#plastic tablet container | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mistydeyes · 1 year ago

Text

half empty glasses with unchanging perspectives

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: You hated time spent alone as it encouraged all your past traumas to come flooding in. Seeking some semblance of relief, you find yourself drinking alone at the pub. However, you regret your decision when you lock eyes with Simon.

part i - behind closed doors part ii - hollow apologies and avoiding glances

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader (but like not even a pairing at this point lol)

okay real talk here and same psa as before but please do not read if you are not comfortable with ANY OF THIS! it is upsetting in all aspects!!

warnings: mentions of torture/violence/cuts/scars, swearing, abusive language, ANGST GALORE

a/n: PART III IS HERE! i busted this out after doing some studying but i hope you enjoy another dose of angst

�� @nadinesabre @casualunknownrunaway @originaldeerhottub @justpasssingby @missroro @josieguts @miss-i-ship-it @sicknasty03 @jojoblossom @azwong @shadofireshinobi @caramlizedtomatoes @deltottoro @kenz-ee @teehee-47 @tiredmetalenthusiast @hollowmasque

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

You crossed off the calendar marking another “successful” therapy appointment. “Only forty of those fucking crying sessions,” you laughed sardonically. Your hand was smeared with the wet red ink as you sat down on your uniformly made bed. Today was your day off and you fidgeted at the lack of obligations. Most of your colleagues had gone home or spent little time off base. You missed those days when you actually could let your guard down and enjoy the company of others. You sighed as you sunk into your bed, squeezing your eyes tightly as another migraine coursed through your head.

After months since your ordeal, you finally returned to base. Your eyes stung at the fluorescent lights in the hallway and the squeak of military-grade boots. "You alright, Sergeant?" the pharmacist asked as she dispensed a large bag of pills and blister packs to you. "Just a headache," you mumbled as you brought a scarred hand to your face. She had a pleasant smile as she put the bag on the counter "The paracetamol should help," she hummed and you thanked her on your way out of the automatic doors. That night as you counted out 7 different pills of varying size and color, you swallowed them hard with a bottle of water. "God, can't wait until I'm done with these."

Your hand searched for the pill case on your nightstand until you felt the large plastic container. You systematically counted your daily meds, each colored tablet making your stomach churn at the idea. "And another paracetamol for luck," you chuckled to yourself as you swallowed the handful. You continued to stare at the ceiling in absolute boredom. Part of the reason why you hated the silence on base was the creeping thoughts of that dark, cold room. You tried books, drawing, meditation, and even increasing your visits to the gym by twofold. Yet, every time you returned to your quarters, you felt yourself unravel piece by piece.

"Fuck this," you yelled at no one and got up to change into something more presentable. You tried to smooth your hair and poked at the almost naturally appearing eye bags that aged you immensely. Pleasantries of fragrance and accessories weren't your prerogative as you closed your door and walked to inform the appropriate officials of your last-minute decision to leave the base. You tried to suppress the rising anger at the surprised looks on your superiors' faces as well as the turned heads as you climbed into your car. You beat your fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as you thought of your next actions with all the free time in the world. As your car crept slowly on the street, you took a right turn to the only destination you could think of: the pub.

As you found parking amongst the hundreds of cars, you smiled at the notion of finding solitude along with the drunken crowds and clangs of glasses. You pushed through the loud laughter and cheers as you ordered a single lowball glass of cheap whiskey. You threw your money on the counter and found a quiet corner to peoplewatch. Your throat burned as you swallowed the brown liquor and cursed the hangover you would have in the morning. Your wallowing was interrupted by the loud cheers of a certain group, one you never wanted to see again.

"SHOTS ALL AROUND!" you could hear Soap call as you observed him hand small glasses of a highly flammable liquid around. The group laughed and then slightly cringed at the taste of it. You could feel your hands tighten around the glass as you looked at the group. "So goddamn normal," you mumbled under your breath before you took another drink. You turned your body slightly and shielded yourself from their merriment. You tried to calm your breathing as you drank faster and faster. This was the last fucking thing you needed. "Slow down there, friend," the bartender winked at you as he watched you down the beverage. You rolled your eyes at the suggestion before you continued to look at the half-empty glass.

'You really should slow down," a voice said as he joined on the empty seat next to you. Your body tensed at the voice and you didn't even need to look to know it was your old lieutenant seated next to you. So much for enjoying a night out. "And what the fuck would you know," you shouted over the loud crowd. Your throat winced at the rising tone and ached from the liquor that burned your insides. "I know that those aren't good for the medication you're taking," Simon softly replied and you threw a hand at him in dismissal. "Now who told you that," you countered, "the same man who gave you the go-ahead to keep me in a room and torture me until I confessed."

There was a beat of silence, as for once, Simon was at a loss for words. He thumbed at his frosty glass, letting the condensation drip onto the counter. "Anyways what are you here for?" you asked sarcastically, "wonder how many bodies you boys left before you returned." Simon shook his head at your comment, taking another sip from his drink. He practically finished it, necessitating a refill from the overworked bartender. "What are you getting at, Eclipse?" he replied and you cringed at the use of your old codename. You let out a dry laugh as you casually sipped on the disgusting beverage. "Don't fucking lie, Simon," you said, venom in your tone, "you can come here, drink in victory, but I know how cruel you can be."

