❝ SLOANE, WHIT —

Five minutes. That’s how long the mystery concoction sat there on the bar, freshly poured and unclaimed, while she and her waving twenty fought for even a second of the bartender’s attention. Six. A trickle of condensation slowly traveled the glass, taunting Whit in her moment of impatient desperation. “It’d be a really awful idea to say fuck it and just pretend that’s mine... right?” // @eureka-starters​

@eureka-starters.

location. Last Temptation

“Call me what you want,” Ivy declared, spreading her hands as if that would close the matter. “I’m just not gonna try it.” She even turned her head, though that didn’t erase the offending flavor’s existence from her memory, ( much less the planet, ) as much as she might silently wish it had. Still, in a bid to not entirely trash the other person’s suggestion, she added, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think sriracha belongs with peanut butter, at least not in an ice cream. If I’m having ice cream, I want the full sweet experience, not some sweet slash savory hybrid. But if that’s what floats your boat …”

—

“Sure, sure, but that’s just so... predictable.” And the word might as well have been a curse falling from Whit’s lips. She glanced between the combo in question and, well, technically the backside of a brunette head with wide eyes before begging to know, “Where’s your sense of adventure? Haven’t you ever wanted to try something just to say you did, even if you were sure you’d regret it? Or wondered if that thing you won’t go for is actually the one thing that’ll finally, actually make you feel alive?” 

Perhaps that was going a bit to far (it was only ice cream for fuck’s sake) but she held firm to her point. 

“Where’s the fun in always sticking with what you already know? It’s like saying you’ll only wear sensible shoes and bikini briefs for the rest of your life, or turning down a threesome with that hot couple at the bar because it’s half past eight and you like to be home by nine.” Dramatically, and for no other reason than she could, Whit huffed, “You’re basically depriving yourself of four inch studded Italian leather that could take out a man’s eye, wicked good lingerie, and really wild sex right now. Except, you know, in your mouth.”

at carson square || (open) @eureka-starters​

As it turned out, holding out a flyer with a class schedule and pleading ‘please take a flyer for my studio and pretend you’ll come take a class so I don’t lose another night’s sleep worrying over financial collapse’ was not, in fact, a stellar marketing plan. Of course, even that might have been a step up from the half-hearted attempts at talking with strangers she’d mustered up this afternoon. At some point, she was going to have to ramp up her marketing attempts if she expected to stay afloat, on top of the loans and contracts she’d signed. Who knew exactly how much risk went into running a dance studio? Surely the community had a need for one, right? While Susana walked down the pathway to the fountain, she took in an unmistakably phallic drawing on the stones surrounding the landmark. A laugh escaped her, and then another – it might have been childish, but it was so stupid she couldn’t help but laugh. After letting out a soft sigh to recent herself, Suze looked up and locked eyes with another pedestrian. “Well, you know what they say about compensating,” she said wryly, “but this is awfully detailed so … how much you think they’re compensating for?”

—

“Maybe it’s not compensating at all? Maybe they were just blessing the masses with the truth of their considerable gift.” Whit cocked her head to the other side for further inspection of of the ‘art’, then sighed, “But if that’s the case I really wish they would’ve signed it off with a phone number. I mean, give a girl a break. Isn’t finding a worthy Tinder hookup hard enough these days?" 

Quiet laughter spilled freely from her lips before finally, finally, she cast the full weight of her gaze on Susana. It’d been— God. Too many years to count since they’d last found themselves face to face. Something in her façade cracked at the sight of her - at the sight of all those subtle similarities she and Amalia shared - but just as quickly as it faltered she forced it back into place. 

“Hey Sus.” Quieter now, and with far less irreverence, she murmured, “Long time no see, yeah?”

It was brief, her perusal, but still, Kevin felt heat rise in his chest at the attention. He wasn’t sure which she was claiming as the pity; maybe even both; but he knew himself well enough to feel little more than a kind of dull flattery whatever the intent had been. He was not, and would never be, anything near an exhibitionist, and for the event in question … well, the idea was to not make himself an object of attention, of that much at least, he was certain.

“That’s very good to know,” Kevin said with a hint of relief, a smile accompanying the words. Still, reciprocity aside, snacks and gratitude seemed the very least he could offer if she was able to shed any light on a good wardrobe choice. “Though I kind of thought the undying gratitude would be a kind of entry-level requirement.” Besides, “I’d be happy to give some advice in return, either way.”

A rueful smile accompanied her request: even if she wasn’t prone to getting carried away, as she claimed, she would likely need to know more than this was an event that didn’t need spicing up. “Right, of course. I’m chaperoning the Prom. Over at Eureka High. I teach there,” he added hurriedly, lest she think … well, he didn’t know what assumptions she might make, but the clarity certainly wouldn’t hurt.

