#I suppose I should put my fandoms here
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Imagine putting out content for a fandom instead of just obsessively turning media over in your mind every day like youâre polishing a river pebble to give to your one true love
#I suppose I should put my fandoms here#oh look when you put a comma it also starts a new tag#wild#ANYWAY#transformers#twisted wonderland#fairy tail#star trek#yes ALL the Star Trek#Star Wars#all the transformers too btw#I have even been known to tolerate the new Star Wars as wel#one piece#yugioh#blaming my sibling for that one#svsss#yeah I know okay Iâm trying this thing called Being Honest About Your Interests#guys Iâm just scrolling through my AO3 history and writing down the trends#naruto#kind of#itâs complicated#teen wolf#but only once in a blue moon#(heh)#stranger things#detroit become human#but like as an inlaw Iâve never actually played the game#mob psycho 100#the witcher#inuyasha
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dreams unwind (peter parker/wade wilson) â chapter 1/1
âFirst, Webs,â he breathes unsteadily. âYou really gotta stop looking at me like that. Gives a girl butterflies.â
âWade.â
A full-body shiver runs through the merc and his hands scramble up Peterâs forearms, clamping tight on his wrists. âO-okay. Think we can reach a compromise. Say my name like that again and Iâll probably have this taken care of in a few shakes.â
You ever kill a man before, Webs?
Peter feels like heâs about to.
#spideypool is one of those ships i always enjoyed as a reader and felt too intimidated to write bc the tag is quite literally humongous#and i feel like i tend to write for smaller corners of fandom bc there isnât the overbearing question of what can I possibly contribute#but i realized thatâs a silly attitude to have for fic bc fic is supposed to be fun n indulgent#so hereâs this. i had a great time writing it and should probably stop putting off sleep#we may have made it out of the writing rut friends#peter parker#wade wilson#peter parker x wade wilson#spideypool#my fics#deadpool#spider man
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probably i SHOULDN'T migrate elsewhere if tumblr goes belly-up. i just scrolled thru my dash for 20 minutes and in that short span i could feel myself transform from a mildly tired 27-year-old butch into an active serial killer.
#starts typing posts like 'i hate you people so fucking much' and then pauses like#this is how every terminally online post i've raised my eyebrows at for Weeks has started.#girl if you put all your thought into the computer eventually your world will shrink to the size of it.#this site really does make me feel like shit. i need to follow more photography blogs and people who don't post stupid fucking bullshit.#hey if you post a lot of photography or POSITIVE fandom stuff WITHOUT a shitload of untagged politics.#hit me up. i've unfollowed 80% of active blogs i used to follow for 'annoying me' crimes and my dash is both dead and profoundly irritating#i need to breathe some new life into this account. or what am i logging on for.#by positive fandom stuff i mean you're not typing a bunch of nasty hot takes i'll hate or bitching constantly about varying properties.#and you don't hate polyamory. and you don't hate ace people. and you don't hate queerplatonic relationships.#SHOULDN'T BE A HUGE ASK!!!!! AND YET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND FUCKING YET!!!!!!!!!11SHIFTONE!1ELEVEN!!1!#i'm tired of tumblr not making me happy. i should be able to see my blorbos and feel joy here.#negative#i suppose
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I should play CF again with a fresh clear head just to see if I actually like it without fandom bullshit clouding my mind
#razz plays fe3h#I thought I'd forever not be an edelgard lover yet here I am#it is so weird#I'll admit when I'm wrong cuz I was wrong for things I said in the past#I allowed fandom bias against women to cloud my judgement while playing the game#I was never one of those 'booo edelgard was a terrible character she should die' people but I was like tolerable of her#I didn't believe in harping on others for a character being their favorite and I still don't#as I take a step back and realize just how toxic fandom culture is I start to realize that I was actually really wrong#adjacent to this topic I think is that this is sorta half involved with how I felt about her feelings towards byleth during cf#seeing everybody ship their byleth with edelgard made me feel like it was canon#and me playing as m!byleth trying to romance jeritza put me WAYYYY off when she expressed her feelings towards byleth#her feelings that could also be platonic#that still stands I think because I felt very very very awkward and I thought I was mlm at the time#but it's been almost exactly 2 years now and I'm bi and nonbinary#I wonder what my experience will be like this time#idk why I'm rambling about this#I suppose I just want my besties to know that my mind is changing without wanting to make a big diddly darn deal about it
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there's this post going around on twitter of someone giving their opinion that idol's dance skills are the least important to them and that they are artists first and they don't hear the squeak of their feet on the track so why does it matter, which is something to also unpack in itself, but then someone quoted that tweet being like "idols... are...artists?" and.... i just can't help but stare because if this doesn't show how people don't take idols artistry and talent seriously and only see them as content and not people then i don't know what does.... so you are telling me this WHOLE TIME... you thought they couldn't be classified as real artists even tho they spend years and years training to debut and spend days practising for performances and recording and doing wtv else but you still THINK... they shouldn't be called artists like?? if you genuinely think that it means that you don't actually like the music they produce and the performances they do which also begs the question: if you don't like it... WHY TF ARE YOU HERE THEN??
#this just sent me honestly#it pissed me off#unfortunately i take these things very seriously#i mean i talk about this all the time but having people on twt say bs like this#is wild to me and it just perfectly explains certain behaviors in kpop spaces#whether you think somebody is talented doesn't matter#but do they work to be artists?? do they put in the work to do so?? absolutely#SO WHY TF ARE THEY NOT ARTISTS??????????#pissing me off so bad#it's just so obvious because some people can't actually appreciate#some of the artistic things their supposed fav idols do#and not only that the way people interact with groups they don't stan#and talk about them also is very telling#idk if it's because atp in my stan life i just dgaf abt certain things anymore#and i'm just here to enjoy music and etc#but i don't think you should have to be a musician or artist yourself#to respect artists#and i hate to say it but sometimes it seems like the people that do appreciate the music and wtv else#are people in fandoms that also do music and dancing#AND IT'S SAD#i just don't see anything genuine out of anyone else it's crazy to me#i don't like to be that person but i've noticed this many times#as someone who wants to be an artist too it sucks to see such stupidity come to light#everyone has to do better that's all i am gonna say#this is too long but i am honestly pissed#tris.txt
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At this point I think I just have to accept that I do in fact go here, even though I don't actually know where exactly here is
#finished reading my fifth fic not even thirty minutes ago#im doing some sort of marathon i suppose#i genuinely put my entire life on hold to read superb@t fanfic#(not that my life isnt already on hold bc of the covid)#(so im not missing anything anyway)#four of the five have all been the same author#so the next fic ive selected is from someone different#but should still be readable fandom blind#im slowly working my way up to more characters#but see#the reason i have to admit i do in fact go here#is that once i can get back to my normal life#(if i can get back to my normal life)#and once i finish the current season of Gunsmoke im watching#im going to have to watch at least *some* of the source material#ive discovered that i *must* know who all the b@tfam kids are#i dont even know where to begin so im probably just going to pick whatever the oldest thing is and watch that#given my penchant for classic TV/movies#thats likely the best starting place#sorry not sorry to anyone who came here for reasonable reasons đ#im 100% blaming this one on the covid
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hmpf maybe those tumblr people are really right about what characteristics make a type of person, considering how long it took tumblr to condition took me, a straight/cisgender guy, into being into shipping
#i joined this site/first heard about fandom and got exposed to the subcultures on here like four years or so ago i think#though its a bit hard to remember#but anyway thats bloody ages ffor someone my age#at first#as in for the first 3 years or so#i was like this is just for short term im literally just about to leave#i literally kept believing that for years#and i was and still am only on here cause of being depressed or whatever so it makes sense really#just now i dont really care about leaving even though its still really not my thing#its just like the easy entertainment not having to think its so much less concentration even than watching tv#but it also always felt wrong its really not my thing only now i dont care i supppose cause im old enough and secure enough in my#identity to be able to seperate that from this#wait i suppose if i put it like that after the actual post it sounds a bit weird obviously i dont hate the lgbtq community or snything#i mean if i did i definitely wouldve left#its just in general the subcultures on here arent me#that does include that one but like if youre not lgbtq your just not going to relate to it i suppose#not the stuff thats actually about that or the stuff that i dont see how its related at all#which is what loops back to my post#like is fandom and shipping really so much determined by that or is it personality i dunno#something about being on here ive noticed though is i have come to expect like lgbtq stuff cause of honestly spending more time interacting#with fandom than actual fiction so thats sortif what registers as normal now not that i have an opinion on that affect of fandom#but yeah anyway my post ive only actually genuinly been into any ships over the last like 6 months or so#well maybe a year but its defi itely been gradual#like i dont genuinly believe that its cause im a straight guy that i wasnt into it before#well actually i didnt when i started this post i was joking#but now that i think about it maybe that is it?#like different expectations make me think i should be into different stuff and its taken me this long being exposed to tumblrs norms#cause theyre not the actual norms for me theyre just on here#not that that accounts for whether its something i genuinly like or not though whoch is what i was making fun of in the post#i suppose what you genuinly like is a lot influenced by other people really
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No, Thatâs Not âHow Color Worksâ. - Whitewashing
Whitewashing, as defined by Merriam-Webster:
"to alter (something) in a way that favors, features, or caters to white people: such as a) to portray (the past) in a way that increases the prominence, relevance, or impact of white people and minimizes or misrepresents that of nonwhite people and B) to alter (an original story) by casting a white performer in a role based on a nonwhite person or fictional character"
In fandom context, we know it to include:
Making someoneâs skin lighter
Making someoneâs hair a thinner texture
Changing someoneâs nose to be thinner
Shrinking their lips
Changing the character in their entirety to be someone else
The Normalization of Whitewashing
Remember how I mentioned last lesson that despite the nature of poorly drawn Black characters, most audiences are not turned off enough to discourage the action in professional works? Similar idea with whitewashing. Not the same- unlike the Ambiguously Brown Character, which claims to have plausible deniability, overt whitewashing is usually enough to make fans speak up! But thatâs the key word here- overt! It has to be âbad enoughâ to make enough people speak up, but as weâve seen many a time, âbad enoughâ seems to have a much higher threshold for nonblack viewership (sometimes the limit doesnât exist!)
Some visual examples
This is a link to my personal thread on a Netflix show I was watching- Worst Ex Ever. Now, while the show itself was quite enlightening, there was something I could not get over. I thought I was going crazy. And that was that no matter how dark the person of color would be in real life, the animated portions would draw this light pinkish-brown. Every. Single. Time. It's like they couldn't fathom scrolling down the color wheel. And this is a Netflix original! Netflix has plenty of money for someone to have caught this in creation. But... it was produced. And put out. And they're making more of it.
I asked all of the Dragon Age fans about the series, and uh⊠I didnât know things were this bad, guys! Apparently this is a man of color, but it doesn't seem like the creators want you to know that đ€Ł. Jokes aside, as Iâve discussed before, the noticeable whitewashing- and that was one of many racist things I was told- was not enough to prevent sales... so why would they stop? I can only hope this new game, with all the updates, is enough to turn the tide. But the series has gone on for a while now, that if theyâd chosen to do ye same olde⊠there clearly would not be a lack of financial support to prevent it.
Colorism as a Tool
Even when actors of color are cast, colorism often plays a role in normalizing whitewashing to audiences, even to Black audiences! People think âoh well at least theyâre Black!â as if that is the only important part. It is not.
While Aaron Pierre, the actor cast for John Stewart of Green Lantern fame, is a GORGEOUS, STUNNING man, he is not the dark-skinned man that John Stewart is supposed to be and should not have been cast! To me, this is overt colorism, but clearly for many people this is not âenoughâ to warrant concern or even prevent the casting itself- including the studio behind the movie! Black fans have plead for years for the character of Storm to be played by a dark-skinned, preferably African, woman, and it has never happened.
It naturally happens in fan spaces as well, which is another indicator that colorism as a tool for whitewashing is quite effective for audiences. If I see one more Zendaya fan cast for Kida from Atlantis, I will scream. Itâs been happening for years, and I donât think any of the people who just want to see her and Tom on screen either understand or care that Kida is a dark-skinned character. Zendaya doesnât look anything like Kida- it doesnât matter if sheâs Black too! Just because someone is Black does not mean they can play every single Black character! Iâve even seen people fancast Emilia Clarke of Game of Thrones fame, to which⊠I donât have the words. I canât fathom what would cause these decisions other than racism.
The Common Excuses
I must be honest. I donât really feel like re-iterating how certain things are not okay and how to fix them, because Iâve already discussed these things in massive detail. So Iâm just going to direct the excuses I regularly hear to my lessons, where you can read up on them.
âTheir hair/eyes are like that because theyâre biracial so-â
Relevant Lessons: 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, 8, 9, 10
There is nothing wrong with having biracial characters with a range of features. I am not saying that! Because yeah, genetics do happen!
But I mentioned this in my last lesson, and I will re-emphasize here, that using biracial identity as a way to whitewash is a sinister form of racism. The intention here- the real intention- is the issue here! The idea that somehow this character can only look the way you want them to look by "diluting" their Blackness⊠I donât know how you can explain yourselves out of that one.
You donât get to use us as an excuse for diversity while still trying to maintain your preference for Eurocentric beauty standards. Black biracial people donât always look light skinned, thin-haired and ambiguous, and even the ones that do donât deserve to be treated as your fetish for pretend antiracism. If you just want to draw a white person with a tan, do that. But donât change a characterâs entire look just so you can work in some whiteness. If you want to claim that canon Black characterâs mother was white, then I guess they inherited some of her personality because their features should not change.
âItâs my style/Itâs the color-â
Relevant Lessons: 3, 4, 10
I hate all excuses for whitewashing, but Iâve grown to despise, hate, abhor and loathe this one the most as Iâve become an artist. I wish there were stronger words to describe just how much I hate the âstyleâ and âcolorâ excuse.
Are style and use of color oft intertwined? Absolutely. Iâm not saying they arenât. But out of everything, there are two things I want artists to understand:
1. Style does not cancel out racism! No style forces you to choose ashy greys and to change peoplesâ features. Thatâs you! If you look at something, and it looks offensive, you change the style. You grow as an artist!
2. âEveryone who is brown will look ashy so I just-â if you recognize that your Black characters look strange in comparison to your nonblack characters, then itâs time to try something else! I donât understand this sudden need for ârealismâ when it comes to color and lighting, but not when it comes to hair, for example. No one cares about realism when giving every and all Black characters wavy tresses they probably wouldnât have, but suddenly milquetoast watercolor attempts at brown and off-putting lighting is âhow it worksâ. Thatâs not fair.
The color picker is an available tool! I use it often!
Dead giveaway of purposeful whitewashing: if someone gets the outfit color palette right via color picking, but the skin color is multiple shades lighter. That means they were looking at that character and chose not to proceed.
Dead giveaway of purposeful whitewashing: if the white characters in the show are completely correct in their palettes. Again, that means they cared enough to look at everyone else⊠and not the Black characters.
If you use the color picker and the color picked is⊠disrespectful, you do not have to use that! You can simply choose a better color that is still similar to the brown that ought to be depicted!
âItâs the lighting-â
Relevant Lessons: 4, 5
If your white characters do not shine like snow in the sunlight because of your lighting, then your lighting does not make your Black characters suddenly light tan.
If your Black characters look bad in your lighting of choice- for example, putting a very dark-skinned character in electric white lighting can be ghastly- try changing the intensity or the color of the lighting. DONâT change your characterâs skin color!
I'm going to show you some pictures of South Sudanese model Nyakim Gatwech. Pay attention to the choices of light, color, and makeup.
Look how BEAUTIFUL she is! Look at the choices of intensity and color of light, and how they make her look different in each image.
Now look at this image in comparison:
In this image, whoever did her makeup and took this picture did not take into consideration her skin tone. She's also under this really intense lighting. This is an example of "increasing the lighting does NOT make an image "better"". She didn't need to have lighter skin or "more lighting" to look good. She needed BETTER lighting, lighting that worked with HER.
To see this as an example in drawn art, @dsm7 makes an excellent argument for proper lighting and color, why it is an issue to use it as an excuse, and how to solve that problem.
âŒïžDISCLAIMER FOR NEXT EXAMPLEâŒïž
Okay. I am about to show yâall a fan-created example from my personal experience. It is a TEACHING EXPERIENCE ONLY. I am not including the artistâs name in this image. It happened a couple years ago, and itâs over- theyâve chosen to be who they are despite me kindly confronting them about it. The only reason Iâm including it at all is because I feel like it would be remiss to have such a clear-cut, multi-level example, and not teach with it. That said, no, I am not telling anyone to act out towards them. Again, that is not what Iâm telling you to do. The last thing I need is a literal lynch mob of angry nonblack viewership for trying to teach you all, and yâall sitting there watching it happen to me. Every example of whitewashing is not going to be so obvious, but I hope you learn how to spot the examples in the art you see and share.
I'm obviously a Hades fan, particularly of Patroclus- despite my disdain for the lack of effort in his canon character design. So I've seen a lot of things. That said:
âWell itâs just MY design of them-â
Relevant Lessons: ALL
The sepia coloring did not do this. The lighting did not do this. The design is the exact same as the Hades version, even down to the shape of the hair curling in the back. The only thing that is different⊠is the man himself.