You sat uncomfortably for a few moments and looked on at the roaring crowds. The rest of the 141 had dispersed among the patrons but you could feel their piercing gaze on your scarred skin. "Nothing to say, Simon," you cynically laughed again, "god you really haven't changed." From the corner of your eye, you could see how he shifted in his seat and picked at the calluses on his hands. It almost felt relieving seeing the amount of power you held over him in this moment. This should have made you whole again. If not the previous altercation in the hallway, then this right here. But as you looked back down at your glass, you still felt the same painful wounds ooze open.

“It’s nice to see you again, Eclipse,” Ghost spoke, barely reaching an audible volume over the loud pub, “I’m haunted by the things I did to you.” At that, you couldn’t help but let your drink drop on the counter, sloshing a sickly reddish brown liquid across the wood. “Sure you fucking are, Simon,” you mumbled as you looked at the mess, “I hope you have nightmares about the shit you did.” He hung his head in response, taking another long swig of his all-too-expensive drink. “Will you ever forgive me?” he asked and you practically could double over laughing. “Gaz and Soap maybe but as for you and the Captain,” you said lowly as you got up from the stool. You leaned closely to his ear to reiterate your sentiments, “You would have to crawl across the earth for my forgiveness.”

998 notes · View notes

missviviii · 10 months ago

Text

a/n: zayne my boo <3 im sobbing over the fact that the game killed off mc’s grandma and caleb 😭

ミ★ Love & Deep Space ミ★

pairing: zayne x fem!reader

warning(s): mentions of death, mentions of the explosion that killed mc’s grandma + childhood best friend (caleb) in game, spoilers(?)

Summary: Ever since that day, you’ve fallen in a deep, dark pit. Why did you have to be the one that they decide to destroy? Why did Caleb and Grandma have to die? Is it your fault they did? Zayne, as your primary care physician and a family friend, is concerned for your well-being.

“Sometimes, a small gesture is all it takes.”

The sound of the news on your TV, the thundering rain outside, the sound of the cars driving by your apartment—it all blurs out as you stared at the TV screen, eyes dead and unfocused on the news of the Wanderers attacking and the explosions. Some 22 casualties, two deaths. Grandma and Caleb. His necklace that you bought him as a goodbye gift when he left for the Aerospace Academy sits beside a picture of you, him, and Grandma on the coffee table, the cheerful smiles making you wished that you could revisit time.

Your apartment, once somewhat organized and clean, is now messy with things being knocked down and dirty dishes long discarded. You stare at the one last thing your Grandma left for you, some..tablet(?) with a final letter on it. You haven’t gotten the energy or the ability to open it. It pains you, seeing that you haven’t visited for so long yet when you do, this was the time her house had to explode right in front of you, flames engulfing the house and the only thing that remained was Caleb’s necklace.

“I miss you, Grandma..” You mumbled to nobody, rubbing the tears threatening to spill out your eyes as you glanced down at the item she left you with. Besides that, a small box of her old recipes of those notecards, and other small things that she had entrusted to you years before.

Around you was your laptop, papers and files on the latest Wanderer attacks around you. Yes, Captain Jenna dismissed you and said that you should take some days off to regain your energy, since you haven’t been getting the sleep or the energy you needed, but you just couldn’t.

Your door opened, yet you didn’t bother to look at who entered. “Still sitting in front of the TV?” A familiar voice spoke out, flipping the light switch on and shutting the door behind him. It was Zayne, a long time family friend and your primary care physician. “You haven’t eaten,” he bluntly says as he sets a bag of food on your table and walked into the kitchen. He bites back a sigh, knowing that you were going through a tough time, and people tended to discard everything and grieve and grieve their hearts out.

“Hello to you too, Zayne,” you replied as you shut off the news and got up off your sofa. You pile up all the papers and files you’ve scattered around and set them on the coffee table before you walk into the kitchen as Zayne is cleaning up your dirty dishes. He checks in on you whenever he’s free or when he’s off his shift. He looks back at you, only making a small hum of acknowledgment before cleaning up your dirty kitchen. You looked terrible—eyes red and puffy from crying, obvious eye bags, and the sparkles from your eyes were gone.

You yawn as you take out a bowl and some utensils for whatever food he brought in for you. You unpacked the bag as he cleaned up the dishes you couldn’t bother doing last week. Potatoes, avocado on the side, tuna salad, salmon and rice you said to yourself as you took out the food that he had carefully backed in those plastic containers for you. Then you took out the last thing. Cookie..dough? He remembered your favorite childhood snack. The kind of cookie dough you liked.

“Your grandma gave me a recipe for the cookie dough. She said that if she couldn’t make it, I should since it lightens your mood,” Zayne says as he puts your clean dishes back into the cabinet. He dries his hand off before walking over to you, watching how you stare at it like a piece of gold. Disbelief and shock were etched on your face.

