#03 › samuel harrison + theodora nowak.

[momentspassd]

It's quite easy to discern that he'd thrown Theo off with his preparation, giving off the impression that he'd put much more thought into this impromptu gathering. Samuel hadn't expected things to go this when the communication began, though it'd been a pleasant surprise, but he'd begun to prepare when the texts started navigating in this direction.

More than anything the writer had desired an opportunity to sit and talk about everything with his ex. To explain to her his reasonings for leaving and staying gone. Even if there was no forgiveness for his silence or his actions, the man was desperate for the lawyer to understand that it truly had nothing to do with her.

None of this was her fault.

What she'd received out of his actions wasn't deserved.

That was the important message to convey. Along with the simple fact that he still loved her all the same. The New Yorker knew that was incredibly difficult to understand given that the thoughts, feelings, and actions didn't all line up perfectly nor did they match.

Life was never that easy. Never that simple.

"Yeah," he answered among his movements in her kitchen, "I started prepping during our texts. It's why some responses took longer than others." A small laugh followed and adoring umber eyes found Theo standing near, appearing hesitant and as though she might flee at any moment.

"I wanted to," Sam began to explain, "no takeout really hits the same outside of New York so I've turned to cooking even more than before." The writer had always enjoyed the whole process of making something from scratch with his bare hands. It felt more whole, more enriching, more personal. There was also the unspoken part that him cooking even more had to do with a boy named Ben.

Nostalgia hit the author hard. Seeing her standing by, ready for conversation as she watched him move about what had once been a shared kitchen in a dwelling that had been their own as a couple. He tried his best to ignore the pit in his stomach, to not let the moment grip hold of him too strongly. If he'd learned anything it was that living in the past was dangerous and would lead to disappointment.

"You have any beer?" Brow lifted, it had only been then that he'd wished he'd brought a pack or stopped along the way. Wine had never really been his go-to but he'd drink it in a pinch. "Or we can jump to the whiskey and start softening things up," he'd suggested feeling it could help ease some anxieties.

With the pizza finally in the oven, Sam rested the heels of his palms against the edge of the countertop and leaned into it. Gaze fixed on Theo's he'd give a penny for her real thoughts and what was going on behind those beautiful eyes he'd often sank into for comfort.

How was he supposed to get through this?

A front row seat to further hurting the person you loved most felt like hell.

"You shouldn't cry, but I'm sorry ahead of time if anything I tell you hurts you that much." For a second he only peered down at his ex and wondered if she knew that he'd never intended to hurt her. That the entirety of the last few years felt like some sort of out of body experience for him.

"Do you want something in your stomach first or do you want me to just— start?"

Which Sam had no idea how to do that or where that point was. He'd find it, of course, but he already had a feeling of trudging through thick, knee deep mud.

"You have a beautiful home, by the way."

No matter how much it was all his fault that things were the way they were now, it didn't take away from the pain of seeing how well someone moved on from you.

Regardless, Sam was proud of her.

It takes her a second to really understand what’s happening: Sam is talking about the food needing time to cook, and by the time she’s closing the front door, he’s shown her the raw pizza in his hands and turned the oven on. She’s still standing by the front door, a little perplexed by how quickly it’s all happened, the raw reaction to the sequence of events a belated intruder to the left of her chest. He cooked for her — something he’d done so often when they were together, and even before they were together. He’d made her pizza because she’d mentioned in passing she was craving the shitty pizza they used to buy together after a drunken night out on the town, and now he’s made himself almost at home, beelining straight for a kitchen he’s never stepped foot inside of and turned on the oven like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Taking a deep breath, Theo can do little else but clear her throat. There’s a part of her that wants to reprimand him for this — tell him he has no right to just waltz into her house like he’s a part of it, like the place would welcome his silhouette like a familiar shape — but there’s an even bigger part of her that’s afraid if she opens her mouth right now, an unbidden I love you will make its way past her lips, and there’s no coming back from that, is there?

She makes her way toward the kitchen, stopping in front of him to take a closer look at the pizza he’s brought. It’s raw, of course, looking far more impressive than the crappy one-topping they used to take to-go back in New York. She meets his gaze, feeling the furrow of her brows deepen. “Did you make this from scratch?” she asks. “You didn’t—” She bites her lip to keep from finishing the sentence. Mostly because she doesn’t know where the sentence is going, really. You didn’t have to? You didn’t tell me you would? You didn’t mean to make me feel this way, did you?

“Thank you,” she decides to say, because it’s the most reasonable reaction, and perhaps the most neutral, as well. She even offers him a smile, despite how far up her throat her heart is at the moment. For a minute or two, she can’t break her gaze from his — it’s so familiar, in a way that might very well eat her up from the inside if she’s not careful — until she finally swallows and moves past him, toward the cupboard. “Do you want some wine?” she asks. “Or — something stronger,” she offers, eyeing the glasses available to her. Her fingers feel heavy on her hands, the pounding of her heart frantic against her wrist. 

She glances over at Samuel. “What are you thinking will get me through this without crying?” She asks him, and for the first time in a minute, there’s a hint of teasing in her tone. A joke, offered without expectations or conditions. Offered to him not in a moment of weakness, but rather a moment of clarity — he’s in her house, and they’re going to talk, and every single nerve in her body is standing on end in his presence. 