Y'all. Y'all! You CANNOT take a pre-existing Black character and say âoh well this is my design of themâ âŠand the design is of a whole white person. Because if the rest of the fit is the same, and the only thing that changed is the Blackness⊠Racism. If youâre going to âmake up your own designâ, then do that!
âBlackwashingâ
Speaking of: Iâm sure someone edgy out there thinks theyâre so smart as they retort to the screen: âbut if thatâs not okay, then why is Blackwashing okay?â To which I say- shut up. đ
The âdefinitionâ by fandom: making a nonblack character Black, usually an anime character, but characters in general.
Funny enough, the actual definition in the dictionary (or closest to) is âto defameâ, in contrast with whitewash (as in whitewashing history). Maybe racist fans ARE using it correctly when they say youâre blackwashing their characters, when they mean youâre making them âless likable because theyâre Black nowâ. đ€
Anyway: Blackwashing is not real for the same reason reverse racism is not real.
Me painting these characters brown is not going to take away from the fact that there are far more of you in media than there is of me. Me saying that I âheadcanon a character as Black with 4C hairâ is not going to make the studio go âoh! Well they must be Black with 4C hair now!â Me saying âoh I think Iâd like this character better if they were Blackâ as a beta tester (less overtly, obviously, because Iâm not racist!) will never make a studio change that character. Black viewers have minimal value in comparison to the power of the white viewerâs dollar. I could draw white characters Black every single day of every single game media⊠and they would still produce majority white characters. There has not been centuries- if not millennia, when we consider Jesus Christ himself, even- of purposeful âBlackwashingâ with the intent of removing the original ethnicity- and thus importance- of white people. No one has ever been allowed to forget when someone is white. No one has ever been allowed to forget or not acknowledge white people.
How it could be "solved"
Personally, I love Black edits and I welcome them here. I find them creative and fun. But if you really, REALLY didnât want us to make those edits, then naturally, we need more Black characters in all of our media!
I wouldnât have to make edits if I saw more of me to begin with in the things I like to watch- but when we have those characters, racists act an ass about them. Weâre not allowed to even be present! Iâve seen too many gamer bros mocking the existence of Yasuke in Assassinâs Creed, and he was a real ass man. But if we made a game about African peoples in African societies, how many of the gamer bros would actually play those games? Do you think thereâd be as much support, when we hear so much about Black characters that are treated so abhorrently? How many games do we have where people would love their faves just as much if they were Black? I even learned that Solas was apparently supposed to be a man of color. IMAGINE how many people would not have liked that man, with the same exact plot and characterization.
Something Iâve noticed recently: apparently "Blackwashing" is not a thing when White fans âallowâ it. Take this recent trend with Miku. International Miku was beloved! But if you draw any other character as Black on any other day, there will be people that are horrid about it. Ask any artist, Black artists and Black cosplayers especially, whoâs ever done it what their comments are like. Iâve read entire missives akin to white supremacist drivel on how itâs somehow morally wrong to make characters Black. Meanwhile no amount of âhey maybe you shouldnât do thisâ prevented the movie Gods of Egypt from being created, with a cast full of British White people.
Solutions to Avoiding Whitewashing!
1) Using References!!
Do I think you should know what Black people look like? Yes. Weâre humans. Itâs 2024. Everyone knows what we look like when itâs time to hate and discriminate against us, so you know what we look like when itâs time to love and depict us. If youâre on Tumblr, you have access to the Internet. ESPECIALLY if youâre in the U.S., as Black people are the source of damn near every piece of online pop culture. If you can find my dialect to make my jokes, you can find pictures of me.
Would I rather you use a reference every single time so that you can only strengthen your depiction of my people? ABSOLUTELY.
Anyone on the Internet telling you not to use a reference or that you shouldnât need a reference? Unfollow them. You donât need that negativity in your life. Why would you deprive yourself of a tool to create? The greatest portrait painters in history had to look at their subjects! You are not getting paid nearly as much to do this as Hans Holbein, and he had to stare at Henry VIII correct else lose his head- you can pull up multiple references. Iâd far rather be judged for using hella references than be judged for being a racist!
Part of the issue is people draw what theyâre used to, what theyâre comfortable with (thus last lesson). But if what youâre used to is not what someone will look like⊠Thatâs not okay. Their features are not the issue, your skills are the issue. Learn! Practice! There is no rush. No one is rushing you to be perfect at drawing Black characters, and no one is rushing you to post them. You can just practice! If youâre not a professional, you can take as long as you need to draw! If you need to draw that piece of hair over and over until you feel like you have down the shape, you do that! If you need to use a tool that would draw the hair for you, you get that tool!
If you want to post, you can say you are practicing! If you make clear you are practicing, then be willing to accept that people may have feedback. Iâd far rather deal with someone saying theyâre unconfident and practicing, than someone posting a whitewashed caricature and closing their ears because âwell at least Iâm trying!â
2) Empathize! Care about actual Black people when you create a Black character!
Imagine, if you will, in the Twilight Zone: you went to an artist, and you asked for a white character (I typed in âregular looking white dudeâ on google). Thereâs hardly ever any white characters, youâre so super excited about this one! You paid good money, because youâve seen just how amazing this artist creates! Theyâre so good at drawing characters of color! But no matter how many times you ask, they send you back an image of⊠Assad Zaman.
That man might be fine as hell! Gorgeous! Beautifully done! Chefâs kiss. Stunning! But⊠Heâs not white. Thatâs not what you asked or paid for. You canât even fathom how they mixed this up, they donât even look alike! And when you confront them, they gaslight you, they call YOU the issue for not understanding how you canât tell that this is a white man! They would never get this wrong! They have white friends, youâre the racist! But youâre not stupid, and you have functioning eyes- you can SEE what this drawing looks like! And⊠Itâs not you.
Itâs dehumanizing. Itâs being told that thereâs a âbetter wayâ to look like you, and thatâs by⊠Not looking like you. You, as you exist, are whatâs incorrect. Your identity is incorrect, not their drawing. Itâs better to have thinner hair instead of an afro or locs, itâs better to have lighter skin, itâs better to have a straighter, thinner nose over a round one, and smaller lips.
And what makes it worse is knowing that people who donât look like you? Probably wonât care. They wonât be willing to see- not unable, but unwilling- that playing with this caricature is harmful, that theyâre propagating harm by not acknowledging it. Theyâre letting you know that your humanity means less to them than the clout received with a whitewashed or half-assed Black character, and that people will applaud them for that âattempt at inclusionâ. And people will applaud! They will be entertained by the mere performance! And that hurts.
Iâm going to say this, and itâs awkward and I try not to say it directly on here, but⊠Having Black friends and/or being around actual, real life Black people would help. I can tell from some of the questions I receive that Black characters and their traits- especially things like our hair and our cultures- are being treated as⊠alien concepts. But even if, for whatever reason, you legitimately donât know any Black people, you do not need to know us individually to care about our humanity as a whole! Even if you do not know weâre there, we are, and we could possibly see your work!
By acknowledging Blackness and making room to understand what it means- and that includes how we can look- you are doing the bare minimum of acknowledging our personhood. If you cannot do even that, you donât need to be drawing us.
Conclusion
Hereâs the thing: if you want to draw a white man with tanned skin, do that. Just do it! You do NOT have to erase me to have more of you! There is not a single fandom where the majority of the white fans ever said âgee, not another white guy!â It simply doesnât happen. God knows we wish it did sometimes. You will always have an audience for white characters. Thereâs no danger to any of you of âbeing erasedâ.
(Without putting on my political hat, I will say that a lot of white people who consider themselves to be far from white supremacist will express beliefs in line with great replacement theory if you push them hard enough. It is unfortunately not as uncommon an idea as you might think. I would do some self-evaluation.)
People are going to notice that you only ever draw white people, but⊠To be frank, that has never stopped anybody from being successful. Again, Jen Zee, at Supergiant with the terrible dark-skinned characters⊠Still has a job. at Supergiant. A professional studio. Dragon Age. Multiple games of consistent whitewashing and racist writing. Still going. If racism prevented creation and popularity, I wouldnât have to have this blog. Alas, that is the society we currently live in.
But if you ACTUALLY want to depict Black characters, if you ACTUALLY want to do right and be respectful- not because you want the clout, but because itâs the right damn thing to do- then you need to commit! This means drawing them as they are meant to be! Accept that youâll likely lose some fan base, who was there (whether they were aware of it or not) for the white and lighter skinned characters. Accept that this means that trying to appeal to those people by whitewashing characters is 1) wrong, 2) racist, which is 3) something you chose to do when you could simply have just⊠Drawn more white people.
Iâll say it again: antiracism is hard. Itâs hard doing the right thing in a society that rewards racism so easily. Itâs really hard knowing that people will stop supporting you or caring as much about your work when you start including Black characters as actively as you do white ones, especially if you start talking about the importance of it. But in my honest opinion, Iâd far rather be someone that cared about others, with genuine fans, than someone that was racist for the fleeting internet clout of strangers. And that may be less âhopefulâ than I normally am in these lessons, but⊠People make choices. And people who have been informed- as you are now- are aware of the choices they are making. Itâs the thought that counts, but the action that delivers- letâs choose better actions.
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Wildest Dreams
Fandom:Â Bridgerton
Summary:Â Your Father has betrothed you to his eldest, most despicable friend. You confide in your closest friend, Benedict Bridgerton, that you wish your first time could be with somebody else, somebody you liked.
Length:Â 3.5k
Pairing:Â Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Content Warnings:Â Propositioning a friend, first time, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, orgasm.
a/n: Wildest Dreams is part i of iii ~ requested by anon here.
Bridgerton master list (tag list)
The blood drained from your face, your hands clasped together in clammy nervousness â your father had just told you that since you have failed to successfully find a husband within the first year on the marriage mart, he will be arranging a betrothal between yourself and Lord Roger Howard. Lord Howard was six and sixty, he was your fatherâs eldest friend. Every interaction you ever witnessed was filled with contempt and disrespect, especially with service staff. His words were often filled with bigotry and unfairness. You found him repulsive, his yellowing chipped teeth in his villainous smile. The way his poorly maintained fingernails curled at the ends. His white moustache stained into unsightly colours from cigar smoke. The thought of having to be near this man, be intimate with this man, nearly drove you toward deaths door.
Your knees shook, standing from your armchair in the sitting room, not speaking a word to your father as you exited. Scurrying up the stairs, throwing yourself onto your bed, you felt your heart was about to burst out of your chest. Tears streamed down your face, you did your best to suck in deep breaths, but panic continued to wash over you. There was nothing you could do to save yourself from this fate. There had been some suitors interested in you, but you had chosen to wait, to see if the one person you had wanted would make himself available to you. Now it was too late, those suitors had moved on with other young ladies, and the man you wanted was nowhere to be seen.
Your ladyâs maid knocked meekly on the door, having come to prepare you for this eveningâs ball. The Queen would be there, and you knew she would be disappointed in this match your father had forced upon you, not that that would help you.
âShall we get the family jewels out miss? I hear it is to be quite an exciting nightâ You could tell she was putting it on, trying to sound excited. It seemed to come off as patronizing instead.
âWhatever you should think is appropriateâ You tried to keep your feelings to yourself, but the streaks through your makeup sold you out at first glance. You spent the rest of your preparation in silence, usually the two of you indulged in a little gossip, it was supposed to be fun.
All evening you hid behind larger groups, behind servers carrying trays of champagne, doing your best to ensure the inevitable could not happen. Finally, considerably late in the evening, your closest friend deigned to arrive. Almost surging across the dance floor and into Benedictâs side, you linked arms and impishly whisked him out through the conservatory doors.
âMiss Y/nâ Benedict exclaimed, âWhat is the meaning of this?â.
You breathed heavily, ducking, and weaving through overgrown plants and florals. You scouted each entrance, paranoia clinging to your side like a child in a sack race.
âMy father has committed a most heinous actâ You spill to Benedict, there is only concern etched on his face, âI am to be married to Lord Howardâ. Your breath never steadied, sweat beaded where your forehead met your hair line. There was that panic you remembered so fondly, only hypervigilance had eliminated that feeling from the centre of your chest.
âOh lord,â Benedictâs mouth hung open, utterly flabbergasted, âI cannot believe he would do that to youâ Both of his hands found their way to your shoulders in compassion.
âAnd yet he has. My own father has bargained me away to some elder beast! There is nothing I can do to stop itâ Your hands ran through your hair, untangling one of the twists.
Benedict did not know what to say, all he could do was lurch forward and take you into his arms. His strong arms reached around you, pulling you tight. The sound of his steady breath and rhythmic heartbeat calmed you quickly.
âWhen I was a little girl, I wished on a falling star I would find someone who loved me as their equal. I now wish for that same thing on this very night. To think that I have wasted my life dreaming about love, finding someone like me, with the same interests, the same age as me even!â You thought aloud. Benedict was always someone you could tell your innermost thoughts to, he never judged you once, and he was the kindest of listeners.
Benedict Bridgerton also knew exactly who you were dreaming about â it was him. You had been friends for several years, and it had always been obvious to anyone with sight, that you and Ben were infatuated with each other. But Benedict was young, and impulsive, unlikely to marry at this time.
âI do not want to spend my life with that old simpleton! I want to experience life and love!â You cried out, âMy elder sister divulged what it is married couples do on their wedding night â I do not want that with him! I cannot live my life without having ever experienced the touch of a man who cares for me!â Your cries turned into whispers; whimpers scattered throughout.
He held you close to him, making a caring swishing sound, it kind of sounded like the ocean. Benedict sure knew how to comfort you when you were in need.
âY/N! Where are you?!â Your fatherâs voice echoed off the glass walls, sending you into a frenzy, quickly separating from Benedict, dabbing your cheeks with a handkerchief.
âYes father?â You responded.
âLord Howard is here with me. There is something he would like to say to youâ Your father called. Benedict hid low amongst the broad-leafed plants, the darkness of the conservatory shading him. You appeared from the shadows without explanation, not that your father was seeking one. Lord Howard stood hunched next to your father, who was 20 years his junior. It appeared as though he bowed, but it was hard for you to discern.
âMâŠmâŠmiss Y/n?â He stuttered, struggling to see through the spectacles at the end of his nose, âThere is a question I must ask you. With the permission of your father, I am here to ask for your hand in marriageâ Spittle flew from his mouth in between sharp consonants. Dread flooded your body, you felt like you were being submerged in a pool of water, the tears in your eyes, simply the only way for the water to escape.
There was animosity in your fatherâs gaze, warning you there was simply one answer to the question asked. Taking in a deep breath, âYes, Lord Howard, I will acceptâ You murmured. Lord Howard did not look pleased, he did not appear bothered either, he simply nodded once and turned about, marching back to the main ballroom. You wondered if this was what your marriage was going to be like? Would he ignore your existence and leave you to your own life if you produced an heir? You could not ascertain whether this was a good thing or not.
Benedict hung his head, having watched this entire exchange from the shadows. There was an element of guilt on his part, he blamed himself, unable to give you what you wanted in time to save you. When your father had left you standing still, tears staining your dress, Benedict slid out from the darkness.
âI think I am going to ask the footman to take me home⊠I only have so much time before my time is not mine any longerâ You lower lip trembled; the peaceful silence of the conservatory disturbed by the soft sounds of sobs.
âY/n,â Benedict muttered, his hand running down your upper arm. Electricity connected your flesh in a zap, your breath caught in your chest as his skin joined with yours. His tender hands grazed yours, tickling the palm of your hand.
âBenedictâ You shook your head, moving to take your hand away before he closed his around it. His tongue flicked over his lips several times as he contemplated what he had to say. Sometimes you heard the other young ladies tell stories about Benedict, you never knew if they were true. They spoke of how he was finest of the Bridgerton brothers, they also spoke of his rakish tendencies, however mostly in a jealous fashion.
The forecast in Benedictâs eyes swiftly shifted from clear blue to a stormy grey. You had not noticed how tall he was before, looming over you like a dark cloud. His face illustrated apathetic gloom, his hand boring you into him, like he was the eye of the storm.
âThere is something I must speak with you about, in privateâ Benedict rolled his tongue aggressively on his teeth as he spoke. Everything about his demeanor was confusing, you felt strangely like prey, wondering why it felt good. Benedict snuck out the conservatory door, your hands clutched together while he led you to his carriage, asking his footmen to make way for the Bridgerton house.
âWhat is this about Benedict?â You asked as soon as the door was secure and the carriage moving.
âY/n, please give me a moment and I will explain everything. I do not know if I have a solution to your problem, but I may be able to offer a compromise. Something I would only do for you, if you asked, because I care about you so deeplyâ Benedict paused, this intense look of thoughtful worry about him, âIf you would be agreeable, I would like to suggest that I⊠bed you for the first timeâ Benedicts voice was low and resounding.
Your lips parted abashedly, your cheeks flushed pink, blinking became uncontrollable. All you could do was sit completely still, astronomically stunned by what Benedict had proposed. You understood that for whatever reason, Benedict could not give you everything you wanted, but he was offering you something. He was offering you an experience you may never have gotten to have otherwise, a chance to feel loved and wanted in intimate affection with another person.