Zayne puts his hand on your back, soothingly rubbing circles as you opened the container and took a bite. Your eyes almost brimmed with tears again. You could remember how your grandma used to bake in the kitchen and you’d always sneak a bite or two of the cookie dough, no care in the world if you could get salmonella.

“Thank..you, Zayne,” you finally said, turning around tightly hugging him. He was a bit hesitant at first, but he put his hand on your head, massaging your scalp as he looked down at you with a gentle look on his face.

“..You’re welcome. I miss her too.”

Zayne’s eyes looked away at the picture on the counter of your grandma. She didn’t have to go out this way.

#love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #vivi’s writing✫彡 #writing #i wanna write #x reader #fanfiction #for funsies #i almost cried #fanfic #my darling <3 #this game is so good #send me asks #love & deepspace #love & deepspace fluff #little bit of angst

482 notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 5 months ago

Text

Designated Person | 10

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Flat Tire

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 6.9k+ (nice)

Tags / Warnings: reader pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food & eating, blackout, movie references, car problems, alcohol & alcoholism, 12-step programs, lying, conflict avoidance, crying crying crying sorry, internal conflict, monologue, toxic relationships but listen we're tryna get better, journal entries, nightmares, ptsd, flashback

Notes: WHAT UP PARTY PEOPLE?? MAKE SOME NOIIIISE (insert dallas buyers club matthew mcconaughey scream crying in his car). Sorry for being a bummer lol sometimes growth hurts but we're gonna get thru this I swear. Ok thank u let me know what you think!!!

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ My Masterlist ]

-----

Blackouts work like magic.

One second you’re perched on a barstool, trying not to sway or slur your words while ordering another drink, and the next you’re jolted awake by the thud of a door closing.

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night.

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong.

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app.

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting.

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom.

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie?

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him?

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again.

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too.

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality.

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright.

“Hey.”

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest.

“How are you feeling?”

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach.

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.”

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless.

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here.

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone?

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic.

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started.

Stupid girl.

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.”

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head.

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?”

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom.

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl.

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat.

God fucking damnit.

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time.

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole.

Anyway.

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting.

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things.

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking.

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you.

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well…

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph.

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?”

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.”

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap.

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.”

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud.

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.”

“Correct.”

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting.

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place?

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?”

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.”

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.”

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.”

“Correct.”

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.”

“Do you believe he was being truthful?”

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.”

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?”

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?”

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?”

“Will do.”

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him.

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?”

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?”

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug.

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it.

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch.

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns.

“What is this?” you ask.

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.”

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“Kissing my ass.”

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.”

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew.

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful.

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement.

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails.

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—”

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.”

“Ok, but—”

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention.

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret.

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time?

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always.

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house.

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps.

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though.

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.”

You winced, “Don’t do that.”

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?”

“That! You’re being an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?”

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?”

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?”

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?”

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop.

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.”

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction.

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway.

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.”

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.”

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand.

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.”

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust.

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing.

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!”

It hits you square in the chest.

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them.

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over.

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it.

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere.

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table.

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair.

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?”

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.”

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway.

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest.

“How is the case going, do you know?”

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.”

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?”

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone.

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?”

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.”

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium.

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.”

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.”

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room.

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today.

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did.

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.”

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face.

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it.

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion.

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt.

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important.

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin?

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.”

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next.

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives.

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him.

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences.

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.”

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium.

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss.

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding.

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either.

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his?

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage.

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk.

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty.

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—”

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch.

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before.

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name.

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no.

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”

“I am.”

“Are you busy?”

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?”

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?”

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?”

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?”

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.”

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.”

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.”

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.”

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge.

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake.

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles.

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed.

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut.

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you.

“Hey sleepyhead.”

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head.

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.”

“Not sleeping well?”

“Fucking awful, honestly.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.”

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.”

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.”

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns.

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more.

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?”

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.”

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet.

“How much do you want me to tell you?”

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move.

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you.

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat.

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact.

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer.

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest.

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

He starts to rock you in a slow, soothing motion, burying his face in your hair as you cry into the collar of his shirt. In the background, behind your racing thoughts and shattered breaths, you hear him whisper on repeat: I’m sorry, baby… I’m so sorry.

200 notes · View notes

justlookfrightened · 2 months ago

Text

Old dogs and new tricks

Prompt fill from @goddess47: MooMaw comes to visit Jack and Bitty

Lorraine Phelps settled back into her seat and sighed.

She was on the plane. The first part of her journey was done.

It hadn’t been so bad, really. Suzanne had driven her to the airport in Atlanta, parked and walked her into the airport, made sure her new suitcase got checked, escorted her all the way to the security line.

“I wish you’d let me get a gate pass so I could stay with you,” Suzanne fussed. “Or arranged a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lorraine had rejoined. “I’m not a child, and I’m not decrepit.”

Not yet, anyway.

This trip to Providence was an adventure for Lorraine, her first time in years on an airplane, her first time ever flying by herself.

