s constant worried nights, when Valley wouldn’t return her calls or her texts. The rare occasions they’d see her in person, how subdued she’d become. The helplessness, weighing both him and Ellie down, unable to get through to their friend. The memories spread like wildfire through his veins, but he doesn’t push it — lets Valley take this at her own pace.

She watched the serenity in his eyes darken, and could tell he remembered who came next in the lineup. Rory and Eliza knew Mitchell less well than the other husbands, on account of the fact that he'd hated them.

"I rushed into things with Mitchell," she said. Understatement of the century. "I... rushed into things with everyone, of course, but I really didn't think things through with him. Arthur's passing had broken my heart, and his existence had made me dangerously optimistic about the world,and men, and... I thought everything would be fine. I thought I'd found someone who wanted to take care of me, you know? He was so powerful, and so smart, and I really believed he had my best interests in mind. And so I listened when he gave me advice. ...But then the advice turned into demands, and the demands turned into threats, and we were already married before I realized how trapped and scared and isolated I was. He wasn't taking care of me; he didn't care at all. He just wanted someone to control, and if I tried to do anything he didn't approve of, he would..."

She trailed off. It was getting easier to speak the truth the more she did it, but some words remained stuck in her throat, refusing to be formed.

"Anyway. I'm sure you noticed I was a different person by the time I got out of that marriage. I was so angry. I wanted to burn the world down. I wanted to make damn sure no man would ever control me like that again. I went looking for the most arrogant trust fund asshole I could find, fully intending to drain his bank account and ruin his life and make him wish he never met me, which... I think I was successful in doing, because that's when I met George."