âSay something, anything, please. I cannot stand this silenceâ Benedict rubbed his temples after a few minutes. His eyes were still dark with longing, he looked over with you a deviating sense of ownership.
âYou would do that for me?â You entreated, hands shaking so hard you nearly sat on them to make it stop.
Benedict nodded surely across from you, the carriage pulling up at the Bridgerton house. Your eyes locked, the carriage completely still and silent, you took a moment to consider the ramifications of your choice. Benâs posture was resolute, his gaze expansive, eagerly waiting for your reply.
âYesâ You swallowed hard, Benedict snatching your hand from your lap and dragging you from the carriage, running up the walk and into the house. You made short work of the very many stairs on the way up to his bedroom, sure that nobody could have seen you, as you ran that fast.
Blood rushing around your body, you stood just inside Benedictâs door, trying desperately to catch your breath. Benedict shuffled about the room, lighting a few candles, closing the windows for the evening. He looked back at you, having already stripped into your underclothes while his back was turned. A most shameful lust driven smile sketched lightly onto his face, he made the long voyage acrost the bedroom to stand a foot or two in front of you.
âThank you for doing me this favor. I will owe you alwaysâ You remarked, your eyes dancing figure eights on the lush carpet squishing under your wiggling toes.
Benedictâs shoulders were more relaxed than you had ever seen them, his posture always just so. Strands of hair bled onto his sticky forehead, dark eyebrows brewing overhead transfixed eyes. That charming smile, filled with foolishness, had not been seen since leaving the ball â this was something so chronically serious to him. He effortlessly tugged at his maroon cravat, casting it to the floor, his proud neck craning to get another glimpse of you from another angle. His throat bobbed when he stepped closer again, just one more step. Fiddling with his waistcoat buttons ardently, watching the frustration set into your eyes, Benedict finally shed his coat and pitched it across the room, knocking over something unbreakable in the corner. It did not steal his gaze; his eyes were set on you. Benedict lifted his suspenders off his shoulders, allowing them to dangle by his hips, the chest of his white, silk undershirt gaping open. Your teeth instinctually bit into your lower lip at the slightest sight of skin you had not ever seen before. The corner of Benedicts mouth upturned smugly, his lips rolling together as his breath became audible. Standing just one foot apart, the tension between you was palpable. You wondered if someone had struck a match, might the room simply explode, there seemed to be so much chemistry between the two of you.
âPlease, continueâ Your hands pressed to your stomach, you watched as Benedict unlaced his boots, one foot at a time on the stool at the end of his bed. His blistering eye bore into you even still. Making his way back to you, still at hardly an armâs length, his brawny arms crossed his body to pull his undershirt off over his head.
You swooned audibly, almost gasping seeing the entirety of his torso bare for the first time. Your lips wet, your eyes unblinking, Benedict smiled cheekily, knowing the effect he had on you. His hands moved past his navel, your eyes following, to the button atop his breeches. Benedict made quick work of his trousers, having teased you plenty. Your back straightened, your gob smacked jaw snapped shut at the sight of his naked body.
Benedicts tongue flicked over his teeth, âWould you like me to redress, y/n?â He badgered, pretending to reach for his shirt on the floor. You careened forward, lessening the space between you to essentially nothing.
âI do not know what to do, not trulyâ You admitted, feeling yourself choking on nothing. Benedict reached out to your hands, taking them in his, placing them on his chest. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head at the feeling of his light chest hair beneath your fingers. His sculpted pectoral muscles and taut stomach, a trail of dark hair leading you downwards made you feel ravenous for him. He looked at you as you looked at him, eyes filled with desire, faces pink in the candlelight. Benedict leaned in to kiss you, pulling away left at the last second to place a single kiss on your neck.
âYou. Are. Wickedâ Your face flitted over his, grazing your noses and lips together in potential kisses. Benedict leaned into you, his kiss soft, warm, and breathless. You gasped at the first separation, taking in hasty breaths before crashing back into each other. Everything you were doing felt completely wrong, reprehensible â but with a kiss as intoxicating as Benedict Bridgertonâs, you were afraid not even heaven could help you.
Your hands slipped into his thick, dark hair, pulling him down and into you, wrapping your arms around his neck and climbing up onto him. His hands rested under your thighs, carrying you toward his bed, you could feel his hardness pressing against you.Â
This was not what you had been expecting, this was no impish boy. Everything about his movements was intentional, well-practiced. His hot, amorous kiss; the way his tongue slipped thankfully over yours, how his teeth greedily nipped at your auspicious bottom lip. His hands moved passionately across your back, his long kisses surprisingly hard on your neck, laying you down on the pile of bedding. He frantically shoved it off the bed, throwing pillows, knocking himself in the face once or twice. You laughed together, slow sizzling tongues dancing as one as Benedict removed your floor length under gown.
Benedict knelt above you on the bed, gently stroking himself, looking down on you. There was that dark cloud you had noticed earlier.
âI want you to enjoy meâ Benedict rumbled, making you a promise. You did not yet understand, but you would. Taking his finger, Benedict dipped it into your mouth, bringing it to your nipple, rolling it between his finger and thumb at a glacial pace. His touch was peculiarly possessive, his lips rested around your other nipple now, sloppily dragging his tongue around in spontaneous circles. Big open-mouthed kisses surrounded your breasts, your shock and surprise manifesting in noiseless writhing.
Benedict positioned himself between your legs, lying down forcing your legs apart. Wanting to snap your legs shut, you refrained, trusting Benedict with your life. His breath was agonizingly warm on your inner thigh, his lips parted and gliding up from your knee. Benedict dotted small, chaste kisses along your hips â you deduced he was headed for the pinnacle of your thighs, a place you had never felt burn and ache quite like this.
His tongue slid gently up the slit of your pussy, you breath shuddered, his harmless laps amazed you with every movement. Eye lids fluttering, breathy moans filling the room, Benedictâs graceful tongue swirling your clitoris in curious patterns, drinking in your wetness as though you were a drug to him. Your fingers crawled down into his hair, your hips bucking toward his retreating tongue, you squealed lowly for more.
âAre you quite alright?â Benedict groaned into you, the vibrations of his voice set you on edge, your toes clenching in different ways.
âI do not know what you are doing, but I would like for you to keep doing itâ You moaned intermittently, between gasps as his tongue flicked roguishly at your clitoris.
Benedict spread your legs wide and high, taking his finger and resting it at your entrance. He tediously sunk his finger inside you, curling up, making you yelp out in astonishment. Finding a steady pace, his finger already snug inside you, Benedict began at you again, never failing to find exactly the spot he was looking for. His alteration of speed and pressure backed you onto a cliff face, body incandescent and damned to revelry. Pressing his fingers into you rhythmically, Benedict pushed you over the edge, the sensation of falling and flying all erupting at once as you moaned and yelped uncontrollably. In the aftermath of your pleasure, you watched Benedicts eyes, his head still clutched between your legs gently sliding his tongue over you, his charming, sexy smile reflected in his eyes.
Slowing rising to his knees, Ben positioned your legs higher, resting your calves on his shoulders. Taking his cock in his hand, his pressed his tip against your wet skin. Your skin erupted in a tingling sensation, unbridled attraction and hunger liquefying your brain.
You looked up at Benedict in clear understanding, nodding gently, your eyes focusing on the powerful look of restrained urgency on Benedictâs face. He pushed forward smoothly, eliciting a groan from each of you, not even pressed to the hilt yet.
When Benedict filled your pussy fully, it felt like being winded. Panting like a dog under him, Benedict stilled himself, noticing how full and tight you felt, his cock twitching with pleasure. Benedict moved slowly at first, long unbroken strides forward, thrusting into you. Every drive forward, simultaneously blissful, and hot, curving to pound into that sensitive spot just inside you. While every drawback, was likened to slow-motion, devastating deprivation. Ceaseless, savage moans made Benedict grin above you, thrusting harder, wholly triumphant in setting you alight. You knew you would burn for him for the rest of your life.
âMake that sound for me againâ Benedict grunted sinisterly, thrusting back into you brutally, forcing that loud intonation from you again.
Your fingers clawed at his back, your hips moving with his in most divine unison. Benedicts teeth grazed your ear, your breathing syncing in ceremonious adoration; his momentum increased, driving into you with new eagerness. Your nails buried in his plump behind, pulling Benedict tighter into you. With propulsive sureness Benedict plunged into you one last time, his cock twitching inside you to his irrevocable release. Never had you felt so full before, his face exquisite above you, leaning down to a soulful kiss.
âIâm proud of you, taking me like thatâ Benedict panted, taking a second before withdrawing and rolling next to you. He lay on the flat of his back, chasing his breath, his heart thumping through his chest, beating so hard you could almost hear it. His words made you blush, hiding your face in your hands, his seed leaking out of you onto the linen.
âIt is not always going to be the same, is it?â You pondered aloud, staring at the detailing on the ceiling above you.
âI will not lie, y/n darling, I do not think every single instance will be the sameâ Benedict reached over, gently slapping your thigh in solidarity.
âThat is disappointing to hearâ You sighed dramatically.
Benedict chuckled sweetly, âPerhaps at his age, he will not have the capacity to complete more than the marital actâ. You knew he was joking, trying to lift your spirits, but you genuinely hoped that might be true. Other worries began to plague your mind, worries of potential children. What if you were unable to conceive his heir due to his age?
You rolled onto your side, looking into Benedictâs clear, sky-blue eyes, âThere may be another favour I ask of you, dear friendâ. Benedict's eyes widened curiously, prepared to do most anything for you.
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Tag list: @cringycat24 // @blckbarbiedoll // @freyagallileaevans // @junkie05 // @rosabeetroot // @flamewriterr // @marvelouslyme96 // @moreover-clover // @saintmagx //
If you would like to be tagged in Bridgerton fanfiction written by me, please let me know!
#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton season 3#bridgerton smut#x fem!reader#request#fanfiction#fanfic#anon#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton imagine#x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n
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The fandom failed, this shouldâve never been an issue in the first place-
A lil rant about my experience with this god forsaken fandom
I made this blog around 2020 when I was 13 years old. This was my first shot at a dedicated fandom blog and I was pretty excited for it, to make friends, draw fanart, post fun stuff and what not.
All fun right? Right, so tell me why was it that literal 20 years olds felt the need to harass me, a then 13 year old girl with a relatively small blog, for the dumbest reasons possible?
What did I do that subjected me to 2 and a half years worth constant daily threats and harassment? Hmm???
You wanna know my crime? Apparently I showed interest in an antagonist character, which is so awful that grown adults felt the need to bully me. And following those adults came young impressionable people my age, that joined the bandwagon of hate against me.
As if other fandoms donât have people literally dedicating themselves to a villain, no one bats an eye to that. Why did this fandom have such an issue? I also apparently dared to criticise the main character for a few of his flaws. Such a horrible thing to do right? I need to be burnt at the stake for it right?
I didnât follow the âfixedâ standards of the fandom so I was to be sent de*th/r*pe threats daily?? For not following the ârulesâ I was to be ostracised?
No please someone explainâŠIâm but a dumb bitch, I donât understand what I did so terribly wrong to deserve this? Did I start a war? Did I rip open someoneâs plush? Did I bully someone for not having the same ideology as me?
No it was but the fandom itself that for some reason found it so fun to bully a 13 year old, send her de*th and r*pe threats all because of not being of pjo fandom standardsâŠletâs go and bombard her with hate!!
Do you realise how fucking stupidâŠthis all sounds? Do you realise how low this is? Was bullying a child so fun? So trendy at the time?
Then came the victim blaming- I laugh everytime I remember people saying I must have done something really bad to get such harassment, that itâs all for attention. What kid wants to get hate everyday of their life for 2 whole fucking years? Tell me?
You know wanna know what I did wrong? Fight back, call the hate anons out for their bigotry. I was vocal about it, thatâs what I did wrong right? Stand my ground? People said to ignore it and I did. But I still got bullied daily even if I didnât respond. What was all this for?
I can imagine people asking why I didnât simply leave the fandom? Why the fuck should I? I enjoy the stories, I enjoy the characters, they were my escape from real life struggles. It was the bullying I didnât enjoy. Everyday Iâd log on to enjoy posts and a few minutes later when the bigots found out I was active I was sent an anonymous threat.
Many of my oldest friends had to reduce the amount they interacted with me in fear of receiving harassment themselves. The extent of this is bigotry is beyond my understanding.
I did not deserve this much suffering AND ALL FOR WHAT? A STUPID LITTLE REASON THAT HAS BARELY ANY WEIGHT TO IT. Do people even realise the extent of what happened is beyond me. And Idc if I sound selfish, I want a fucking apology from all those bigots. I want compensation for the 2 and a half years of abuse I endured alone. I just want this bigotry to end, which surprise surprise! Still continues to happen.
Why do I bring this up now that itâs all over you ask? Iâve actually brought it up once before, but it was swept under the rug, (My deepest appreciation to the very few people who supported me when I first talked about it) Iâm just finally being more vocal, because this has stuck with me. For all those 4 years this has stuck with me. It doesnât mean if itâs over for now that all the trauma doesnât linger. It still affects me to this day.
In fact Iâm still being stalked by one of the people who sent me hate anons. One of the hate anons was revealed to be one of my bestest friends, they had admitted this to me and had the nerve to beg me to still remain friends. They were also the person who groomed me. They have left the fandom scene and Iâve rid of them from my life but they still continue to stalk me.
What do I get from ranting about all this? A bit of solace, a bit of weight off my shoulders. But nearly not enough for me to actually fucking heal. I also want people to realise how bigoted some are and how horrible the mentality of âfixed fandom standards/ideologiesâ is and that we as a fandom need to fucking change. Heck I know this issues in every fandom. But can we at least start with ours for a change for once?
Along side all of this thereâs also a lot of racism and trans/homophobia that still actively prevails. Just look at what Leah went through when her casting was announced. Did she deserve all of that?? âNot my annabethâ do you realise how horrible that is to say to a CHILD? She is Annabeth whether you like it or not. And you are very welcome to leave if you wish to stick to your stupid racist nonsense.
I bet there are many others who have probably suffered the same may it not be for the same reasons, but everyone of them deserve their apologies and compensation as well.
Idc if Iâll get hate for this. I said what I said. Iâm just so done.
#preach!!#My fridgey everyone đŁïžđŁïžđŁïž#the amount of effort they put into sending hate daily is so baffling. maybe put that much efforts into your life you mightâve gotten smwhere#if you harass someone daily for two years then thereâs a problem with you not your victim#liking a character thatâs not that well liked isnât supposed to be made the issue. the real issue here should how the fandom will attack#anyone and bully people into submission to fit their standards instead of being open to everyoneâs opinions#nobody is obliged to follow your personal ideologies.#thank you my dear FRIDGY! đž#I love my sweet discord daughter đđđžđž#pjo fandom#fandom toxicity
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Hi, guys! Let's talk about fandom etiquette!
đšâđ«đšâđ«đšâđ«
I know a lot of you are young and perhaps have not been part of fandom spaces since the dawn of time (circa fanfiction.net) so let's talk about some dos and don'ts with fandom, so we can keep this a happy place! Please read this and reblog to get this out to people who genuinely may not know!
đDON'T: Write reviews of fics on Tumblr, Tiktok, or other social media. Fic writers are creating these things for FREE, and did not ask you to review. This often leads to negative discourse and can even cause fic writers to take down their fics. đDO: Leave kudos and ONLY POSITIVE comments. Talk about only positive things on social media. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all!
Edited to add: YES, EVEN CONSTRUCTIVE CRITISCISM. If the author didn't ask for it, don't give it. Some may appreciate it, but others won't. At the very least, ask permission first.
đDON'T: Post fic ideas or headcanons on AO3. AO3 is for posting actual fanfiction or fanart and nothing else. (What I mean by this is, I've seen posts on ao3 like "Just posting an idea that someone should write, here it is!" and that's not what ao3 is for). Edited to add: You can also post original works and nonfiction works based on fandom on ao3! đDO: Post headcanons and ideas on Tumblr, Tiktok, etc!
Edited to change: Okay, so I feel like there's some arguments over like...what qualifies as metafic versus something that shouldn't be on AO3? So from my understanding (correct me if I'm wrong), people DEFINITELY should not be posting just a title with no work attached, which I have seen a lot lately, nor should they be posting to search for someone else's fic. However, it seems like lists, and similar metafic are okay, as well as original content, and nonfiction.
đDON'T: Repost entire fanfictions without permission or sell bound fanfiction. Again, this causes writers to take their fics down, and can actually cause issues with fandom because it can cause allegations of copyright infringement. đDO: Recommend fics you like to others by talking them up and posting links! Ask permission before you translate!
đDON'T: Send hate to authors for writing a fic in a way you don't like or not updating enough. Again, authors are doing this for free and sending hate causes serious mental harm to authors because they are people! If you don't like it, don't read it! đDO: Send love to authors in forms that they are comfortable with!
đDON'T: Shame others for their ships/fics/kinks. Fandom is supposed to be a supportive space! Judging people is taking away that safe space! đDO: Use the block button! Block or filter out things or people you don't like!