When Dicky had traveled to Madison for her “surprise” 75th birthday party, the gift had been a huge box, a box that turned out to contain a new suitcase, one of the ones with wheels on the bottom and a smaller bag inside, and a picture of an airplane.

“Well, this is lovely,” Lorraine had said to her favorite grandson. Yes, he was her favorite, not that she’d ever admit it to anyone. But all those hours they’d spent in the kitchen together … it was like their own flavors melded and complemented one another. “But I don’t know —”

And Dicky had cut her off, because of course he knew what she was going to say.

“The suitcase isn’t the present, Moomaw,” he’d said. “The present is … me ’n’ Jack want you to come to Providence to visit. We didn’t get flights yet, because we have to decide when is the best time and all, but we want you to come stay with us. And this way you can’t say that you don’t have a bag to pack.”

“As if I would!” Lorraine had said.

But truth be told, she might have.

She knew plenty of people traveled all the time, flew all over the country, all over the world even. Jack with his team — he must be flying two, three, even four times a week. Even Dicky had flown back and forth from college after the first year, for breaks too, and Suzanne and Rick flew to visit him even now.

They all knew how to do it, though, with their tickets on their phones and showing identification in the security lines, and understanding what to leave in their bags and take out before they went through the machine.

She shouldn’t have worried.

Dicky had sent videos showing what the screening area was like at Hartsfield, and all kinds of explanations.

“If you’re 75, you don’t have to take your shoes off, and you can leave your sweater on to go through the metal detector,” he’d said in an email. “You don’t have to worry about a laptop or tablet, so just make sure you don’t have anything liquid in your carryon. We can get any toiletries you need here, and you can put your makeup in your checked bag. Otherwise, liquids need to be in small containers and fit in one small plastic bag, which you might or might not have to take out of your carryon.”

As it turned out, Lorraine didn’t even need a carryon. Her purse was large enough for her wallet and phone, a magazine, a paperback book, lipstick and some chewing gum (recommended by Dicky for takeoff and landing).

And it turned out that being a 5-foot-nothing grandmother type with a cloud of white hair meant that the security people wanted nothing more than to help her on her way, with one even coming over to her after she collected her bag to point her towards the correct gate.

Then the first-class (first class!) ticket Dicky and Jack sent meant that she was escorted aboard the flight early, and all she had to do was sit and look out the window and sip the water they gave her.

She texted Dicky: On the plane! Everything is lovely! See you when I get there!

Coach passengers, most of them laden down with roller bags or backpacks and food and pillows and whatnot, were still shuffling past her seat when Dicky replied, “Great! I’ll be at baggage claim when you get here!”

Lorraine carefully put her phone into airplane mode — she’d never had to do that before — before tucking it into her purse and pulling out the magazine. She was too excited to focus on her book.

She spent the flight alternating between reading and looking out the window, enjoying a quite tasty smoked chicken salad. They didn’t have sweet tea; Lorraine toyed with the idea of having a glass of wine, but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. There was too much she had to pay attention to today. But she did indulge in a Coke.

When the plane landed, she waited while most of the people behind her on the plane bumped and jostled their way out. Once she got her phone reconnected, she found a text from Dicky telling her what baggage carousel to look for.

On my way! she texted back, then stood to wait for a break in the traffic in the aisle.

“Can I help you?” the nice flight attendant asked. “Is there someone meeting you at the gate?”

“No, my grandson is at baggage claim,” Lorraine said. “I’ll be fine. Just follow the signs, right?”

It turned out to be as simple as following the people. Dicky was standing at the bottom of the escalator, all but vibrating as he craned his neck to look for her. As soon as he caught sight of her, Dicky gave her a broad smile and a little wave.

“How was your flight?” he asked as soon as the escalator deposited her on the ground floor. “No trouble? You don’t have anything besides your purse?”

“My suitcase should be coming,” she said.

“I mean, besides that? Do you want to sit down while I wait for it? I know what it looks like.”

“I can wait with you,” Lorraine said. “It feels good to stand after sitting on the plane.”

When the purple case came, Dicky picked it up and rolled it towards the exit.

“I’m not parked too far away,” he said.

The ride in Dicky’s little red car started with a long time in a tunnel, then a long time on an interstate through suburban subdivisions and then finally some woodland and fields. It could have been driving out of Atlanta, except the dirt was a different color, and the leaves were different.

Before she would have thought it possible, they were back in suburbs, then getting off the interstate onto city streets.

The whole time, Bitty prattled about everything they could do in the week Lorraine was spending in Providence. He was full of museums and restaurants and farmer’s markets and parks in a way that sounded, frankly, exhausting.

“So,” Dicky finally said, turning the car into a driveway that led to a garage under a high-rise, “any of that sound good to you?”

“It all sounds wonderful,” Lorraine said. “But I didn’t come to see Providence. I came to see you. And, of course, Jack.”

“He’s home by now,” Dicky said. “He had a meeting this morning about some sponsorship things.”

Dicky pulled into a numbered spot and once again took Lorraine’s suitcase, leading her towards an elevator where he pressed the button for the top floor.

