#had she tried being more genuine they might've become akin friends

[the-artist-grimm]

Forneus should bench-press Narinder

Vessel #7 was an interesting disciple. She came in with a strong sense of justice and a desire to help, yet in the same vein could be overtly informal and overzealous-namely in her over-confidence in flirting with anyone, from her cultists to enemies to Death himself. Despite his lack of interest and repeated attempts at telling her to cease fooling around, she continued taunting him till the day she abdicated the crown.

She got under his skin in a way others hadn't, and while at the time he'd loathed it, once she was gone, he found himself missing her sound. Her deaths were rare as was her company, but even so, most vessels didn't bother trying to converse as much as she did, and while he could've done without the flirts, it was almost enjoyable at times, when she dropped the flirting that is.

[momentspassd]

'I know I should've called...'

What a silly thought. It was lost on the blonde why her ex would even consider such a thing. In the two years post their volatile end she hadn't responded to a single thing Terry had sent her way. And that deliberate silence on her part hadn't been to punish the architect or to play a game of silent treatment— Selina had been genuinely wounded by her ex's words.

The vile things hurled at her.

In a matter of a few moments Terry had broken down so much of her that it had actually changed her life, altered her approach, and redirected her path forward.

How could it not? The person she'd spent nearly a decade of her life with had become a part of Selina and to learn Terry had thought so negatively, for who knew how long, broke a hopelessly in love woman to her core.

That kind of heartbreak reformed a person.

"You're right, I wouldn't have answered." The alpinist continued to take in Terry's living space. It was something akin to re-learning who this person was that she'd given so much of herself to, a big chunk of her life. As though everything had changed and Terry had become someone else entirely the moment she'd walked away shattered and in tears. It was easy to avoid eye contact, there was an excuse for it, being inside the so-called cabin.

At the offer to sit on their couch Selina merely glanced at it then returned her attentions to her ex opening up the cabin and letting the breeze in to give the space some life. Without the fresh air the mountaineer might've choked in there on all the things she could've and should've said. Yet, her tongue refused to move and her lips seemingly couldn't be pried open.

It was a beautiful cabin, something that was of no surprise, and the location only made it better. The only downfall was that the rental Selina had was adjacent— next door to the house directly across the street. That wasn't something she'd share. If anything the blonde wanted her ex to think she was staying in a motel. Something that conveyed in and out.

"No, again, I'm not staying long," the Big Sky girl responded to the offer of a drink. How would she do a sit down over tea when she had no idea how to even begin communicating with Terry? "I already did all I came to do, really." There was no answer to why she lingered, or why she'd come inside. Both were actions she'd blame on her father's letter and if she'd gain any insight from Terry on what he'd written them.

While she stood there waiting Selina began to fidget a little. Never once had she ever been the type to be riddled with anxiety, nor with a broken sense of confidence. She was so lost in a room with the person she thought she'd known best in the world. As the questions of her father came forth, the photographer felt that phantom pain in her chest and did her best to mask the torment of her grief by tucking her hair behind her ears.

"He's dead, Terry."

The announcement was direct, made with full eye contact, her throat tight with the pain saying those words evoked. "He, uhh—" Now nervous energy took over as Selina looked anywhere but her ex as the confession made her the most vulnerable person in the room. Letting herself feel such a grand loss would take her down quickly. Her father was her best friend and her partner in what had become a lifelong purpose, one that the love of her life had seemed to despise. She began picking at her cuticles when she felt the tears well in her eyes, and waited to say anything more because she knew her voice would tremble with the overwhelm of emotion if she tried.

"Umm, he— yeah, he's not well. Clearly," Selina shook her blonde head, willing herself to think more clearly, "he passed away a couple of months ago. That letter came with instructions in his will." Said letter was pointed at, the one she'd done her duty and given to Terry.

Now that the news was also out Selina felt she'd finished her business here in Blue Harbor and with her ex. A breath was demurely pulled into her lungs to steady herself then exhaled as she took a step toward the door she'd just recently entered through.

Terry had looked at the world with an architect’s sharp eye. They knew, for instance, that for structures to grow higher, there was a need to dig downwards, proportionate to its height. But despite that slow rise from the earth, no structure could stand forever. Of their sophomore year lectures in Barnard, they recalled how Lina Bo Bardi, the famed Italian architect, had been a scholar of reconstruction. She understood that one ought to map the destruction first before there should even be an attempt to preserve what was left. Only the act of preservation was not merely to embalm a structure in plaster and hope that it stood. To do so was merely to paint over the damage, ignoring the painful—but fulfilling—process of rebuilding. It took time and effort, that meticulous reconstruction of the earth. 

How, then, should they start now? 

Right, the letter. Terry could still remember how their heart had thumped in their chest, how the pulse points on their wrist and neck felt as if they were vibrating, almost independent of the stillness of their body, as they pressed ‘Send.’ How they held onto the hope that Selina might respond for days, weeks, on end. She must’ve seen it, Terry thought, even though the forum had held no read receipts as their text messages might have. Only they didn’t know what was worse: the pain of not being listened to, or the pain of being heard, but the damage had already been ingrained so deep that it could no longer be dignified with a response.

“It’s always just been easier for me to be honest there,” Terry said, candidly, fingers twitching with a nervous energy. All their life, words had never come easy—but the stress of finding the words and sentences were abated by the faint glow of a computer screen, having removed the threat of their sharp tongue, honed by decades of arguments with their father, their ex-husband, at times even their son. “I know I should’ve called, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate that. Or if you’d pick up at all,” they hesitated to add, afraid that in so doing, a confirmation might be issued. Like, yes, I wouldn’t have appreciated it, or I wouldn’t have picked up anyway. 

Her next words did little to satiate their anxiety. I don’t really have a lot of time, she had said, confirmation enough that Sev was not staying for good. Whatever it was she’d come for, it was not for Terry—it was only as a favor to her father.  “Okay,” they said, simply, unsure whether there was anything else to do. They knew when to concede the fight, but that didn’t make it any less painful.

Terry swung the door shut, and the log cabin immediately felt stifling. Even Sev’s compliment had fallen on slightly deaf ears, too preoccupied with the blood rushing at their head to pay attention. “Thanks,” they said, watching as she made her cursory glances around the cabin, with its slight entryway and the doorless living room, “It’s a lease. I have the whole cabin to myself for a year.” They were details that they’d already dropped in their messages but bore repeating anyway, now that Sev was finally here, and not there, her presence on its own already such an incomparable gift. 

With the tension demanding release, Terry busied themselves with moving around the living room and opening the windows that had been drawn shut when they left to watch birds flitting through the forest. “You can sit down on the couch if you like,” they said, gaze skimming over her as they focused on filling the room back with air. They approached the window on the east end of the room and propped it open, the window creaking as it was swung out to its hinges. “Did you want anything to drink?” They attempted to sustain the conversation as they repeated the same exercise to the other windows, the light green curtains billowing around them, like leaves shifting, rustling, as they made contact with the wind. 

Finally, after the last window had been propped open, Terry asked, “How is he, by the way? Your father?” They said, leaning against the open windowsill, casting their gaze back to hers on where she settled. It had been some time since they’d last made contact with him—or any other members of her family, for that matter—no longer certain if they’d welcome their presence, or if Terry’s presence, too, had similarly been marked as an intrusion. “I don’t mind that you’re here, of course,” their fingers drummed against the wooden sill, grounding them, as they attempted to piece the picture together. “But, still. Is he doing okay?”