đDON'T: Use AI to create art or fics. This is detrimental to the creators who work hard to create their work! đDO: Try making your own art or fics! Practice makes perfect!
These are just a few of the things that I've seen happening more lately, but keep in mind that if you don't like something, you don't have to interact with it and fanart and fanfiction creators are people who are doing this for free. Please make sure to respect the hard work people put in, or fandom can't exist!
(Feel free to discuss/add things as long as you're being respectful!)
#marauders fandom#harry potter marauders#harry potter fandom#marauders era#fandom etiquette#fandom#fandom things#fandom meta#fandom culture#fandom history#fanfics#ao3#ao3 fanfic#ao3 writer
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Frickinâ Watermelon
Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader
Summary: The 141 finds out about your skincare routine, and you wonder if one of your teammates might benefit from having one also.
A/N: This is my debut piece for the CoD fandom. I fell fast and hard for MW, and I thought this piece up while scrubbing my face one night, trying to keep the acne at bay. I hope you enjoy!
As a sniper, you have to keep your face out of sight. You prefer face paint, camouflaging yourself to blend in. Youâd gotten quite good as quickly painting yourself and heading out for whatever mission was next.
Unfortunately, on this mission, they decide rather last minute to use your sniping skills, simply shrugging when you asked for face paint. They hand you a balaclava, which would do the job fine.
You slip it on, slightly peeved that you couldnât use your paint. There is a reason you wear paint. The longer you wear that face covering, the more you feel like you were going to choke on your own breath. It is hot and humid, and the balaclava gathers sweat and oil and dirt and hot breath, keeping them all close to your face.
Wiping the sweat from your forehead, you force yourself to take a few deep breaths, lifting the mask a bit to let some fresh air in from time to time.
You spend several miserable days out on that mission. The final morning when you pull on the balaclava, it rubs painfully against some recently developed acne.
Mercifully, the mission ends successfully, and you return to base. After a quick shower to degrime from your time in the field, all you want to do was fall into bed, but that acne is just getting worse.
Half asleep, you reach for your bottle of face wash. It was watermelon-scented pink gel that works wonders for you. You scrub your face with it, put on some moisturizer, and stumble your way to bed.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââ
âWhat do you even need face wash for? Isnât water good enough for the princess?â
You might have hit Soap for his teasing if you hadnât detected a hint of genuine curiosity in the question.
âThereâs no way water is going to cut through all the grime on your ugly mug,â you tease back. âFor a guy called Soap, you should use some a little more often.â
âOuch,â Soap says with a grin.
After a long day of training, you, Soap, Ghost, and a few other members of the 141 have gathered to just relax. You donât know how the conversation turned to your skincare routine, but here you are. These boys are oddly fascinated with the care you give to your personal hygiene.
âIâm honestly surprised you guys donât get acne more often. That one mission a few weeks back, I had to wear a mask the whole time I was in the field, and I broke out so bad,â you said. âIt was awful!â
You caught Ghostâs eyes after that remark. *He* wore a mask all the time. But it was different for him. The mask was part of him at this point. It was freeing, somehow, in a way you couldnât quite grasp; for you, it was smothering.
If you got that bad of acne from a couple days with your face covered, you had to wonder: did Ghost ever break out?
âYou know, if you ever want to try it, I can give you a full rundown of the routine. Face wash, moisturizer, the whole works,â you said, directing your comment to Soap. Then, meeting Ghostâs eyes, you added, âYou canât miss the face wash. Bottle of pink gel in with my stuff.â
Soap snorts, and Ghost doesnât say a word. You didnât want to straight-out say that he could use your wash if he wanted to. After all, âskin careâ didnât have the manliest connotations. His eyes reveal nothing of his thoughts on the matter.
âPink? I suppose it smells all fancy, too?â Soap laughs.
âWell, of course! Nothing too girly, though. Just some light, fresh watermelon scent,â you reply.
âAh yes, watermelon! The manliest of all scents,â Soap says.
This time, you do hit him.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââ
After a few days away on a mission, you are glad to be back on base. It hadnât been a bad time out in the field, but it had been boring. You guess thatâs better than things going horribly wrong, but youâd like at least a little fun while youâre out.
After a hot shower, you move to the sink to wash your face. You reach for your bottle of pink face wash. As you lift it, you realize it feels slightly lighter than it had before you left. You level the bottle, looking at how much is left. Itâs not much emptier, but itâs definitely less than you thought youâd had before this mission.
But maybe you just were misremembering. After all, the bottle was exactly where youâd left it. You liked to display it in the corner with the cute watermelon decal facing outward, and thatâs precisely how it had been.
With a shake of your head, you dismissed the thought and washed your face.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââ
Your strides were quick as you made your way toward Priceâs office. Heâd asked to see you, and while it wasnât urgent, you liked to make a good impression by being as punctual as possible.
In your haste, you nearly bump into Ghost, whoâs turning the corner.
âOh! Sorry!â you exclaim as you check up, barely keeping from smacking into him.
He nods at you as he continues on. As he passed, you swear you catch the scent of watermelon. You whip around, watching him walk away, but saying nothing before continuing to Priceâs office.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââ
You clutch the brown paper bag in your hand as you make your way to your lieutenantâs room. After slowly watching your face wash deplete seemingly on its own for several more days and catching a few more whiffs of watermelon whenever you were near Simon Riley, you were fairly confident you knew where it was going.
You didnât want the man to have to keep using your face wash forever, though, so youâd gotten him a bottle of his own. Unfortunately, the stuff only came in the cute bottle with the watermelon decal, so you also bought a plain opaque bottle to put the pink gel in. You couldnât resist adding a label with a skull and crossbones on it that read âPoisonâ just for fun.
The rest of the contents of the bag were some more intense acne treatments for breakouts and stubborn spots along with wipes for the black paint he used around his eyes and moisturizer. Youâd also written a note with detailed instructions on how and when and what order in which to use the products.
You were just going to set the bag outside his door and maybe knock and run. The moment you bent to set it down, however, the door swung open to reveal Ghost.
His eyes met yours, then traveled down to the bag in your hand.
âWhatâs that?â he asked.
You blushed. Why did he have to catch you?
âItâs⊠um⊠for you,â you finally blurt and shove the bag at him.
Ghost gives you a suspicious look. He takes it and opens it before you can run. His eyes quickly scan the contents, and he pulls out the âPoisonâ bottle of face wash. He meets your eyes again. His eyes are nearly unreadable, but you catch a hint of curiosity there.
âFace wash,â you explain. âI thought maybe youâd like your own. And I put in some extra stuff, too. And instructions. If you want. Or if you⊠donât.â
*Why* had you thought this was a good idea?
Ghost stares at you for a few more seconds, making you wish the floor would open up and swallow you. Finally, he breaks the silence.
âIt was the frickinâ watermelon, wasnât it?â
You blink. âWhat?â
âThat day we met in the hall. You smelled it, didnât you?â
âI⊠I thought I did,â you admit.
âYou did a whole three-sixty after I passed,â he accuses. âShoulda stopped using it then.â
âNo!â you quickly say. âNo, Iâd hoped youâd use it. If you needed to. Or wanted to, even. I didnât know if youâd really take me up on it.â
Neither of you speak for a moment. He stands there, face wash and bag still in hand.
âI can show you how to use the rest of the stuff if you want,â you suddenly offer.
Ghost gives you a sharp look.
âI mean, Iâd do it on my face and explain it. You wouldnât have to take off your mask or anything. I just thoughtâŠâ you trail off.
Youâve stared down armed enemies before and not been this nervous. Now you are practically oozing awkwardness. The confident soldier was reduced to a bundle of nerves over a discussion about skin care.
âYou wrote instructions, yeah?â he asks.
âYeah.â
He hesitates a moment, shifting the bottle in his hand.
âBetter run through it once so I can keep it all straight.â
You give him a bright smile, immediately turning on your heel and making your way to your sink where you keep all of your products. You look around carefully before entering with Ghost, making sure no prying eyes spotted you. Locking the door behind you, you arranged all of your bottles and containers, beginning the lesson.
Ghost listened intently as you explained what each product did and how to best use them, giving a nod here and here. You demonstrated and gave tips, like dabbing the face with the washcloth and towel instead of scrubbing it to avoid further irritation. You went through each step, making sure to take your time.
âAnd then you take about this much moisturizer,â you say, dabbing a bit on your finger and spreading it. âAnd you spread it evenly. If you have dry patches, you can give those a little more. But after that, youâre done!â
You turn and give him a smile.
âThanks,â he says after a moment. âThanks for⊠this.â He holds up the bag. âAnd for this.â He gestures vaguely, probably meaning your little lesson.
âOf course,â you say. âCanât have my favorite LT going without proper skincare, can we?â
You both stand there a moment more. The silence is not uncomfortable. Thereâs something there, something unsaid, but you donât mind. This is enough.
It takes you a moment to realize, but his eyes are smiling back at you.
#elsie writes#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#modern warfare#call of duty#ghost x reader#ghost imagine#simon ghost riley imagine#simon riley#ghost#simon riley x reader#simon riley imagine
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I've been thinking for a while about a particular one shot request and I read it last night on another fandom, so now I kinda wanna see it with TR.
So here it is : How would some of the guys react to us doodling on their hand during some boring class? (Mikey, Draken, Takemichi, Mitsuya, Haitani brothers and the Kawata twins)
Sorry if it's too much! It doesn't have to be anything big, just a small reaction would be more than perfect, since I love your writing so much. đ„č
Baby, What Are You Doing...
Summary: the guys react to you doodling on their arms
Notes: some small blurbs about the guys. These vary in length and I was lowkey running out of ideas while I was writing but I tried my best to stay original! Also, not edited bcs I don't got time for that, you see a mistake, no you didn't <333
Mikey is kinda out there so he probably wouldn't even notice you were writing on his hand, but when he does he eats that shit up. He's lazy so he doesn't like going to get tats but he loves some ink. He will praise you and start requesting things like you're a professional artist. 'Please babe, I want a dorayaki on my forearm.' You bite your lip to hide your blossoming smile, 'you know I'm not a professional artist, right?' Your boyfriend shrugs and smacks a kiss to your cheek, 'you are to me babe!'
Draken notices right away what you're doing and is probably a bit confused at first. Like, do you want him to get another tattoo??? He'll do it hun, just ask. You two are relaxing in his bed, just enjoying each other's presence. He's surprised when you pull out a Sharpie and start doodling your name on his arm. 'Honey, what're you doing?' You give a sheepish grin, 'sorry, is it a problem.' He looks at the doodle, and you start to relax when you spot no disgust in his eyes. 'No problem hun,' he turns to you, 'think I should get this my next visit?' You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck as he looks at the doodle in wonder, more love sprouting in his heart.
Takemichi is a loser (affectionate) and he would never get a tattoo because he can't stand that pain, so he will take take that doodle and he will hold it with pride. 'Sweetie, I love it so much!' He wraps his arms around your waist and you can feel his smile against your stomach. You giggle at his wonder at some shitty stick figures along his arms. 'It's really no big deal' You say, running your hands through his hair, 'you don't need to be so happy.' He shakes his head, 'it is a big deal,' He insists, 'I've never seen anything better!'
Mitsuya my love, my heart, my will to live. He will be gassing up so much that you'll probably start believing that you're the best artist in the world. He's just such a supportive cutie pie <3 'Darling, this is one of the greatest things I've ever seen,' You laugh at the amazement in his eyes as you scribble your name in mock script on his arms. It's barley legible, but Takashi doesn't seem to care, 'you sure about that?' The smile doesn't drop from his face as he looks at you with hearts in his eyes, 'I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.'
I'm sorry but Smiley is probably the biggest asshole when he catches you doing this. He loves it, I promise, but he's a jerk 100% of the time, it's hard for him to turn it off. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you uncap your sharpie and start to draw something on his hand. 'What the fuck is that supposed to be?' He mutters. You laugh awkwardly at his harsh tone and drop your Sharpie, 'sorry, I just saw some cute videos about people putting their initials on their boyfriends wrists and I thought-it's stupid sorry-I don't know why I did that.' You duck your head down, burying your face into his chest, feeling that your body's on fire. Smiley looks at the half-finished doodle on his wrist. 'Don't stop baby, shit's pretty cute.' He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, 'I might get it tatted up.'
Angry is so flustered when he sees you doing this and he loves it so much okay. He feels like wearing it is a testament of how strong your love is. He will ask you (nervously) to do it every day because he doesn't want it to fade. 'Oh my gosh! Souya, you scared me, what're you doing there?' He stands awkwardly in the corner of your room, playing with the ends of his sleeves. 'Sorry... I didn't want to scare you... I just...' He pulls up his sleeve and he sees the fading bunny on his arm. 'I don't wanna bother you, I just-' 'Don't worry baby, I get it.' You cut him off, cupping his cheek and placing a kiss on his cheek. You pull him towards the bed and tell him to wait, 'I just need to get my Sharpies!'
Ran won't notice I'm sorry. He sleeps most of the day and he already has so much ink that some doodles won't pop out to him too much. It's only until he notices you doodling on a piece of paper one day and compares it to what's all over his arms that he starts tweakin'. 'Angel have you been inkin' me up?' He raises an eyebrow at you, confused. You hide your smile, 'of course not, I have no idea what you're talking about.' He narrows his eyes, '...okay.' Not completely believing you, but too sleepy to question things. 'Wanna take a nap?' You feel the Sharpie in your pocket and bite the inside of your cheeks, 'I'd love to!'
Rindou will eat that shit up, oh my gosh he loves it so much. He's like the extreme version of Angry and Mikey. He wants it obvious, and he wants it bold. 'C'mon princess, your name on my collarbone, I need it.' You raise an eyebrow as you straddle him, 'in red though, that's a bit... much.' He shakes his head, 'no, no, it'll be perfect.' You shake your head in exasperation, your boyfriend is a big dummy, but he loves you with every part of himself.
#tokyo revengers fluff#tokyo revengers x reader#tokyo revengers headcanons#tokyo revengers imagines#tokyo revengers scenarios#rindou x reader#ran x reader#smiley x reader#angry x reader#mikey x reader#mitsuya x reader#takemichi x reader#draken x reader#nahoya kawata x reader#souya kawata x reader
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Be My Guest
Pairing | Kate Carter x Tyler Owens
Summary |Â One time Tyler stays in Kateâs guest room and one time she stays in his
Warnings | discussions of trauma/injury associated with storm chasing, SMUT 18+
W/C | 6.6k
A/N | We wanted to hop into the Twisters fandom before it took ao3 by storm and this is *so far* what we've come up with. So...if you feel it... -smoe <33
AO3 |Â Link
Donations | LinkÂ
Hers
She came home for safety, familiarity, to find her way forward but instead, she found herself more lost than when sheâd arrived.Â
It was only supposed to be a week. Sure, Kate thought it would be difficult to be back in the field but she hadnât anticipated this. She hadnât anticipated him. It shouldnât matter. She had a job in New York, a life, a stable, safe job, her own apartmentâeverything she needed. But was it everything she wanted?Â
What Tyler had said crossed a line but that didnât mean it wasnât the truth. It was just something she probably already knew, deep down, and hadnât wanted to accept. She was running away from the storm but she should know better than most that it would always catch up.
With an aggravated sweep of her arm, all of her past research was on the floor, pages floating around her before finding a place to land. She almost immediately regretted the mess but it had felt good. For the last five years, sheâs avoided risk but now it almost feels hypocritical to say that she misses it.
Kate bent to gather the papers but only grabbed a few before stopping at her Cloud Physics notebook which had fallen open to a familiar page. She sat down in front of it and traced the impressions of her writing on the pages. It was too much to retrace her steps, to consider what had gone wrong. She needed to get out of her head and she couldnât do that without getting out of this damn barn.
She knocked lightly on the kitchen door so as not to startle her mom. Being an adult, Kate felt an aversion to putting these things on her mom. Her mother had always been supportive, even when knowing her daughterâs passion was actively putting her in danger. Maybe she just didnât want her mom to repeat the same sentiments as Tyler but she also knew she wasnât about to come to any decision without some guidance. Just like seeing her middle school science project again, she felt like a child standing in the kitchen.
âKate?â
âYeah, itâs just me.â She sighed and pulled out the chair at the dining table that had always belonged to her. The smell of whatever her mother was stirring made her stomach grumble. âWhereâs Tyler?â
âOh, he drove pretty far so heâs getting cleaned up.â Kate could tell her mom was trying to sound uninterested, maybe for her sake but still she asked, âWhatâs his story anyway?â
âHeâs just some internet star from Arkansas,â She explained, picking at a stain on the table. For a moment she thought about leaving it at that but the fire he had lit in the barn was still burning inside her. Sardonically, she added, âHeâs made a living as a so-called âTornado Wranglerâ but so far heâs only shot some fireworks into a cyclone and nearly killed the reporter signed on to cover him and his team.â
Her mom chuckled and replied, âSounds like a man looking for a thrill to me.â
Again, she felt like a child relaying the latest gossip from the schoolyard but she couldnât help but continue.