“Wait until you see the view,” he said.

Lorraine smiled, because she already had the view she wanted.

Jack, as promised, was in the condo, all solicitousness.

“Bits made some sweet tea this morning,” he said as soon as she was fairly in the door. “Can I pour you a glass? Are you hungry?”

“I ate just fine on the plane,” Lorraine said. “But yes, some sweet tea would be lovely. Let me go freshen up, then some tea, And then maybe a rest?”

“Of course,” Dicky said. “I’m sorry — I should have thought. The bathroom is here —” he opened the first door in the hallway off the kitchen “ — and your room is right next door. I’ll put your suitcase in there.”

Once the door closed on her in the bathroom, Lorraine let out a deep sigh. This was the first time since Suzanne picked her up that she’d been alone, truly alone, and it was a relief. But she knew she only had a couple of minutes before Dicky would get worried about her in here.

That was one of the things no one ever warned you about when you got old. She’d lived alone for years now, and quite liked her own company. Suzanne called most days, of course, and Judy came around, and Lorraine had an active social life, what with church and her book group, but most of the time she saw other people on her own terms.

But then when she did spend time with family, they worried if she spent too long in the bathroom or wanted to go off on her own for a while.

She couldn’t blame them, really. She’d lost Walker years ago now, and no one had expected him to pass when he did. They worried over her. And she did have more aches and pains, not that she complained.

Lorraine washed her hands and refreshed her lipstick before going back to the main living area, able to appreciate the wide windows with a view over the city. Dicky and Jack were in the kitchen, a large tiled area that was separated from the dining room by a counter with high chairs. The dining room wasn’t really separated at all from the living room, except by the furniture that made the use of each area obvious.

Dicky and Jack were speaking in low voices, and Dicky stopped as soon as he saw her. Jack offered her the glass of tea he’d poured while Dicky picked up a plate of cookies and gestured towards the sofa.

“How’s everyone in Madison?” he asked as they settled in.

Lorraine passed along news and greetings — Judy’s oldest boy’s wife was pregnant, and the younger one had dropped out of Georgia Tech and started working as a mechanic, and gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart.

“Your Aunt Judy isn’t thrilled, I can tell you that,” she said. “But she is going on about what a lovely wedding it will be, especially in front of your mother.”

“MooMaw, you know Jack and I are getting married up here,” Dicky said. “I know Mama wants a wedding in Georgia, but that would be a huge mess. Everyone is nice to my face when I’m there, but I know they’re still talking behind my back about me marrying Jack, and why would I want to do that to myself? Never mind that Jack’s folks are in Montreal, and most of our friends are here.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” MooMaw said. “I think you made the right decision. I just wanted to let you know.”

“So I wouldn’t be surprised when Mama brings it up again?” Dicky asked. “I do think that this way the only relatives who’ll come will be the ones who really want to. You’re coming, right?”

“You couldn’t keep me away,” MooMaw said. “Especially now that I know how easy the flight is. I suppose I’ll have to travel with your mother and father.”

“I was thinking you would,” Bitty said. “You don’t want to?”

“To tell you the truth, I kind of like first class,” MooMaw said. “Even though you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course we should have,” Jack said. “We can fly you all up first-class for the wedding.”

“Jack —” Dicky said.

“What?” Jack said. “It’s not that much. We could charter a private plane for your relatives if you want —”

“Jack. We are not chartering a private plane.”

Lorraine hid her smile behind a cookie. Her Dicky had found a good one. What was it her mother had told her when she brought Walker home? It would be just as easy to fall in love with a rich man?

Walker had never been rich, but they’d done all right. They’d both taught school, Lorraine in the primary grades and Walker at the high school, until the girls came along, and then Lorraine stayed home. Walker had worked a series of second jobs in the summer and side jobs all year, and they’d never wanted for anything.

Now Suzanne’s Rick made near as much as the high school principal as the football coach, so they were fine. But it wasn’t “we’ll just charter a plane” money. Or “top-floor condo with a view of the city money” either.

Still, Jack didn’t strike her as spoiled. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he loved Dicky. That was obvious from the first time she saw the two of them together.

“So,” Dicky said, obviously changing the subject. “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Or go do anything this afternoon?”

“I think I’d like to have a lie-down,” Lorraine said. “For at least a while. If y’all don’t want to cook, we could go out — but maybe just for a bite? And then tomorrow, if you’re not busy, Dicky, you could show me around the neighborhood?”

“We don’t mind cooking,” Jack answered. “We have some steaks and some chicken we can grill, if that sounds all right to you?”

“And tomorrow we’ll hit up the market,” Dicky said. “You don’t mind being a special guest on my vlog? But maybe after we go to the farmer’s market Saturday. Jack has meetings tomorrow, but he’s free Friday — we thought we’d go to Newport and maybe take the ferry to Jamestown or Block Island?”

“That all sounds fine,” Lorraine said.

Jack stood as she got to her feet, and she smiled at the manners his parents had clearly instilled in him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little worn out.”