Whatever else may be true, all Theo knows is that she doesn’t think holding onto her anger will do either of them any good, if they’re going to make this a productive conversation. And maybe the familiarity of the scene has a little to do with it, too — cohabiting a kitchen, discussing drink options, both of them in casual attire. It’s like it’s ripped out of a memory from four years ago, surreptitiously lacing the atmosphere here now.

[momentspassd]

The invite to her place had surprised him. It seemed intimate and personal, something so distant from where they currently stood. Maybe it was the comfort and familiarity their history brought on, or it could've been much more practical than that.

It was where she felt safest.

While he prepped the food he was preparing to bring over the writer did his best not to overthink it all before he got there. The last thing he wanted was to send his mind to places it needn't be or to spin some false narrative of what hadn't even been said or transpired. Instead he focused on his step by step process, recalling his grandmother's recipe that his mother had taught him for making pizza. It couldn't be exactly what she'd been wanting or craved, it was actually many times better quality and taste, but that did nothing to completely satiate a craving.

Dough made and set aside, Sam realized he'd need a bit more time, so in between setting the sauce to a simmer and chopping up vegetables a text was sent to Theo in hopes she wouldn't be upset by a delay or think he was backing out.

Trust was hard after what had happened. That was understood.

Earning it back, if at all possible, would take a lot of time and work.

SAM: throw an extra 30 mins onto my arrival time. food is taking longer than expected.

Once he had everything put together on the dough Sam boxed it up as best as he could and followed the directions to her house. It wasn't exactly a surprise his ex lived in Oak Gardens with it's estate homes and community feel. Umber panned around the gated neighborhood as his navigation led him to the driveway that had her house number on the garage. It felt like a world away from where he was living in the Forest Lake neighborhood. Perhaps it was, in a sense. The New Yorker just couldn't give up the space he'd gained and become accustomed to after his few years in California.

Now he'd been obsessed with the space and silence.

When he'd made it to her door and hour post text exchange there was a weird charge moving through his body at the feeling of being in Theo's physical presence once again. After the bell and she'd opened the door it only amplified, and he'd suddenly felt very stupid for putting together a homemade pizza as though this were something casual.

The stress and anxiety was etched into her features. There appeared to be a certain cageyness in her eyes and the author realized he should've kept this exchange as simple as possible.

No greeting.

"Hey," Sam said anyway. "This needs about twenty minutes to cook," the tall man commented as he entered his ex's home, eyes moving about and taking the place in, lifting the wrapped up pizza to indicate his meaning.

Instead of going right toward the assumed living room Samuel roamed to Theo's kitchen and set the loaded pan onto her counter. He turned to the oven and set the baking temperature and uncovered his preparation— the pizza he'd grown up enjoying most times he'd gone over to grandma's house. His dear late grandmother hadn't even had an ounce of Italian in her DNA but all of her best dishes were Italian.

"When you said you were craving that pizza," the writer paused, one hand rested on the counter as he leaned into it and the other stroked at the beard absently around his chin, "I don't know— I did my best."

x. status -> closed for @momentspassd (samuel) x. location -> theodora's residence

There’s a delicate balance between practical and stupid — Theodora thinks she’s walking a fragile line between them, inviting Sam over to her place to talk. She’s an attorney — she knows better than to talk about serious matters in such a personal space. Logically, the better idea would’ve been a neutral location, some restaurant neither of them had ever heard of or at least have never frequented, but it’s been about two weeks since she last saw him, and truthfully? She missed him. So much so that a part of her had thawed enough to allow herself to stupidly flirt with him, implying something might happen between them tonight.

Although it’s not — so far from the truth, if she’s being honest with herself. She’d been thinking about him a lot lately. Mostly at night. About the times she used to get him to finally stop working at the end of the night by splaying herself out on the couch in his office and touching herself until he closed the laptop and replaced her fingers with his own. About how easy it’d been to fall into bed together, to entrust each other with their desires, without once feeling any sort of humiliation for them. His lips on her neck, on the inside of her thigh, her mouth on his—

Theodora splashes her face with water and stares at herself in the mirror judgmentally. “Get a grip,” she mutters to herself. Clearly, she’s ovulating or some such nonsense. She hasn’t been this turned on in ages, and it’s like it’s all coming back to her in waves, suddenly. A year-long dry spell turned into whatever embarrassing foray back into teenagedom this is.

She can be mature and completely reasonable about this, she tells herself. She’s even dressed herself down — just her high-waisted pajama shorts and a loose crop top — so that the vibe’s immediately set to casual. She can do this. She’s looked all kinds of monsters in the eye during court and never once flinched: she can get through an evening talking to her ex-boyfriend about something she needs to know more about without being filled with depraved thoughts about him all night.

The knock on the door makes her jump some, and she gets a text from DO NOT CALL. telling her he’s outside. She glares at herself once more in the mirror — a warning to her reflection — then makes her way out of the bathroom and toward the entrance. Deep breath in, deep breath out. She turns the knob over and opens the door, her stomach immediately doing somersaults at the sight of him again — god, but she forgets so often, how beautiful he is in person. Her pictures have never done him justice, not really. He’s just as captivating to look at as the first time she laid eyes on him.

Blushing slightly, she clears her throat and steps aside. “Come in,” she tells him, gesturing inside. “We can set up in the living room.”