âAnd his whole team is this ragtag group of people whoâve never been to school for this either!â
âI see.â
âI mean sure heâs studied meteorology but they could get seriously hurt.â Kate had busied herself by fiddling with a napkin sheâd pulled from the homemade holder. The shreds of it were getting smaller and smaller. âTheyâre no professionals.â
Her mom hummed, acknowledging her annoyance but countered with, âWell he doesnât seem too bad to me, he did drive all the way here.â Although her mother graciously spared her the âfor youâ that they both knew completed that thought, she felt its weight. It was easier to make him seem unlikeable than tell her mom that it was her that was in the wrong.
âYouâd believe me if you saw the shirts he sells, his face all sprawled across them.â Kate laughed, thinking of the cheesy slogans. It wasnât lost on her that she had assumed the worst of him. She thought back to what Lily had said and felt ashamed. âThough,â She conceded, âthe money does pay for food for the aftermath survivors. They were handing it out at the last town we were in after the tornado hit.â
âNot all bad then?â Her mother turned fully to face her and Kate knew her teasing expression said all she needed to know.
âI guess not.â
_ _ _
Dinner had been passable, if not enjoyable. Kate had figured it would be awkward, that the dynamic between her and her mom would be offset by Tylerâs presence but it had flowed easily. The only gripe she had was that her mother had gone over her head to invite him to stay the night. In her ideal world, she wouldâve ushered him out right after dinner saying a quick thanks for his concern but sending him on his way knowing that sheâd never have an obligation to speak to him again.Â
Tyler had, of course, helped her mom with the dishes, leaving her to watch awkwardly so as not to take up unnecessary space in the small kitchen. Sheâd shot him a tight smile as heâd excused himself to his room for the night.Â
âWell,â Her mom said from the doorway, âIâm off to bed. Shut the lights, will you?â She didnât wait for an answer as she made her way past the living room to her bedroom.Â
Kate tapped her fingers sporadically against the table, the sound echoing in the quiet house. She hadnât been fully present for dinner. Every time she looked at Tyler she could only think about what she was doing wrong, what she was missing. As much as she resented the fact, there was no way she could make peace with the past couple of days if she didnât get in another word with him.
She flipped the last of the switches off and made her way up the stairs, avoiding the ones she knew were extra creaky. At the landing, Kate considered just going to her bedroom but her feet kept their integrity and trudged her towards the guest room.
Her hand was poised to knock when the door opened.
âKate?â The sound of his voice combined with the unexpected image made her jump. Whatever she had been prepared to say had left with her surprise but Tyler was already speaking again. âListen, what I said in the barn was out of line I shouldnât haveââ
âNo you shouldnât haveâŠbut you werenât wrong either.â
Stepping back, he opened the door a bit more and though it wasnât quite an invitation. It was a line she wasnât sure she wanted to cross with his apology and her admittance the gist of what sheâd hoped for. She promised herself that if he didnât try to say anything else, sheâd just turn around and walk away. He bit his lip, seeming to wrestle with something the same way she was.
âWhatâs the story behind you and Javi?â The question surprised her and she felt a vague excitement about his interest or rather the fact that he was interested at all. But the story itself was not something she was sure she could share.
âWe met in college, he was friends with myâŠmy boyfriend at the time.â
Tylerâs eyebrow raised in a silent question before he said, âAnd your boyfriend he wasâŠâ
She couldnât stand in the hallway any longer where she was fully open to his scrutiny whether the story inspired pity or something else. Kate stepped past him into the room and started to explain,
âHe was in the accident, along with two of my best friends.â She folded her arms across her chest, in a way trying to shield herself from the memories. âWe were testing the polymer on what we thought was an EF1 butââ
âIt was an EF5.â She nodded and his lips shifted into a sympathetic frown. Kate sat on the edge of the bed so that she didnât have to face him head on.
She continued with, âSo, I quit school and packed up to New York. Javi went back to Miami but because of the outbreak he thought he could use a second pair of eyes and invited me on.â From her peripheral, she could see the way he nodded along as she spoke, the genuine compassion still written in his features. She shrugged, unwilling to allow herself to feel the extent of the situation and the memories in front of him, âNone of it matters though, Iâll be back in the city by the end of the week anyway.â
âYou mean youâre giving up?â Tyler asked like it was somehow a personal affront to him or some greater injustice. Kate wasnât sure what he cared. Theyâd only just met and he didnât know her, not really.Â
âIâm not giving up. I canât live like this again, risking my life every day.â
âBecause of the accident?â The way he said it, like it was only a passing moment and not something that monumentally changed not only her life but her, made her response sharp.Â
âYes, because of the accident.âÂ
He was unshaken by her hostility and placed a hand lightly on top of hers where it sat between them on the bed.
âKate, Iâve seen people get hurt too, Iâveââ She couldnât listen to this, couldnât have him reduce her experience by comparison. If he thought this was the way to change her mind, he was sorely mistaken.
âYeah, Tyler, well I got hurt. I watched people die, and Iâll bear those scars for the rest of my life.â Her body filled with tension of the memory as her breath began to quicken. She let the anger take over, the simplicity of it easier than the complicated truth. âI don't know why I evenââ
 âHold onâKate!â
Kate could feel the air his failed reach created as he tried to grab her wrist to stop her. She was fast though, spurred on by the singular goal of getting the hell away from him. When she made it to the threshold of her room, she moved to shut the door. It almost slammed fully closed but groaned as the wood crashed into the foot heâd managed to snake in.
âGo to bed,â She demanded.
âSo what, youâre going to help Javi line the pockets of Riggs for the rest of the week? The real estate shark that's directly profiting off the suffering of these people?â It seemed he couldnât help, was adept at, pushing her buttons. If she were any bolder, sheâd have already struck the self-righteous expression off his face.
âI didnât know about that, I would have neverâthese are my people but this isnât the way, the polymer didnât work and people died because of it.â
âMore will too, but only if you donât do anything.â He tried to reach for her again but she shrugged away, âIt could work. Together we could do this.â Tylerâs expression was pleading, his eyes urging her to make the right decision.
âGoodnight, Tyler.â
His
The flight was thankfully uneventful and much easier than her last flight to Oklahoma when sheâd been dreading the very idea of her return. There were still memories that haunted the place she called home but now she could rest assured that they werenât losses for nothing and that she may very well be able to save someone, hopefully many someones, from the same suffering she had endured for years.
Kate dragged her suitcases through the airport and the bustle of people coming and going made her feel oddly comforted. New York was easy to get lost in and for the time, it was exactly what she needed. But it had only ever been a place she ran away to and after a while she was running too fast to ever see it for what it was. Here, in Oklahoma, she was home.
She made her way out to the pickup lanes and was met with a calm blue sky, one that she knewâor maybe even hopedâwouldnât last. At the five-minute mark, Kate was unbothered. By ten, she considered concern. By twenty, she was on the phone. It took three calls getting sent to voicemail before her mother picked up on the fourth.
âHey, are you alright?â She tried not to sound too concerned but it wasnât like her mother to forget an obligation or to not pick up the phone.Â
âOh, sunshine, Iâm fine. Itâs my truck thatâs acting up,â Her mom replied. âI was on the road already when it decided to quit on me. Iâm not sure how long repairs are going to take. You want me to call someone for you?â Kate sighed, more relieved by her motherâs well-being than bothered by the situation.
âNo, donât worry about it,â She answered, âAs much as you donât like it, I am a big girl. I can take care of it.â
âI know you can, baby. Donât worry about making it here tonight, just take care of yourself.â
They exchanged âI love youâs before it sunk in that actually did have to take care of it. She found herself a spot on a nearby bench and tucked her luggage in beside her. Scrolling through her contacts, her thumb hovered over Javi before something urged her to keep going. Kate wasnât sure if this was a bad idea but lately, she could handle a little risk.
âHello?â She bit her lip, knowing this was her last chance to turn back. Still, he might not even be around or available to get her.
âHey, Tyler?â
âUh, yeah?â His voice was in performance mode, his uncertainty no match to his inherent charisma. Kate found herself filled with an urgent hope.
âIt's Kate, Kate Carter.â
âKate!â She could hear the smile in his voice. It was the first time sheâd called him since he gave her his number and she was just beginning to regret not using it sooner. âWhat uhâŠwhat's going on?â
Her stomach flipped at the realization that she had to explain herself, that she wasnât just calling him. Oh god, was this a mistake? Kate had thought there was something there when they were saying goodbye but maybe this was pushing it. Â
âAre you in Oklahoma by any chance?â
âI am actually,â Tyler replied before he, with a hopeful tone, asked, âAre you here?â
âDo you think you could pick me up from the airport?â She fought the urge to cross her fingers like a little girl. It wouldnât be the end of the world if she had to call Javi but she couldnât help but want to see where this path led.
âOf course!â Her chest tightened, a mix between excitement and worry. âIs everything alright with your mom?â Kateâs cheeks flushed, touched by his concern.Â
âYeahâtruck just wasnât starting, donât worry,â She said, hoping she sounded nonchalant.
âAlright then, Iâll be there as soon as I can.â In the background, Kate could hear his keys jingling already and she smiled to herself.
âThanks so much. Bye.â
_ _ _
Kate had been inside, sitting at a cafe when her phone buzzed in her pocket, Tyler letting her know that heâd made it. She tossed out her empty coffee cup before regathering her things and taking a deep breath. If she was being honest with herself, she was excited to see him but she didnât want to endure the inevitable teasing sheâd be subject to should she seem too eager to be in his presence.
The sliding doors opened and it took her a minute to spot the familiar red truck. Her eyes followed the path to where Tyler was busy basking in the attention of an adoring fan. What more could she expect?
âAnd did you want this signed cause I could definitely sign this for you.â
He didnât notice as she siddled up, even with the rumble of her suitcases on the concrete. She shook her head at the display of his âTornado Wranglerâ persona and thought better than to let him off the hook.
With the exaggerated voice of a dedicated fan, she implored, âOh my goodness! Is that Tyler Owens? I am your biggest fan!â
âThatâs me darlinâ, what can I do forâKate.â He cleared his throat and straightened out his posture, putting on the real Tyler at the sight of her. Kate bit her lip, sparing him the laugh that threatened to escape her.
âTyler,â She said, âYou look good.â
âWell, I feel good.â Tyler stood with his hands on his hips, the two of them alone now and it seemed neither of them knew just what to say. She laughed at his remark and began to heave her luggage into the bed. Before she could lift the larger of the two bags, Tyler was stopping her with a hand on her wrist. Kate looked up at him, confused.Â
âDonât make me make you get in the truck.â She glared at him, gauging whether or not he was serious. He only matched her expression. âGet in the truck,â Tyler repeated.
Kate rolled her eyes and climbed into the passenger seat. She couldnât help but lean over toward the shift, running her fingers across the buttons. Her pointer finger landed on the tape labeled, âKateâs Barrelsâ and traced over his writing. When the driver's door opened, she jumped at the movement and tore her hand away.Â
âHeaded to your momâs?â Tyler asked, fingers tapping a rhythm onto the wheel.
âUh, no actually just any motel close would be good. Homeâs a bit far and the flight was long. I just want to go to bed.â She reminded herself that that was the only reason.
âIâm close,â He told her. Since when was he close? âI mean you could stay in my guest room and I could take you back to Sapulpa in the morning?â The idea sounded as equally dangerous as it was appealing. With a motel, she was in control of the situation but his place? There was no knowing.
Clearing her throat she answered, âThatâŠsounds fine.â
Tyler tipped his hat toward her and then he was making his way out of the parking spot. For a little while, they sat in comfortable silence, the radio filling the empty space between them. Once they were outside the city, it was comforting to watch as farmland made up her view. The word rattled in her head again. Home.
âSo, how did it end up going with the investors?â He asked. âGood, I assume since youâre back in Oklahoma.â Kate couldnât help but smile knowing well enough already how happy heâd be to hear. Not to mention how happy she was to achieve something sheâd been chasing since the possibility entered her mind.
âYeah, it went very well actually. We uhâwe got a lot of people interested and the offers were so goodâŠI quit my job and sold the apartment. Iâm back, back.â
Tylerâs smile grew to a million watts as he exclaimed, âKate! Thatâs amazing!â
âThank you, weâre really excited.â She thought she saw his grin falter a bit but she couldnât pin down why. Still, after a moment he let out a whoop, honking the horn at the expense of the car in front of them. Kate laughed, placing her hand over his to keep him from doing it again.
âSo, where you planning on living? With Javi?â
âActually Iâm not sure yet. Javi has this new girlfriend from back in Miami and theyâre pretty wrapped up in each other.â His eyebrows raised and she continued, âMy mom's kind of out of the way too. Plus, sheâs thinking of selling since seed prices just keep going up. Says sheâs sick of the weather.â
Tylerâs jaw went slack, exaggerating his shock. âSick of theâSick of the weather?â
âWhat can I say, she doesnât appreciate the beauty of the storm.â Kate sighed theatrically. Her hand went to her forehead in a âwoe is meâ gesture. He chuckled, punching her playfully in the arm.
âOn the topic of prices though, she is right.â Tyler sighed as he turned onto a new street. âThatâs why I bought land and started from the ground up.â
âLand?â She repeated. It hadnât been that long that sheâd been gone. When and more so why had he decided to put down roots and outside of Arkansas for that matter.
âYes, maâam.â His mouth quirked up in a prideful smirk.
âAnd here I thought Iâd be sharing some shitty motel room.â
They pulled into a long dirt driveway, the grass surrounding it still young. While the house was clearly new, the style had a nostalgic feel to it. It was painted a fresh shade of cream and the white wrap-around porch just screamed summer nights. If she didnât know better sheâd think she was going to visit some sweet old lady.
âHere we are, home sweet home.â
Tyler opened her door for her like a proper gentleman and she stepped out into pleasant fresh air. The whole thing was picturesque. Kate supposed she shouldnât really be surprised considering she didnât really know his tastes but the whole thing surprised her nonetheless.Â
She followed Tyler through the front door as he carried her bags inside. The interior was just as sweet as the exterior had been but Kate could see the signs that were uniquely him. There were various piles and pieces of gear strewn about that she recognized from having filled her motherâs house with. Even with the classic style, the appliances and layout were tastefully modern. She was impressed.
Kate stepped into the kitchen which seemed to be the most lived-in room. There were pictures of the Wranglers and what she assumed was his family stuck to the fridge. Her eyes drifted to a bulletin board hung up next to it and tacked up in the center of it was a page ripped out of their article from Ben, one with a picture of her. She could feel her cheeks flush even with him still in the other room. Though she wanted to, Kate knew she wouldnât mention it.
âYou hungry?â She jumped at the sound of Tylerâs voice.
âNo, I couldnâtââ The same look that urged her to âget in the truckâ painted his face and she reconsidered her answer. âStarved.â
Tyler seemed satisfied. He pulled out a seat at the kitchen island where she could have a clear view of him whipping something together. The whole thing felt unnervingly domestic but she enjoyed it all the same.
âThis place is really nice, Tyler,â Kate said. Gesturing toward his tricked-out home officeâthat was maybe a little too nice for a YouTube starâshe pointed out, âGot a nice setup too.â
âYeah, the team has pretty much paired off and they live here and there but we come back for a warm meal more often than not.â
âNot you though?â It had crossed her mind that maybe the sudden home ownership had been a response to some sort of serious relationship. She tried to sound casual since it wasnât really any of her business.
Tyler smiled and shrugged. âNah, a fearless leader has to hold down the fort.â Kate rolled her eyes and laughed at his cockiness. It was better knowing that it didnât run deep. She thought better than to push it but still, she wanted to know what this whole thing was for.
âNo, but seriously, why a house?â
âOklahoma is the past, present and future of tornadoes. Thatâs no secret,â He replied like it was some well-known slogan. Yeah, the outbreak they experienced had put Oklahoma back on the map but Tornado Alley spanned a wide area, including Arkansas.Â
âHow do you figure?â
âWell youâre here, arenât you?â Her stomach sank, trying to decipher the meaning behind what he said. His focus was trained on the pot in front of him like what heâd said was no big deal. What was she supposed to say to that?
Without an answer, Tyler clarified, âYouâve got better instinct than anyone Iâve ever met, better than any Doppler too.â
Heâd turned to her and winked in her continued silence. Kate nodded with a smile like it was casual to her too. She shifted under his intense gaze and thought it was an apt time to break the tension with something sheâd been tossing around in her mind. He laid a plate of spaghetti in front of her before sitting down himself. She cleared her throat.
âI was going to wait to bring this up butâŠI was wondering if you would consider being partners.â
âReally?â The excitement on his face was genuine and Kate could see the surprise too. It made her feel secure in her decision.Â
âJavi and I both have stakes in it but heâs avoiding the field as much as he can right now. Heâs got the business side under control but, like I said, heâs got someone at home whoâd prefer he didnât get blown away.â
Tyler stayed practically frozen in place. Maybe sheâd overstepped her bounds after all. She could tell herself all she wanted that she wouldnât be hurt if he didnât want to partner with her but that didnât make it the truth.Â
âWhat do you say, me and you?â Kate asked, bracing for his answer.