The visit proceeded more or less as Lorraine expected, with Dicky planning daily outings and events, which Lorraine enjoyed immensely — especially ones like the ferry, where she could sit down — and Jack joining them when he was able.

She and Dicky also baked and cooked together, both on camera and off; she sampled foods including stuffed clams and lobster rolls; and she and Jack started an ongoing penny-a-point series of gin rummy games, mostly out on the terrace while Dicky was busy on the computer.

Jack turned out to be a worthy competitor.

The surprise of the visit, and a pleasant one, was the way Jack warmed up to her. She’d obviously liked the boy from the beginning for his devotion to Dicky if nothing else. Now that they had more time together, she came to like his sly sense of humor, the way he observed the world and even the way he helped Dicky moderate his impulses to try to do everything all at once.

Dicky had told her that Jack suffered from anxiety and sometimes had panic attacks, although she didn’t see anything like that during her week in Rhode Island. She hoped that meant he was comfortable with her. He was comfortable enough, at any rate, to mention going to therapy, which she supposed was a good thing.

Would probably be a good thing for Dicky too, if she was honest. God knew the boy had a rough enough time growing up, and he always had been a bit of a whirlwind. Maybe those two things weren’t related, but you never knew.

“So,” Dicky said, when he drove her to the airport for her flight home. “When do you want to come back? If you come during the season I can bring you to one of Jack’s games — I can send you the schedule and maybe you want to pick out a weekend with a day game?”

“I couldn’t ask for —”

“You’re not asking, I’m inviting,” Dicky said. “Actually, it was Jack’s idea. If you want Mama and Coach to come with you, I can try —”

“No, that’s fine,” Lorraine said. “I’d like very much to come.”

After all, she thought, as she got in the line for security, this was something she knew how to do now.

#zimbits #omg check please #omgcp #my fic #prompt fill

80 notes · View notes

woodruff · 4 months ago

Text

remembered that i already own denture cleaning tablets i bought for cleaning my watter bottle and kitchen appliances 👍 i will just use this for the attachable brush heads and all is well

i just no an electronic toothbrush for the first time in my life and the first thing youtube shows me is mold & grime build-up in electronic brush heads 😵‍💫

#i wholeheartedly recommend these style of tablets for cleaning plastic containers #they clean mold spores like nothing else #and don't damage the plastic #good stuff #..... wait isn't there a fucking magnet in the brush head. you can't use the tablets on metal #oh well if god wants me to die i die

1 note · View note

anotherdayforchaosfay · 2 months ago

Text

Because it looks like cool trend...

#chaosfay talks #poll #i'm curious to see what you choose

59 notes · View notes

hanaaishi · 4 months ago

Text

PAIRING: Matt Rempe x AFAB! Reader

WORD COUNT: 4.7K

SUMMARY: A surprise bar fight in Gramercy lands Matt Rempe in Bellevue with a head laceration. But a missing bangle allows you to share an experience of a lifetime with him.

WARNINGS: Bigotry, Harassment, Hospitals, Medical Treatment, Swearing, and Violence

I dedicate this story to @2manytabsopen as part of the 2K24 Summer Fic Exchange.

This is my first time writing for a non-binary, asexual person of color. I tried my best to incorporate that into the story while following the instructions you provided in the initial ask. As a result, if I messed up on anything, I am deeply sorry.

That being said, it was lovely to write for you. I had a lot of fun researching Desi culture for the story.

@wyattjohnston @kurlyteuvo @callsign-denmark @avengedearth

The fluorescent lights of the Bellevue emergency room burned overhead as you knelt between endless rows of medical supplies in the storeroom with an open package of disposable syringes at your feet. You scooped a handful and placed them into their labeled plastic container alongside the others lining the chrome-wire shelf. After unloading and breaking down the cardboard, your eyes shifted to the Apple watch around your wrist, which read 6:09 pm. Unpacking today's delivery of medical supplies pared only a single hour away from your twelve-hour night shift, causing an exasperated sigh to fall from your lips. You adjusted your navy blue watch band and rose to your feet to provide your knees with much-needed relief after kneeling upon the hospital's mosaic tile floor for an extended period. A smile appeared as you took a few steps back to review your work and admire your pristine organization before tucking the cardboard under your arm and touching the light switch.

As you entered the hallway, an adagio melody of soft chatters reached your ears. Your nose picked up the remnants of a disinfectant miasma as if the hospital came to life and unleashed a deluge of germicide upon itself like the Overlook Hotel from The Shining. You look deeper into the hallway to your left and into the waiting room on your right, waiting for a code to begin over the intercom and a flock of nurses rushing around the corner with a crash cart. But the announcement never came, causing you to blink at the colleagues meandering past with their files and patients. The hospital's serenity continued to hold against the chaos of the bustling Manhattan streets outside, a rarity in the most populated metropolis in the country.