—

A smirk notched itself into the corner of her mouth before she retorted, “Maybe I’m just confident I’ll earn your undying gratitude without having to require it.” To a fault, Whit was nothing if not confident. Even when she probably had no right to be. 

In this case, at least, she knew what she was doing. Mostly. The question was: did he? “How intimately familiar are you with the subliminal messaging behind tie colors and patterns?” There went that smirk again, settling in even deeper this time. “I mean, is that something they teach you in ‘Dressing For the Classroom 101′, or is it more of a personal project you’ve embarked on?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Whit just spun around to the various suits on display.

“We’re going to steer clear of blue, because even navy is too bold a choice under these circumstances.” Fingertips ghosting over fabric, she flicked her gaze back in his direction. “And while I don’t doubt you’d leave plenty of mouths panting in black—” No, still not right. Back and forth she flipped through the options before her touch stilled on a deep charcoal number. 

A startled laugh burst from Kevin’s lips at the irreverent quip, and he turned, catching sight of the other patron nearby. Well. That would teach him to go speaking to himself in public. Not that he was particularly in the habit of doing as much, but this was sign enough: nothing good, that way came. “I’m not really the birthday suit kind of guy,” Kevin said ruefully; for all he’d spent a great deal of time in a speedo for swim team, there was a difference between that and not wearing a stitch of clothing. “Besides, this isn’t for a night that needs spicing up.” It seemed prudent to establish that baseline, at least. Even if, as, his lips parting, Kevin considered the offer implicit in the words. He did need help, that much was clear, and though he was certain Jade had a multitude of opinions about suits, and that Isaac, and Wes, would likely be happy to offer assistance, they weren’t here. “The question is, do you require all three, or will one suffice?” Though, truth be told, snacks and gratitude seemed a decent trade for ensuring he was somewhat presentable. “Or, I could always offer assistance from—” he broke off, unwilling to attempt that particular phrasing, suspecting he’d turn into something much worse with imperfect memory. “—that task which you seek distraction from,” and he nodded in the direction of the ties.

—

“No?” Whit’s eyes raked his form for the briefest of seconds. “Pity.” In her opinion, everyone could use a touch of exhibitionism and spice in their lives. But whether or not that applied here and now? Or that anyone else agreed? Another thing entirely. With a put upon sigh, solely for the dramatic effect, she shook her head and then abandoned her half-hearted selection of ties.

“While I’d love all three, I’m not impossible to please. One or the other will do just fine.” That lopsided tilt to her smile was back when she squared off with her new ‘client’. “I’ll even accept a bit of helping hand quid pro quo if you’re more inclined.” Because what the hell did she actually know about neck ties? Beyond a bit of creative fun in other, particular settings... not much. Or anything at all, really. 

“But first things first: what is it we’re dressing you for? ‘Cause I’ll tell you up front... it’s always better to give me a bit of parameters, or some guidelines.” She couldn’t promise to always follow them, of course, but— “When left to my own devices I tend to get a wee bit carried away.”

Isaac had grown accustomed to Tel Aviv’s pride celebrations, the parade considered the largest in the world by some. Eureka’s was smaller, much more intimate, but the faces were familiar ones from his youth. His parents had always been avid supporters of pride, but were more than happy to get involved with organizations like PFLAG and the interfaith pride council when he’d come out to them as bisexual. While he had been showing his son around earlier in the evening, he was out alone this time, his parents having Noah for the evening while he enjoyed the late-night festivities. “Do you need a refill?” The rabbi looked to his company with a soft smile and slightly raised brow.

@eureka-starters​

—

Whit never really learned how to fold herself up into one, neat little box. Never really figured out how to color inside the lines, either. She was the type to shirk all labels, to defy all norms, and to march to the beat of her own drum. The type to fit in with any crowd, not matter their differences or similarities, too. Perhaps that’s how she found herself in the company of Eureka’s (newest?) Rabbi. 

To be honest, she wasn’t sure when, exactly, Isaac took up the job, but now that they were side by side she could find out. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” A smile slanted across her lips as she looked up from her empty cup. And then, in the pause after, she wondered, “So how long have you been back in town? Last I heard you’d moved to... Israel, right?” 

@eureka-starters.

location. Lumbermill Mercantile

Kevin didn’t usually mind serving as a chaperone; for field trips, for class trips, even for school dances. He hadn’t yet served as a chaperone for Prom, though, and it seemed his time had come. The Senior Prom wasn’t until June, but still, Kevin knew better than to leave this particular shopping endeavor for the last minute — particularly as he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. Something dressier than the slacks and blazers he usually wore to work, or than the one real suit he had in his closet ( navy blue, and a leftover from the tail end of college; he wasn’t entirely sure it even fit any longer ). He didn’t think he had to go full tux; he was just a chaperone, after all, but as he looked around the store, he was starting to wonder if maybe he’d picked the wrong place to even start looking. “I’m so in over my head,” he muttered as he looked over a rack of clothes, unaware someone else was standing close enough to hear.