âYou and me,â Tyler replied genuinely and with what she hoped was a hint of awe.
They ate silently, half from hunger and half in consideration of their future. As much as Kate didnât want to admit it, there were other questions lingering between them. When her plate was cleared, he insisted on taking care of the simple cleanup himself leaving Kate to sit idly at the kitchen table, unable to get anywhere else without his direction anyway.
With the dishes washed, Tyler turned his attention back to her but it seemed he had just as much of an idea of how to proceed as she did.
âSo, uhâŠâ She began, uncertain where she was going.
âI bet you probably want to get cleaned up. Thereâs an en suite in the guest room.â
âYeah, great.â As much as she wanted to bolt, Kate got up from the table slowly as if she were as calm as could be. Still, she didnât wait for any instructions as to where to go. She didnât turn back to look at him as she climbed the stairs, internally cursing herself for adding to the awkward atmosphere.
âFirst door on the right!â Tyler called after her because, of course, she hadnât asked.
_ _ _
The warm water had been just what she needed, especially paired with the time away from Tyler to think. As much as there had been a sense of tension between them, her feelings had settled on contentment and maybe even excitement. They were partners now and they had plenty of time to figure everything and anything else out. Theyâd been through hell already and he would help her through it again.
She stepped out of the shower, her feet hitting the plush bath mat, and reached for a towel. Her hand grabbed only air. Upon further inspection, the towel rack was completely unoccupied. Shit.
âUm, Tyler?â Kate called. She waited a few minutes for his response and when it didnât come she yelled louder. âTyler!â She let out a breath when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
âYeah?âÂ
âThere are no towels in here!â
âShit. My bad, no one has used that bedroom yet,â Tyler explained. His feet were already causing the wood floor to creak when he assured, âIâll grab you one, be right back.â
Kate couldnât believe this was happening. There was a good chance that sheâd expose herself in the exchange. Sheâd even left her clothes on the bed, choosing to strip before going to the bathroom.
A few minutes later there was a hesitant knock on the door.
âHere, I brought you a few. I donât know what you prefer,â Tyler said.
She had to assume that he was smart enough not to look. Heâd been nothing but polite after all. When she opened the door, his eyes were covered by the palm of his hand, and his other arm was extended out to her. Kate tried not to laugh at the look of him.
âThanks.âÂ
Kate wrapped the largest towel around herself and used another to dry the excess moisture from her hair. She pulled the door back open, assuming he was gone but she was met with his figure, eyes still shielded. Nearly bumping right into him, she let out an involuntary sound something between a squeak and a groan. Tyler echoed the sound and quickly flipped his hand so he could see her. She had to assume that his subsequent turning around was motivated by her state of undress.
She didnât know what else to do besides starting to dress. It seemed he wasnât done talking to her just yet. After a moment, he spoke.
âUh, KateâŠI, uh, realized I didnât say thank you just then for considering me.â
âWho else could I possibly consider?â She winced at her own words. By no means did Kate want to sound like she was unhappy, she just didnât want to make it a big deal between them.
âWell, right, I guess thereâs not many storm chasers to begin with and especially not ones whoâve studied meteorology.â Kate could hear the slight hurt in his voice even as he tried to tease and she couldnât blame him. Sheâd said the wrong thing. She quickly finished pulling on her pajama pants so she could focus on the conversation before she said something else she regretted.
âTyler,â She said softly. He still had his back considerately turned to her. Like a kid trying to pass notes in class, Kate tapped his shoulder to get his attention. Tyler smiled as he faced her and it gave her the boost she needed to say what she wanted. âYouâre the reason Iâm doing this in the first place. You believed in me even when I didnât. Weâre going to be helping people and thatâs because of you.â
He was shaking his head before sheâd even finished.
âYou canât believe that, it's your polymer, your ideaââ
She took a confident step forward, the action effectively shutting him up. The closer Kate got the more she angled up at him, his height towering over her. Her hand found its way to his jaw, cupping it gently, her thumb brushing over the stubble of his skin. Before she had the chance to close the distance, Tyler took his chance to capture her lips with his own.
It started slow, hesitant to the possibility of too much too fast but quickly gained momentum as they threw caution to the wind. It had been years since Kate had done this, never quite feeling able to move on from Jeb and the accident but now with a sense of closure and Tylerâs guiding hand she felt ready.
His mouth was eager as their kiss deepened, Tylerâs tongue painting the inside of her mouth, almost as if he was committing it to memory. Their heavy breaths filled the air and neither of them seemed willing to break the kiss as the minutes went on. It wasnât until her fingers played at the hem of his shirt that he broke off, looking down at her through hooded eyes, his mouth swollen and flushed.
âKateâŠâ
The sight was too much and she couldnât help but bring her lips back to his skin. They found purchase at his pulse point, kisses littering his neck as she made her intentions known to him with every touch.
Taking a step back, Tylerâs hands cradled her face and he searched her eyes, looking for what she wasnât sure but when he seemed to find it a smile broke across his face. It was the same smile he sported every time the wind picked up and the radar lit up red: a man ready to face a challenge.
âYou still wanna stay in my guest room?â He asked, though his joking town was limited by his heavy breathing. Kate knew he was teasing but he was just as eager as she was.
âIf you keep up with that attitude I just might,â She replied, smiling ruefully.
âHoney,â Tyler beamed, âall Iâve got is attitude.â
A chuckle escaped her lips and his face turned from cocky to sincere before he leaned in to steal a kiss once more. His hands moved from her face to grasping her own as he led her to what she assumed was his room.
Kate struggled to keep up as he held his hands behind him for her to grasp. She held them awkwardly as the unusual position did not grant her a good grip. The playful air gave her butterflies but also made her feel a sense of safety, knowing that things didnât have to be heavy between them.
Tyler turned, pulling their hands over his head so that Kate twirled around with him. He used the momentum to guide her backward into his room with his hands on her hips, attempting a cheesily seductive smolder. She used her heel to kick the door shut behind them.
Kate walked ahead of him to go sit on the edge of his bed. She could tell he was watching her closely to consider his next move but she enjoyed the idea of playing coy with him. Ignoring him, she took in the space which was surprisingly sparse especially compared to the ground floor.
âWow, real homey in here,â Kate joked, feigning awe at the blank walls
âOh, hush,â Tyler chided, âIt hasnât been that long since we finished construction.â
She put up her hands in surrender and replied, âSure, sure.â He rolled his eyes at her and then his expression became soft again. Tyler walked forward, kneeing her legs open and standing between them. With just a tilt of her head they were kissing again and this time when she grabbed his shirt, he let her take it off of him. Kate paused a moment to take him in, the image one she intended to commit to memory before pulling her own shirt over her head.
The rest of their clothes came quickly but when it was time for her to remove her jeans she hesitated.
âWe donât have to do this.â Tyler reassured her, misreading her reluctance. Kate shook her head.
âIt's not that itâsââ She huffed in frustration and rather than continue to overthink, pulled her pants down in one swift motion, hoping heâd move past the interruption rather than linger on the issue.
Instead, his eyes moved immediately to her lower half and zeroed in on her legâŠher scar. Kateâs stomach began to churn. She knew that he knew the story but she hated that it had to be part of this moment between them. He had been part of making it possible for her to redeem herself, to make sure the losses were not worth nothing. Still, the memories and the physical signs would never leave her. It made her insecure but if he had a problem with it, this wasnât worth continuing.
âIs this fromâŠâ
âYes,â Kate replied flatly. She didnât have anything to prove and she wanted more than anything to move on from this as soon as possible. Tyler looked up from the marred skin on her leg and cupped her face with one of his hands. His eyes were filled with pure admiration.
âYouâre the strongest person Iâve ever met.â
Tylerâs lips were on hers again as he leaned her back into the bed, his body sculpting to hers. She felt a hand trail down her body, over her ass, before he hoisted her leg over his shoulder, his face turning towards her thigh and kissing over her scar as he lined himself up with her entrance. He looked at her until she realized he was waiting for her cue. She grabbed onto his upper arms and nodded, making it clear she was ready.
He was slow with her, caressing in all the right spots and making sure she was comfortable until he was finally fully inside her and they moaned in unison at the feeling. She hadnât felt like this in a long time and when he took a moment to brush the hair from her face it made it all that much sweeter so much so that she laughed. Tyler looked at her, concerned but when she kissed him, he smiled into it catching her drift.
As he began to grind into her, he coaxed mewls from her lips, her hips meeting his instinctually at the pleasure. The way he watched her carefully for her reactions made her heart soar. He made it evident that they were in this together, that he cared about making her feel good. One of Tyler's hands still held her leg while the other found her clit, circling it while keeping pace and she couldnât help the words spilling from her mouth.
âTyler,â Kate pleaded, âDonât stop.â He listened to her demand but she could see how it made him falter. His expression was that of awe as if he couldnât believe that he was here with her, that she was enjoying what he was doing for them. She curled an arm around his neck and played with the hair there in a way that caused him to flush.
âI gotcha,â Tyler promised, somehow pressing them closer together, âI gotcha.â
She couldâve been embarrassed at how fast she came but Tyler didnât give her a chance, instead riding her out through her climax and continuing to thrust even after. It was almost too much as tears of pleasure pricked her eyes and her moans filled the room. Her hands gripped the sheets, his arms, his hair, anything that she could reach to keep hold of her senses as they were overwhelmed. All she could think or comprehend was Tyler.
âIâIâm close,â He stammered, the tremble in his voice radiating throughout his body, âKate, Iââ
Her vision went white when she came again, though she could hear Tyler moan her name like a mantra, his head buried in her neck. One hand reached into his hair while the other traced absent circles on his back. It took him a minute but eventually, he came back to her.
âHey,â He said, letting out a breathy laugh.Â
âHi.â
Tyler pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, clearly savoring the moment. Kate didnât want it to end either but she was confident that it was only beginning. They both let out their own versions of a disappointed noise as he pulled out.
When he disappeared into the ensuite, she pulled his comforter up around her, the scent of him enveloping her as well. He came back with a damp towel and once helped her clean up, he flopped into bed beside her, pulling her into his side.
Kate placed a hand on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat under her palm. Tyler pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She wanted to bask in the moment a bit longer but before she knew it she was beginning to yawn.Â
The last thing she remembered before she fell into a peaceful sleep was the sweet kiss they shared and the soft rumble of his voice.
âGoodnight, Kate.â
#be my guest#twisters#twister 1996#glen powell#tyler owens#daisy edgar jones#kate carter#kate carter x tyler owens#thewordswewrite#fanfiction#ao3#saphnsmoe#ao3 fanfiction#tumblr fanfic#tyler owens x reader#angst#fluff#smut#tyler owens x you#tyler owens fic#tyler owens imagine#glen powell x you
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As I often do, I've seen a few posts going around lately lamenting the lack of interaction with fanfiction/fanart here on Tumblr as well as AO3, but after reading a particular comment last night I just need to say this:
If someone tells you that the lack of response to sharing their writing is making them feel so upset that they're thinking of quitting writing altogether, don't tell them that's not a good mindset to have and they should just have fun with it and write for themselves. (have you just tried not being sad? you'll feel so much better!)
Even if you're a writer who felt that way once upon a time but then you changed your mindset so that you don't rely on others' feedback for validation and now you're so much happier, that's not helpful. Because that's obviously not what the person who is feeling sad and defeated is able to do right now, and for most writers/creators that's never going to be possible.
And it shouldn't have to be.
Especially here. Especially fanfiction.
Fanfiction is something that's created because someone loves something and wants to share it with others who love the same thing. And this is specifically a fandom space, somewhere that is supposed to be a community where discussion and dialogue can and is encouraged to happen between the people who write and the people who read. So when there's radio silence when you share something in this kind of space, do you really not see how that would be discouraging?
Because of course I write for myself - I would never get anything down on the page if I didn't - but I share because ultimately I want someone else out there to read what I wrote, and with any luck, to get some joy out of it. But if no one tells me they did, how am I supposed to know? As far as I know I've just been yelling into the void. As far as I know, all that work wasn't worth it.
A metaphor I've seen as an example is that it would be like having someone invite you over and cooking an entire delicious, heartfelt meal, you eat it all without saying anything, and then just leave. Do you not see how that would be upsetting?
We put so much of ourselves into what we write, bits of our hearts and souls and the things that we love and are exploring and are interested in or confused about. It's such a vulnerable thing to share something you've created, so when you tell someone that they shouldn't care if someone else reads what they wrote or tells them that they liked it, you're dismissing a very real and valid experience for so many creators out there.
Because regardless of how slow or fast a writer is, or how big or small their fandom is, it's still hard and takes time and energy and dedication and love - all of it in between our day to day lives from the mundanities to the heartbreaks - to even get something to the point where we're comfortable sharing.
Now, I know that not everyone thinks that writers are silly or selfish or entitled when they ask for feedback. Before I started writing again after many, many years, the main reason I didn't really comment on fics very often wasn't because I didn't think that the authors deserved feedback, it was more that I didn't really think that it would matter. That my comments would just be noted - if read at all - and brushed aside and then they would continue on about their day.
I could not have possible been more wrong. You might think you're just one person and it's just one comment but it's amazing how it can turn a day (or week, or month) around. How it can encourage someone to finish a story, or make a connection they'd been struggling with, or even just manage to add 500 words to a WIP. It is truly incredible to hear that someone loved something I wrote, and if you've ever commented on or reblogged one of my fics, please know that it truly means the world to me.
I've gone through a rough time with all of this lately myself, but I'm doing a bit better now (for the moment), so I just wanted to say this, in part to remind myself when it inevitably gets hard again:
If you're reading this, whether you're a friend or you've never seen me on your dash and never will again: I'm sorry it hurts right now. I'm sorry you feel discouraged and lonely, that it doesn't feel like it's worth it anymore, that you're struggling to find a reason to continue.
But I desperately hope that you keep writing. I hope you keep sharing. You're worth it. I know it's hard, and if you don't want to and you're just tired of the cycle of giving so much of yourself and getting so little in return, I understand that, too. It's ok to be in your feelings about it, it's ok to feel drained by it, and even though knowing you're not alone in your experience doesn't change anything and it still sucks, it's normal and valid and there's nothing wrong with you feeling the way that you do.
But I hope that you are able to find the joy in it again, because you deserve it. â€ïž
#ok to rb#fanfiction#writing#thoughts and reminders#every writer is incredible#every artist#every gif maker#every single person who submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known#who contributes to their fandom however big or small#deserves to feel that their effort was worth it#support the people who create the things you love#do you want to spread misery or joy?
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bad blood / scott miller x reader
summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorneyâno matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane⊠right?
content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics
word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys đŹ)
authorâs note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed âđŒ shoutout to @hederasgarden and @sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so donât take my word on any of this and definitely donât do stuff with your ex while heâs the opposing party in a case youâre working (but if itâs david corenswet, i meannnn⊠should anyone be blamed?)
PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY
Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, âJavi, you need to chill out, man.â
Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.
âWhat makes you think Iâm not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?âDammit!â
âActually, lose the tie,â you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.
Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. âI thought I was supposed to wear oneâŠâ
âI think thatâs only for court,â Kate put in, âlike with an actual judge and stuff.â
âMaybe in the 1970s,â remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. âBro, itâs gonna be fine.â
âWe should be out there, tracking tornadoes!â There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, ârobust,â as the weatherman put it⊠not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. âThat son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.â
âYeah, he did,â you replied. âI know itâs inconvenient as shit, but believe me, Iâm going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. Thereâs no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, itâs the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.â
 âYou think weâre gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?â Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.
She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tylerâs annoyed outrage (âwho does this guy think he is!â) and Javiâs frustrated melancholy (âguys, Iâm sorry, this is all my faultâ).
Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.
âJust remember weâre here for you, Javi.â Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. âAll the way. We know this is personal.â
âYeah, which means itâs gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?â
âWell, you don't anymore. Thatâs character growth,â Tyler pointed out. âNow, Iâm no legal expert, but as far as I can see, heâs got no legs to stand onââ
You held up a finger. âUh, thatâs not entirely trueâŠâ
ââand heâs going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncleâs money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.â
âYou mean our time, our money,â said Javi.
Kate looked at you. âIf this ends up going to court, is it likely heâll win?â
You sighed. âOkay, listen.â You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, youâd decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. âThe whole point,â you explained, âis that weâre trying to avoid this going to trial. If youâre looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom lineânot to mention how this could drag on for literal yearsâitâs best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. Youâll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dadsââ
That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.
ââand itâll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.â
âSounds good to me,â Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.
Kate gave a nod. âNo matter what, weâll be okayâ
Javi put his hand on your knee. âThank you⊠for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.â
âWho, me?â you asked, feigning ignorance. âIâm fine.â
âMm-hmâŠâ
âDo I not look fine?â
âYou look great,â Kate said honestly.
âMillerâs gonna shit his pants.â
âTyler!â
âHey, weâre up,â your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.
Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.
Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. âPlease just⊠try to behave yourself.â
Me? He pointed at his face.
âYes, you! Donât provoke himâas a matter of fact, donât even look at himâdon't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?â
âIâll be the picture of civility.â
You shot him a skeptical look.