You closed the door behind you, waiting for the light on the card reader to turn red, signifying that the storeroom had locked. Afterward, you joined the flow of hospital staff wandering through the department on your way to the emergency room’s hospital bay, where the maintenance staff stored the recycling for easy disposal. Several nurses, who must have received a slight lull while waiting for new patients or test results, mulled around the central station. They stood against the white quartz countertop, filling out paperwork or discussing their plans for their next day off with the RNs assigned to monitor the systems for that shift. The handful of invalids who visited the emergency room that evening lay interspersed upon the flimsy white mattresses lining the hospital’s beds with their eyes fixated on their phones or a book in their hands. In one or two stations, a fortunate soul conversed with one of the scheduled doctors, who explained their diagnoses and proceeding prognosis through gestures toward their tablets and illuminated X-rays. Their mouths moved in gentle whispers, preventing you from picking on their reason for visiting. However, based on their relaxed demeanor, you deduced it was for non-critical injuries, like broken bones and simple sutures, and other everyday ailments as you wandered further from the department’s core.

After several moments, the expansive black sliding doors where the EMTs unloaded patients from their ambulances came into view. The sight added an extra bounce in your step, driving you to the recycling room in desperation to trash your cardboard and join your fellow nurses at the station or perhaps grab a cup of mediocre coffee the hospital stocked in the break area from local grocers. However, before you could take your break, one of the boxes slipped from your grasp and clattered to the floor, causing you to stop. As you bent down to retrieve it, a chill began to rise on your spine as the sound echoed through the ambulance bay. The hospital was well-lit, and you could still see bits of your co-workers' pastel scrubs in the distance, but an eerie silence had permeated the air. In the city that never sleeps, you often had a faint cacophony of horns honking and emergency services sirens always accompanying you. But there was nothing like seeing the dark storm clouds before hearing the thunder.

Suddenly, indistinct red and blue shimmers appeared on the off-white walls, causing you to lift your head and turn your attention to the dancing lights. You slouched your shoulders and rolled your eyes at the illuminations as the ambiance of the distant siren struck up once more and confirmed the proximity of an emergency service vehicle. Despite your odds, an incessant mantra began in your head, pleading with the lights to disappear and the siren to fade into as the New York City Police Department or Fire Department passed on their way to an emergency. The Universe sadly appeared to ignore your invocation as the lights and sirens grew ever closer to Bellevue, and you grimaced upon realizing that it was the FDNY, but not for a blazing inferno threatening to burn down several city blocks.

“Fuck!” you said under your breath as you recognized the youthful visage of one of the EMTs who often brought patients to the hospital through the bay doors. You grabbed the cardboard and leaned it against the recycling room door, making a mental note to dispose of it later if maintenance didn’t remove it first. Turning to the door, you grabbed a pair of sterile gloves from a nearby box and rushed out to meet the team.

The EMT smiled as he saw you emerging into the cool spring air from the building. “Evening! I have an interesting one for you: Matt, 22, got into a bar fight at The Foundry a few blocks down in Gramercy. His vitals are stable, and the only noticeable injury is this laceration on his forehead.” He pointed to a patch of gauze on the patient’s face, anchored with two pieces of medical tape. “Apparently, there was a group of rowdy patrons there, and Matt and his friends intervened, causing one of the guys to launch a beer bottle at Matt’s head. He declined to press charges, so no visits from PD, and seems alert. He’s also not too thrilled about getting checked out at the hospital because he’s afraid some guy named Peter would kill him, but I told him it was protocol.”

“Hi, Matt. I’m one of the nurses who works in the emergency room here. It looks like you have a nice cut on your head. We’re going to get you checked out and make sure you don’t have any other hidden injuries. And then, we should get you out by the end of the night. How does that sound?” you explained, approaching the stretcher and placing a comforting hand on the guardrail.

Matt turned his head, acknowledging you with his honey-almond eyes. Your grip around the bed rail tightened, and you tilted your head to study his features better as you neared the bed. Given the fact that the wound wasn’t actively bleeding, it appeared prime facie that the wound was superficial and wouldn’t cause a lasting scar to maim his handsome face. He wore a tense smile on his uneven pink lips and under an adorable button nose while a few strands of his long chestnut hair framed his square jaw. Noticeable dried blood spots on his white button-up peeked out from his dark grey blazer, but it was nothing that some coffee grounds would be able to take out. He also possessed a delicate aroma of juniper, possibly from a cologne that he bought on Fifth Avenue, which tied his outfit together and gave him a gentlemanly appearance. Intrusive began storming your subconscious, compelling you to remark on his handsomeness. However, despite the persistent urge, you remained in place and offered Matt a warm smile, hoping it would ease his fears. He regarded your face for a moment more before reciprocating your tenderness and spreading his lips into a more genuine smile.

The paramedic exchanged puzzled looks with his technicians waiting to roll Matt into the emergency room, wondering why you two were staring at each other. After a few moments, he cleared his throat to break the intimate encounter. “Yeah, so, that’s the story. Can we head into the emergency room to get him some help?”

“Oh, yes, I’m so sorry,” you replied as your brain uncrossed its wires, allowing you to re-comprehend human speech. You stepped back and turned your head to the aging brick wall constructing the hospital, pretending to stare at something to avoid eye contact with the technicians as they entered the ambulance bay.