—

“I mean, if worse comes to worst and you can’t make up your mind, you could always just opt for your birthday suit,” Whit chimed in, not so helpfully. Her attention remained locked on the nearby display of patterned ties, but there was no mistaking the newly sank dimple in her cheek. Or the mischievous curl of her lips. “I don’t think it’s really what most invitations mean when they say ‘business casual’ or ‘black tie’, but I bet it’d really spice up the night.”

A snicker built against the roof of her mouth and expelled itself in a full blown, throaty laugh. “Or. You know. You could ask someone for help.” A girlfriend, best friend, boutique assistant— herself. “I like to think I have a pretty keen eye, and won’t object to any and all distractions picking out this ‘sorry I’m a shit daughter who likes to vanish for years a time’ Father’s Day gift.” Finally, finally, Whittaker glanced over to catch his eye. “I accept all forms of snacks, liquor, and eternal gratitude as payment for my services.”

WHERE: Cal’s WITH: Open

Only a handful of days had passed since Andy’s release and rather than venture out into the world and attempt to reconnect with it, he found himself sitting at the bar with an untouched bottle of beer in front of him. Of his collection of vices, alcohol had always reared its ugly head the loudest, and Andy had yet to figure out how to turn away from the noise. Picking at the frayed edge of the bottle’s label, the man eased out a long sigh and shook his head. Naturally, he recognized that the bottle nestled between his hands was the very thing that helped land him in his most recent predicament, but right now, he wanted to forget about all of that, or at least dull the sting of it. He rolled his shoulders, hoping to shrug off the weight of the still unsigned divorce papers tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, and lifted his beer from the bartop. “Alright,” Andy drawled, finally breaking his silence as he turned to the person beside him, “What’re we drinkin’ to this fine afternoon?” He asked, boasting a small, yet roguish grin as he raised his bottle in a mock toast, “Your call.” 

—

“Are we drinking?” Whit’s gaze dropped to the otherwise untouched bottle in his hands, brow quirked and lips pressed to a smirk. For the better part of twenty minutes she’d sat there, discreetly watching him redesign its label from the corner of her eye. He’d seemed more content picking the damn thing to shreds than actually taking a sip. Not that it was actually any of her business. Her own fingers curled around the base of a rocks glass and lifted, leaving a ring of condensation on the bar in its wake.

Okay— so maybe she’d been putting off the start of what’d likely become another all-day-all-nighter at Cal’s, too.

Eureka Pride March || @eureka-starters​​

For someone who allowed himself to be lead by his emotions as much as he did, it was something of a miracle he didn’t end up in more difficult situations. Or perhaps the miracle was that he somehow managed get himself out of the ones that he did find himself in. It was no surprise that in his eagerness to celebrate pride he’d gotten swept up in the crowds and split off from his friends. The realisation had only hit him when he’d turned to make a joke and noticed that they were no where to be found. With the battery on his phone already running low (predictably he’d forgotten to charge it the night before) he tried to call, only to find himself battling with the noise around him. “No, I’m not by the fountain. Not the fountain.” Voice was raised as he tried to speak clearly enough that his message would carry. “I’m by the -” Before his location could be given the phone went day and he was greeted by a familiar black screen. But he’d never been one to feel much frustration or let himself feel defeated and so he instead chose to turn to the person nearest to him, easy grin on his features as he prepared to insert himself into their day. “Some turn out, right?”

—

Whit’s attention switched from the teeming crowd to the voice on her left, a brief smile turning up the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, I’m honestly a little impressed.” She hadn’t been to Pride back home in— God, too many years to count. “Guess I just didn’t pay enough attention when I was younger, but I didn’t expect this big of a thing in Eureka, of all places.” 

Then again, maybe her own judgement of the town she (mostly) grew up in skewed her expectations. Life here in northern California always felt so... small.

Or at least it used to. Now, Whit wasn’t sure how she felt about being back. That was neither here nor there, though, and soon enough she pulled out of her thoughts. “I’m Whittaker, by the way,” she added, almost as an afterthought when their eyes met again. “You flyin’ solo today?”

“Do you think the landlord would notice if I just... took a sledgehammer to that wall?” Whit viciously ripped another bit of churro off with her teeth, but her eyes never once strayed from the atrocity that was her new bedroom. Sure, the floor to ceiling mural wasn’t the worst thing to ever come from a paintbrush, it probably took some measure of genuine skill, but— “I’m starting to have nightmares, Fliss. It’s like he’s watching me sleep.” ‘He’ being a life-sized carnival clown, complete with frizzy red hair and a little balloon dog. 

❝ filed under — name here.

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