âIâll be a gentleman!â
You glared. âTyler Owens, Iâm holding you to that.â Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. âAlright guys, itâs showtime.â
Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldnât say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldnât. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.
You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.
Simply business.
He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.
TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA
Youâd been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves. While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadnât spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.
âYou still have time, sweetheart,â your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. âItâs only March.â
âExactlyâitâs March!â youâd wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.
It was hopeless⊠you shouldâve gotten an answer by now.
Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.
Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistentâit was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and youâd been living in it all week, ignoring Momâs teases about how âyouâre going to have to wash it at some point!â while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nicholsâs prize baseball team and from whom youâd stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.
Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scottâs father rather than to Scott himself. The whole familyâs trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.
He didnât get it. Scott wasn't like his fatherâif anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with himâit happened, didn't it?
Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan⊠so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didnât happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didnât want to find out.
Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. âScott! What the hell were you thinking!â you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.
âWow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gestureâŠâ
âYouâre soaking wet! You couldâve fallen and broken your neck!â
As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, âIâm a tree connoisseur. If anything, Iâm a that-tree connoisseur and sheâs never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.â
He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of yearsânot that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, heâd go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a dayâs manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)
You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.
And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.
You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. âIâll go get you a towel,â you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.
âWait a minute, kiss me first,â he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.
His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.
His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.
âYouâre insane,â you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. âMy dad will kill you if he catches you.â
He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing,â you replied.
âTell me.â
Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scottâs questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. âI justâwe have that exam next week and Iâve fallen behind on calc and I think Iâm going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my momââ
âYour momâs great,â Scott interjected.
âWhy, dâyou want her?â
He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.
âFine, okay. Sheâs great, sheâs just⊠trying to help.â
âIs this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because itâs onlyââ
âIt's only March. Yeah. Thatâs what Mom said. But Iâm cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, ScottâDecember!â You looked down at your feet. âIâm not going to get in.â
âYou donât know that.â
âWell, it sure feels like it!â
âCâmere.â
âNo.â You shook your head.
âCome here,â he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. âYouâre going to get in,â he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. âTheyâd be crazy not to have you.â And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.
Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scottâs hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.
As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scottâs face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.
âScott?â you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. âWhatâŠâ you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.
At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. âOh my God⊠ScottâŠâ
âWe donât have to talk about it now.â
âScott! This is from MIT! You got in?â
âIt's really not a big deal.â He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.
Not a big deal? âScott, shut up! You got in!â you exclaimed, aghast.
âYouâre not upset?â
âDonât be ridiculous!â You set the letter down to the side, knowing heâd want to keep itâthat so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. âWeâve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.â
âYeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.â
âStop.â You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. âI'm so freaking proud of you. Youâre going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.â
You looked into his eyes so that heâd know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievementâhis shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.
âI heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,â he confessed.
âYour uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?â
âYeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college andâŠâ
You placed your hands on his chest. âIs it that bad?â
He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one nightânot that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name âMillerââyou were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen heâd been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Millerâs face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to âpoor Pamela,â and you had enough evidence to assume that Scottâs father had royally fucked up this time.Â
âTheyâve been talking about selling the house,â he said with a dark look. âI think my parents are going to split up⊠for good this time.â
âOh, ScottâŠâ
âSo who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anywayâeven with this.â
âAre you okay?â you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.
He shrugged. âIt is what it is.â
This was a side of him youâd never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.
Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial considerationâyou weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scottâs long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case heâd doubted it for a second.
âHey, I love you,â you said to him.
âI love you, too,â he replied. âNow, no more shop talkâwhy do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?â And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.
âAnd here I thought your intentions were pure,â you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.
âDarling, thereâs no such thing⊠especially when it comes to you.â
âWhat an idealist,â you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. âScott,â you protested, âmy parents are across the hall.â
âSo weâll be quiet. Or weâll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?â
âUm, you flying headfirst out that window?â
He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. âI donât know about you, but that sounds like a price Iâm willing to pay.â
PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY
âThe damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculousâand, quite frankly, even frivolous!â
âFrivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assetsââ
âHis assets!â
ââaccumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!â
âWe were equal partners!â Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.
Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.
Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. âExactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.â
Javi balked. âWhat, I canât decide to leave my own company?â
âYou can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,â Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour youâd been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc youâve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasnât glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.
âOh, you mean your uncleâs money?â
âJavi.â You touched his hand in warning.
âYou weren't turning your nose up at my uncleâs money when you were trying to found StormPAR.â Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.
âMe? I thought we were partners, partner.â
âLike you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javiâyou jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!â
You gritted your teeth. âMr. Rankin, control your client.â
ââControl your clientâ?â Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. âWhat the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?â
âMy job, Mr. Miller.â This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. âI work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but thatâs neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, youâre free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.â
He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.
You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. âNow, if you turn to page 16, youâll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than heâs entitledâif both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this actionâs purpose isnât frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.â
âLike hell,â Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:
âWhat, you think weâre not good for it? Iâll have you knowââ
âYou expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?â
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, âLanguage,â and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scottâs uncleâyou could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.
Scott went on, full of accusation. âYou used StormPAR money, didnât you?â
âIf you want to request any financial disclosuresâŠâ you began.
âWeâre talking.â
Bitch. âNo, youâre berating,â you shot back.
Javi put his hand on your wrist. âItâs fine. YeahâI guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggsâs money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.â
âJavi.â
âNo. Fairâs fair and all that. I donât want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, donât pretend youâre doing any of this because youâre broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPARâs worth, it wouldnât make a difference. Youâre mad that I left. I get it. Letâs settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.â
âYou stole our data!â
Now, that couldn't stand. âHe made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owensâs team.â Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.
âBullshit!â
You sighed. âAre we getting anywhere here, Rankin?â
The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. âItâs not looking likely.â
âWonderful.â You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. âWell, weâre all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.â
âIâll bet they do,â Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. âHowâre your investors doing, by the way, knowing youâre getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary dutyâŠâ
You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, âDid you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,â you urged Scott, âyou might just win us a dismissal.â
After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: âWeâre done here.â
âYouâll be hearing from me,â said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.
You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. âBoy, am I looking forward to it.â
Outside, you didnât stop until youâd turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.
âWell, that wentâŠâ Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didnât sit well with you; you couldnât decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.
âIt went like a garbage fire,â you confirmed, âwhich means about as well as I expected.â
Kate crossed her arms. âSo weâre going to court, then.â
âIâm going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.â
âThat just leaves me,â Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.
âI mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.â
âHow was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?â
âUm, literally everyone knows youâre supposed to hire a lawyer,â said Tyler, âespecially if youâre dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.â
Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. âWhat can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.â
âI know.â You clapped your hand on Javiâs shoulder. I understand. âBut sometimes all that does is make it worse.â
After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas⊠you were trying to make junior partner.
No rest for the wicked and all that.
You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. Youâd have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.
Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emailsâthere were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentorâs golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luckâŠ
âSo what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?â he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. âMaybe I shouldâve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.â
âGo away, Scott. This is business.â
âReally, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.â
âWell, he chose to hire a friend.â
âRightâŠâ A laugh. Dry, cynical. âAnd what's your excuse?â
You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. âBelieve it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about itâclearly I was wrong.â
Ding!
You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.
You looked at him as if to say, âDo you mind?â It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure heâd lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.
He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that âfairâ was no longer in his vocabulary.
As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. âYou always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. Howâs the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.â
âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your ownâthe slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott⊠the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, âhowâre your investors doing, by the wayâ⊠It wasnât like those things came out of left fieldâScott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. âWhat happened to you?â
You saw his jaw clench. âIf you want to know, then you shouldnât have left.â
8âŠ
7âŠ
6âŠ
You took a breath. âThat whole last yearâyou pushed me away and you know it.â
Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. âYeah, well, you made it easy.â
4âŠ
3âŠ
2âŠ
The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.
This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, âGo fuck yourself, Scott.â Then you turned on your heel and walked away.
TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA
Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. âHey, listen to me⊠weâll make it work. Iâll call you every day.â
âWith a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.â
âI donât care if it doesn't. Hey,ââhe kissed your templeââitâs you and me. That doesnât need to changeâ
âYou say that nowâŠâ
âDonât you trust me?â
âOf course I do.â You sighed. âItâs the hot nerds I donât trust.â
You felt him laugh. âYouâre a hot nerd.â
âStop it.â But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since youâd opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help⊠not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.
It wasnât like you had no other optionsâyouâd have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasnât enough.
âWe regret to inform youâŠâ
Well, not as much as you regretted it.
As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, âUPennâs nothing to scoff at, you know. Youâre upset because you got into an Ivy League?â
âAn Ivy League in Philadelphia,â you protested.
You didnât add âand not the one I wantedâ because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvaniaâthe campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasnât like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted⊠except Scott.
You felt him shrug behind you. âSo what? Itâs just a five-and-a-half-hour driveâor an hour-and-a-half by plane if weâre desperate.â You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. âI might have googled it,â he admitted, âright after you told me you got in.â
âOf course you didâŠâ The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.
Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.
âAt least weâve got the whole summer,â you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.
You felt Scott stiffen.
âWhat?â You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. âTell me,â you said.
âUncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLAâsomething about getting to know me better. I think he mustâve worked it out with Mom. Sheâs finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not sheâll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.â
At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scottâs prediction, âpoor Pamelaâ had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.
It was Riggs who had retained Pamelaâs ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scottâs tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.
âWhen do you leave?â
âTwo weeks after graduation.â
âSo we have a month,â you said. âThatâs thirty days.â
âMore like twenty-six⊠and three quarters.â He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.
âThen letâs not waste a second,â you answered back.
He placed a kiss on your forehead. âI love you.â
When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.
PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY
For the last ten minutes youâd had trouble hearing Kateâs voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, youâd grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, âKate? Kate? Youâre breaking up!â
On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:
ââbad luck with the last two, but Iâfeelingâbuilding in the eastââ
âYeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!â you heard Javi yell in the background.
Kate laughed. âGo away!â
âAsk her if she caught the livestream!â Tyler said, no doubt from the driverâs seat.
It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. âTy, need I remind you that I have an actual job.â
âOuch! Did you hear that?âthinks we donât have real jobs!â
âI did notââ
The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant theyâd returned to Kateâs motherâs farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carterâs barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tylerâs Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.
Actually, now that you gave it a momentâs thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.
âListen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,â Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.
âKate is from New York!â you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.
This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. âExcuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New Yorkâs just where she keeps her apartment.â
Kate laughed as she said something you couldnât catch, then Tylerâs voice came, audibly close to the phone. âHey, that reminds me, whereâre you from, again?â
âPennsylvania.â
âThat is not a Philly accent.â
You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, âThatâs âcause sheâs from the fancy part of Pennsylvaniaâbut we don't hold that against her.â
âGee, thanks.â
Tyler asked, âWait, youâre not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?â
You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. âYou know, maybe I should, Arkansas.â
At first you couldnât work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in âIt's the spirit of the mountains⊠and the spirit of the Delta⊠it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,â but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.
Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasnât much to report on the Rankin frontâas much as you had tried to negotiate on Javiâs behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms werenât met.
Even Rankin seemed fed up.
Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine youâd had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLabâs problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore youâd never speak to ever again.
For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.
âCan we talk?â you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether heâd recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was âgo fuck yourself,â and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.
Tylerâs impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.
Scott answered: âNot without my lawyer present.â
Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like heâd rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, âWhat do you want?â
Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew youâd taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.
You opted for the aggressive approach.
âRankin says you're being uncooperative.â
You could feel the animus on the other end. âNo, he didn't.â
âIt was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that youâre actually looking to get out of all this?â
If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyerâs client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.
You waited for Scottâs response with bated breath.
âI want StormLab run into the ground.â
The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time youâd ever heard him say he hated his fatherâhis lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward heâd pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.
And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. Heâd succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.
You moved the phone to your other ear. âRight, well⊠that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?â You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, âWait, just⊠hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kateâthis isnât about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just⊠move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggsâs investment? So letâs settle this as soon as possible.â
âYou and me?â
âAnd Rankin,â you added, your conscience getting the better of you.
There was a pause before Scott repeated, âYou and me.â
âI donâtâŠâ
âThatâs my final offer.â
Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?
You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that youâd grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You donât face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like âput your money where your mouth is.â At some point you had to choose to take action.
âOkay, fine,â you said. âWhen and where?â
âYou busy tonight?â
You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. âIâm busy every night.â
âPerch. In an hour. Donât be late.â
THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA
As a rule youâd been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask âare the two of you still together?â was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time⊠although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.
You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.
After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.
âGeese?â you asked your mom.
âYes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!â Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. âWhat do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.â
âWell, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,â you said.
Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. âYou know⊠he didnât look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then⊠life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your backâŠâ
âFuck the HOA.â
âRight on! Canât say Iâll miss any of those jerks.â She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. âSometimes I worryââ She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.
âWhat?â
âSometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you donât see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scottââ
âMom,â you warned.
âI know, I know, me and my big mouth.â She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally youâd seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you couldâve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didnât want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you werenât interested in what they had to say.
Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a âbig mouth.â
You reached across the box and touched her arm. âThatâs not what I meant.â
âAll I mean is⊠I know youâre not dating.â
âHow do you know that?â
She grinned. âMothers have their ways. I just donât want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I werenât the model marriageââ
âWhat are you talking about?â you asked. âHalf of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ânuclear family or youâre a failure to societyâ thing is so five-decades-ago.â
âWell, good! Because I was happyâI want you to know that. Maybe it wasnât the sort of romance people write songs aboutâGod knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone⊠itâs less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.â
She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, tooâat your momâs curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldnât believe heâd gotten away with the steal of the century.
Youâd gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldnât remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.
Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your momâs face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you werenât privy. âFor some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.â And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.
You said, âI guess that does sound romantic⊠in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.â
She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.
âDad never liked Scott,â you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.
âWhat makes you say that?â
You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.
âHe wasnât disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldnât be? Your first boyfriend, your first love⊠I donât think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well⊠they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didnât want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,ââit was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolphâs nose squished against the cardboardââit was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later⊠just like thatâŠâ
You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. âI guess Dad was right, after all.â
âHe never said âI told you so,ââ your mom pointed out, âand he never wouldâve wanted to.â
You squeezed her hand. âYeah, I know.â
A phone call from your motherâs friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.
You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadnât spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.
Youâd decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.
Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered âtrendyâ now that the fashion cycle had taken a turnâor God forbid, âvintage.â There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.
You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing youâd been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.
After you broke your engagement off with Scott, youâd gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.
You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid⊠and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.
âHoney, Rose wants to know if youâd like to join us for dinner at her place!â
Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. âIâll be right down!â you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.
It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and itâd been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.
PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY
The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jewelerâs who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.
The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isnât a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.
Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.
Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driverâs presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancĂ©âs engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster⊠which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.
(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)
Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didnât want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.
You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.
But hell if he didnât look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.
âSeriously?â he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.
âWell, this isnât a social call.â
âBy all means.â He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. âI took the liberty of ordering your usual.â
You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. âActually, itâs not my usual anymore.â
âReally?â
âBut thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javiââ
âWhat is this mythical new usual?â
âAre you kidding?â you balked, narrowing your eyes.
âNo, Iâm just curious.â He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but youâd be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.
âI hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point youâre gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anywayââ
âYou donât have a new usual.â Scott smirked. âItâs still a gin sour and youâre just being difficult.â
âDifficult⊠Wow, okay! Weââwagging your finger in the space between youââare not together anymore, so these mind games youâre trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick moveââ
âA dick move!â he repeated.
âYeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality nowââ
âIs it?â he laughed.
ââbut Iâm trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all youâve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!â
He rolled his eyes. âThis is such a fucking boring conversation.â
Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. âYou were the one who wanted to do this in person!â you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.
âAnd you were the one who called me,â Scott pointed out, ânot the other way around.â
His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically youâd be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, youâd miscalculated. âYou know what⊠fuck this.â After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. âI am so over this whole⊠fucking⊠stupid⊠mess. Iâve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriagesâand not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please⊠take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. Weâre tired, okay? This is just⊠so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the wayâyes, itâs still a gin sour.â You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.
And now Iâm ready to leave, you thought.
But Scott had other ideas.
âYou spoken to your mom lately?â
âWhat?â You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you werenât aware of?
âPardon the observation,â Scott went on, âbut you donât seem⊠well.â
âAre you being for real right now?â
âI didnât mean it like that.â
And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.
âI was sorry to hear about your dad.â
He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the groundâinto him, if you were being honest. It didnât matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybeâŠ
âOh, Iâm gonna need another one of these,â you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. âI might as well,â you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drinkâand a glass of waterâin front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.
Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.
âI thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,â added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. âBut I didnât know if Iâd be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought itâd be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.â
âShe what?â
âShe sent flowers. Your mom never said?â
You shook your head. She mustâve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott shouldâve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.
All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you mustâve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things offâand yet, that entire winterâs morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that heâd thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you werenât aware you even had.
You cleared your throat. âHowâs your mom, by the way?â
âSheâs doing all right. Sheâs part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.â
âPlease tell me that isnât a euphemism.â
âGod, I hope not.â
You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. âIâm glad sheâs doing okay. Your dadâŠ?â
He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncleâs drink, too. âI haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.â
âScottââ
âHowâd you and Javi become an âusâ anyway? He never said.â
Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldnât want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javiâs company?
âIâll be on my best behavior for the nextââhe looked down at his watchââfifteen minutes. Promise.â
âI donât know, I think itâs better if we table all the personal talk,â you hedged.
âBetter for whom?â
âBetter for my clients. And better for me, too. Weâre not friends.â
âWeâve never been friends,â Scott pointed out.
âExactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?â
âCall it a term of this negotiation.â
âScottâŠâ Already this night was going nothing like how youâd planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6â4â reality and you werenât unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last⊠and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yoursânot again. Youâd made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javiâs offer.
This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.
âFine,â you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. âIt happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City⊠I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company heâs starting with a friend of his, says itâs a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor becauseââo
You broke off. You hadnât considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.
âSo youâre the girl!â
âCome again?â
âThe girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!â
âWhat?â Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.
You settled for: âHe said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christaâs friends at the timeââ
âRachel.â
âYeah. So heâd show up, be around⊠You know how Javi can be.â
âLike a persistent terrier.â
âSounds like your kind of business partner.â
Scott looked away.
Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, âI work a lot, so itâs hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. Itâs nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you thereâs more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.â
âWhat thing did he say happened?â
Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intentlyâif you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: âJust that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.â
Your reward was a skeptical laugh.
âAlso, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado⊠which he feels bad about, by the way.â
âNot bad enough.â
âScott, you canât really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi weâre talking about.â
âThatâs not part of this discussion.â
âOkay?â you shot back. âI donât remember agreeing to that condition.â
âYouâre still at this table.â
âAnd that can easily be fixed!â
âAll right, calm down.â Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, âI thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults⊠What else have you been up to?â
âYou want to know about my life?â
âLike I said, Iâm curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.â
Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. âFine. But itâs going to be quid pro quo,â you demanded. âCall it a term of this negotiation.â
His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, âTerm accepted, counselor.â
In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once youâd established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say âpassâ if you werenât willing to answer a question.
You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadnât returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncleâif you could call taking a major investment from Riggs âbranching outââhad gone badly.
Either way, by the end of the evening you felt youâd been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didnât live far. âMaybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.â
âIâll walk you home,â he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. Youâd forgotten how that could make you feel like youâd won the jackpot.
âIâm sorry, I know youâre going to take this the wrong way,â you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, âbut I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.â
âExcuse me!â
âI meanâŠâ You stopped and full-body gestured. âI mean, look at you!â
âWhat?â
âEven your slacks are pressed!â
âObjection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?â
âDonât make it weird,â you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you mightâve been checking him out. âAll I meant to say wasââ
âThat I donât look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe âRodeo Clownâ is more your thing these days.â
âDonâtâTylerâs actually quite decent, you know.â
âBut you knew exactly who I was talking about.â Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain menâScott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.
âThis is me.â You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where youâd lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.
âCan I come up?â Scott asked.
You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. âThatâsâŠâ A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?
Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. âJesus, would you relax?â he said. âIâm not asking to tuck you inâunless, if thereâs someoneââ
âThere isnât,â you hurried to say.
âOh? How come?â
The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. âLike I said, Iâm busy,â you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, whatâs the big deal?
Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.
âFine,â you caved. âBut only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!â
âScoutâs honor.â
In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time heâd wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?
At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well youâd tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living areaâthe work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets youâd brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasnât nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.
âYeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,â Scott mentioned at last.
âWhat do you mean?â
âI donât know, itâs just⊠you,â he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because youâd let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. âYou still canât keep a plant alive worth shit.â
âRude,â you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.
Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he mustâve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. âAnd yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?â he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.
âSometimes,â you replied, âwhen I have friends over. Which hasnât happened much this year, if Iâm being honest.â
âLetâs play.â
You laughed. You didnât believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.
âYou want to play Life with me?â you challenged. âDoesnât that seem a littleâŠâ
âAnd you call me uptight.â He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. âCome on, hotshot, live a little.â
Despite your better judgment, and after a momentâs panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like youâd done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day⊠one day weâll have this every day.
As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.
SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS
Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at armâs length so he could look you up and down. âWould you take a look at that,â he said to Scott, âpretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?â
It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there youâd thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of âdo we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?â had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yesâhad always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.
In the absence of his father, âmeeting the familyâ entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than youâd known her before. But all those other times, youâd met Riggs as Scottâs girlfriend. Now you were his fiancĂ©e, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you wouldâve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scottâthat Riggs was important to him.
So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. Youâve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.
You bowed your head. âThank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.â
âPlease, just Riggs,â he laughed. âOr Marshallâbut only my ex-wives call me that.â
You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his homeâthe old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to âopen up the spaceâ, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforestâhe regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that mightâve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.
He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was âthe place of honor,â and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.
You only wished that you could feel it.
âSo, you want to be a big-deal attorney,â Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. âWhat kind? Criminal?â
âOh, no,â you replied. âCivil all the way. Iâve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure Iâm making the right first move.â
âThe right first move!â He pointed his knife at you. âI like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?â
âCanât say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?â you explained.
He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. âOpening movesâif you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hellâre there so many of âem? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense⊠Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of itâll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Donât I, boy?â He turned to Scott for confirmation.
âYes, sir.â
âYessirâŠâ Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the ninesâfor your benefit, the guest of honorâs.
Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldnât shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. âPretty as a pictureâŠâ he repeated. âLook at you bothâyoung, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening movesââhe raised his glassââmay we always know when to make the right one.â
You raised your glass to be polite.
Scott leaned across the table. âBefore you ask, yes, he is always like this.â
His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for âchampagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!â
As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.
âHow nice it is to spend some quality time,â he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fĂȘte on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think youâd better do it here.
âIâll just be a few minutes,â he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasnât a handsome man; it wasnât about his looksâwhich were well past their primeâbut about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.
âItâs a shame we never did this sooner,â he went on. âWhy do you think that is?â You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult manâruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.
Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.
You hedged, âIâm afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.â
âVery true⊠Not that I would knowâit was always too much book learning for me, Iâm a man of action,â Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because weâre celebrating. âNow, my nephew⊠heâs a bit oâ both, isnât he? Either way, heâs got too much of his mother in âim.â
You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. âDonât mind me, Iâm just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong wayâdon't think I haven't noticed!â Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.
He knows and youâre making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.
He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. âThat nephew of mineâI donât have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for itâimagine that! But that boy⊠good thing his father never knew what to do with âimâsmart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once heâs got an idea in his head. That part Iâd say he got from me,â he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.
âI can see that you love âim⊠I can see that you really love âim. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him âround the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goesâa real catch, my secretary always says, and sheâs been with me since Scott was yea-high. Heâs got his motherâs looks, which Iâll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!â A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, Heâs just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.
âI donât know what I would do without him,â said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. âI really don't. Oh, here! before I forgetâI have something for you.â He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, âGo on, now!â he insisted. âI don't hold with false modesty! Nothinâ but a waste oâ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.â
You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you couldâve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.
âMr. Riggs, this isâŠâ Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggsâs side of the table. âThere is no way I can accept this,â you said. âItâs too much money, and while I appreciate the gestureââ
âNonsense! Itâs my pleasure and I wonât hear no canâts or wonâts about it! I want you to know how well Scottâs been doing here since he finished school. Heâs flourishing, all my business associates love him. I canât possibly make do without him now.â
âI donât understand,â you said, a pit growing in your stomach.
Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. âI think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they sayâyou never forget your first⊠By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans⊠so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter muchâwe were in love. But then⊠the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her handsâat the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, thatâs for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.
âI know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,â he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. âBut really, even if Marjorieâd been an ambassador to the United Nations sheâd still have had a compunction about something or other⊠Ambitionâs a hard pill for most folks to swallow.
âNow, you seem like a nice girl⊠really, I like you plenty! But letâs talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scottânot when heâs trying to become the man that heâs trying to become. The boyâs got the instincts of a killer. Really! All Iâve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, youâre nothinâ like him. Youâll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to âbalance me out,â as they say. Itâs taken me almost fifty years to find out that ainât nothinâ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting oneâs true nature. You and Scott are doomed to failâif not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! Youâve seen the cracks, haven't you? Heâs not the boy you met in Park Haven. Heâs becoming his own man. He doesnât need you anymore.â
You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left realityâthere was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.
âLet me get this straight,â you began, willing your voice not to shake, âyouâre offering me money to break up with Scott because you think Iâm not good enough for him?â
âNo, no, no!â Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. âYouâre getting this all wrong. Iâm not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! Youâre a wonderful girl, Iâm sure Scottâs been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.â
âWith all due respect, youâre out of your mind!â You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.
âSittdown before you wreck the boyâs life.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âDid Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, Iâd have done the decent thingâput a pistol to my head for all my sinsâbut the man has his pride, though I donât know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?â He pointed to his chest. âI did that. Scottâs shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethinâ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boyânot just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I wonât abide a loss. I wonât abide it.â
âScott isnât an investment,â you shot back. âHe isn't yours to own.â
âAnd yet it would seem heâs worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam wonât see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. Iâm telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for himâmy own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.â
The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the sceneâhim in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.
It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.
The sound of Scottâs shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, âDon't make a scene. Think about it.â
âWhat did I miss?â Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another timeâa Before-Time.
As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, âOh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.â
He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, âUncle, you really shouldnât haveâŠâ
PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY
For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universeâs odd sense of humor.
But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.
You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scottâs shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didnât matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.
You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to youâScott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didnât mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.
Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldnât stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, youâre in trouble⊠you said to yourself, and yet it didnât matter. You didnât care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.
Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a timeâor maybe you imagined itâwhen you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought ownerâs insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.
At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, âLooks like I win,â and all you said was, âWhy am I not surprised?â
Then you glanced at the clock. âItâs late.â
âAnd we havenât killed each other. Howâs that for a dĂ©tente?â Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You wouldâve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.
It was a Scott thingâpatient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.
âWow⊠they teach words like that at MIT?â
âThey tried it out with our classâapparently, word was going âround that STEM nerds lack empathy.â
You smiled. âNow where would they go and get an idea like that?â His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.
His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.
âI should go,â he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldnât escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.
âScott!â You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.
âThis was a mistake.â
You went stock still. The spell was brokenâthis was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.
And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decadeâs worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.
âYou never trusted me!â he threw in your face. âAnd I mean neverâeven when we were in high school, especially not in collegeââ
âWhy are you talking about college?â you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.
âEvery time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visitââ
âI was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought weâd moved past that!â
âNo, we didnât move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncleâs company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to âyouâve changed, Scott, I donât think I like who you are anymore, Scottââ?â
âWhat the fuck? I never said that!â
âThe night we had dinner at my uncleâsâthe night you left! And again in the elevatorââ
âCan we not do this?â you plead. âI thought we werenât going to do this. We agreed!â
âWell, maybe I'm changing the terms.â
âThen this ends right here.â
There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: âWhat else is new?â
You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldnât stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.
Youâre not the girl for him. Youâre nothing like him.
Hadnât you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadnât you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?
âIâm sorry.â Scott took an immediate step towards you. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean that.â
âYes, you did,â you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.
âDonât do thatâdonât pretend to know how I fucking feel.â
âYou forget, Scott. I know you.â
âI thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so⊠unrecognizable!â
âWell, you are!â you exclaimed, shouting again. âSuing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggsâs, what, fucking loyal dogââ
âOh, spare me the hystericsâŠâ
âDid you say it?â you cut in. âDid you really say you didnïżœïżœt care about that town full of people?â
Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javiâs discretion on that score.
If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.
âYou werenât there,â he ground out. âThere were other things going on.â
âDid you say it, Scott?â It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. âBut God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!â
âWhat do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myselfâyou ever consider that? Iâd be nothing without himânothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree withââ
You scoffed.
ââbut Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didnât trick him⊠he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a breakâŠâ
âAnd where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me youâre happy? That it⊠that it feels good to know youâre suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that youâve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is youâre doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!â
He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.
âTell me, howâs the trust fund going? Your dadâhe was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your momâs family⊠theyâve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? Itâs pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didnât sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that youâd ever understand.â
Moneyâhad it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money⊠and jealousy of your father, Scottâs resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The âcracksâ Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.
Scott⊠Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?
âYou only think you canât make it without him,â you dared to say. âBut he doesnât care about you.â
âWhat, not like you do?â
âNo,â you affirmed. âNot like I do.â
Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling âno fair!â, probably with Riggsâs voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. âYou don't get to do that. You donât get to do that after all this time⊠youâyou fucking left!â
âHe offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and itâs trueâI grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. Thereâs rich and then thereâs capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when youâve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.â
âI donât believe you.â
âYes, you do. I can see it in your eyesâyou know Iâm telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that⊠no, not Riggs. Heâd gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasnât about to lose you. So he waited until you left the tableââ
âIâm not going to listen to this.â
ââhe waited until you left the table,â you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scottâs patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. ââIf he marries you, he and his mother wonât see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,ââ you recited. âThose were his words. Iâm not lying to youâI wouldn't, not about this.
âHe was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didnât take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only youâd stood up to your uncle before, if you werenât blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said thingsâŠâ
You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldnât stay, not with Riggsâs check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didnât understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You werenât picky. You werenât careful. You just had to leave.
You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how youâd acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldnât swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.
âI said things to you that I wish Iâd never⊠that I still think about, and I still regret, because I loveââ Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. âI still love you, Scott. I love you. I shouldâve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.â
âNo⊠you left,â he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.
âI know I did⊠I know, but he canât have you.â You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you shouldâve said that night in New Orleans. âI wonât let him have you⊠not this time⊠not again.â
Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.
One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiarâthe pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.
In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.
At a friendâs New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you werenât too proudânow, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the worldâto admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.
Even when you managed to make yourself comeâreally come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feelingâyou had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldnât curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)
It was Scott⊠it was only ever Scott.
The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, lifeâs too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.
He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.
Donât go, you want to say into his heaving chest.
Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.
âI miss you,â he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
âI miss you too.â
After that, there was a silence so long it made you think heâd dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. âI don't think I can do what you need me to do. Iâm not⊠thatâs not who I am anymore.â
âI think you are,â you said back. âI think heâs who youâve always been.â
THREE WEEKS LATER
You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, youâd let the office know youâd be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abbyâs eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period dramaâa true-blue staycation.
The morning after you and Scott slept together, youâd agreed that it was in everyoneâs best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javiâs lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television seriesâbetween the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.
And yet you always managed.
For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.
âWe brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.â
At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partnerâs arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, âThat one!â, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his brideâs hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.
The woman beamed. So did he.
âLooks like we have ourselves a winner,â the pleased salesman declared.
After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travisesâ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.
The thought of going home no longer filled you with dreadâfor which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.
But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.
Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.
On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. âJavi, howâs the weather looking?â you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.
 âSheâs a fickle mistress, Iâll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know⊠Scott called this morning. He says heâs dropping the suit.â
âOh?â
âYou donât sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?â
âNo,â you replied, picking up your phone, âthatâs all Scott. I havenât spoken to him in weeks, actually.â
âWell, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my faultâbusiness is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. Thatâll hurt like aâwell, you know⊠Iâm not the guyâs biggest fan these days. But if I donât have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, Iâll count myself lucky and say itâs a price well-paid.â
âAnd Scott?â you ventured to say.
âHonestly, I think heâs done with the whole thing. Sounds like heâs closing up shop, which makes sense. Heâs a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.â
You laughed. âYeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?â
âMe, or me and Scott?â
âBoth.â
To Javiâs credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. âYeah, Iâm good. You know me⊠I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I donât know about that one⊠I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.â
You snorted. âGod forbid.â
âYeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, Iâd just let bygones be bygones. Lifeâs too short, you know. Shit happens⊠I donât want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.â
âYeah, I get that.â
âWhat I mean to say,â Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, âis that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, Iâll answer. You can even tell him I said that.â
âMe?â You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.
âYeah, you! Iâm not an idiot, hotshot, that historyâs not gone ancient yet.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âMhm⊠Anyway, the windâs picking up. Kateâs off reading her dandelions.â
âYou know, I kinda wish I could see her doing thatâŠâ
âWatch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!â Javi crowed.
You shook your head, said, âI wouldn't hold my breath,â but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.
Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering⊠And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.
Heâd answered.
âScott, itâs me,â you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.
There was a pause and then you heard his voice: âDid Javi tell you?â
âYeah, we just got off the phone.â
âOpen your door.â
You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. âWhat?â
âOpen your door, UPenn!â
You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.
He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.
âThought Iâd skip out on being a sore loser this time.â He gave a half-shrug.
âI donât know, Miller⊠from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.â
He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your momâs apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be builtâtogether.
âAll I want is you,â promised Scott, taking you into his arms.
You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring youâd kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.
Something like awe and wonder.
âDonât you know? You've always had me.â
And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man whoâd never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldnât have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tylerâs corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase itâno matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.
It took you a while, but you understood it now.
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