Once they had passed, you fixed your eyes on their backs as they rolled Matt through the doors. The intrusive thoughts finally gave up the fight, but the battle left more questions than answers. You have worked at Bellevue for several years and received outstanding reviews on your bedside manner and standard of care for your patients. But you had never established an infatuation with a patient before. Perhaps it was his handsome appearance or the story of Matt selflessly placing himself between a group of drunk guys that made him sound like a hero in a fable. Whatever the reason, you pursed your lips at the thought of having to get back to work as you stumbled into the emergency room with the paramedic in tow.

The technicians guided Matt over to a nearby station at your instruction and parked the stretcher near the bed, allowing Matt to climb in on his own volition. It took some work, but he maneuvered his long, robust limbs comfortably onto the sterile striped sheets. You gave the EMTs a polite nod and thanked them for their assistance as they packed up their supplies and headed back to the ambulance with the stretcher, allowing you to return your attention to Matt. You raised the bed’s angle, giving Matt more solace and a better angle to examine his injury. Once everything was in place, you placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder and grabbed ahold of one of the pieces of medical tape.

“Alright, let’s look at this injury of yours. You’re going to feel a bit of discomfort, but it will only last a few seconds. Okay?” you explained. Matt responded with a nod, permitting you to remove the tape. Slowly, the adhesive separated from his ivory skin as you peeled it back, causing Matt to form a slight wince. The gauze lifted, revealing a long but otherwise clean cut an inch above Matt’s left eyebrow. “Oh, that’s not that bad. It’s a neat, straight cut, and there doesn’t appear to be any glass fragments there, which means that getting you sutured up will be easy. You relax here while I go see which general surgeon we have on call tonight.”

“Thank you,” Matt replied in his gruff tenor voice, shifting in his bed as he prepared to wait.

You returned to the storeroom once more and retrieved a series of butterfly strips and a non-adhesive bandage to help close the wound while you waited for the surgeon. As you tended to his wound, your eyes caught glimpses of a video playing on Matt’s phone. The pendant lights fastened from old canning jars hanging around the bar created a cozy ambiance for enjoying a nice stout or a lager after a long day at work, but it did not provide enough lighting for filming. Nevertheless, you could make out the contours of Matt’s stern face as he glared at another bar patron, who resembled the stereotypical blond, old-money villain from a romantic comedy. In the shadows, a man’s arm grabbed Matt’s bicep and attempted to drag him away from his scowling opponent, but Matt’s goliath frame stood firm. A few moments passed before the assailant launched himself at Matt, pushing him against one of the lacquered wood high-tops and punching him in the face. Matt's fierce right hook was the last thing you saw before the videographer concluded the recording, and the screen went black. After the video finished, Matt’s long fingers navigated out of full-screen mode and through the never-ending sea of comments and reactions from fans on Twitter.

“You have a nice punch there. Are you a boxer?” you asked as you focused on straightening a butterfly strip.

Matt let out a chuckle as he continued scrolling. “No, more like a hockey player. Some of the guys and I were out enjoying a couple of drinks before all of them returned home for the off-season, and we overheard a bunch of pricks from some Ivy League school out east. They were harassing some girls across the bar. I have two older sisters. If they talked to one of them like that, those guys wouldn’t be in the back of a police car; they would be in the back of a hearse.”

“Where did the beer bottle come from?”

“One of the douchebags bonked me over the head when I wasn’t looking. I’m lucky I got off with nothing but a simple cut.”

“You can say that again. On behalf of all female kind, I just want to say thanks.”

Matt furrowed his brow as you reapplied more medical tape to finish the dressage. “Female-kind? Not womankind?”

“Yeah, I’m non-binary,” you replied, grabbing wrappers and clicking the tape back into its case.

"Right on!” said Matt with a nod and his attention fixed on his Twitter feed.

You smiled and patted his shoulder as you rose from your stool and disposed of the wrappers in a nearby wastebasket. A warmth spread across your chest as you returned to the nurses' station to consult the on-call and see which number you needed to dial. You traced over each line until you saw the general surgeon’s name, a veteran with several years of experience in the hospital, and picked up the phone, tucking it between your shoulder and ear. In the several years you worked for New York City Health and Hospitals, you didn’t receive much hate for being a non-binary nurse. A few older patients would glare at you upon seeing the rose-colored button on your ID, informing them of your she/they pronouns. But they pursed their lips as you took their vitals, knowing that the wrong word would cause their bridge to healthcare to incinerate faster than the Great Fire of London. The others who accepted you often interrogated you on when you learned you were non-binary and what your thoughts were on the current political climate. While they were always well-intended, their line of questioning sometimes felt invasive. You weren’t participating in a pageant or running for city office, making your personal life irrelevant to their care. That is why Matt was such a breath of fresh air. He cared enough not to treat you like an oddity but didn’t overly care to the point that you became a fragile flower. He allowed you to be you without any regret.

A minute or two passed until a female voice belonging to the general surgeon came onto the line. You explained the situation and Matt’s status, prompting her to state she would be right down. The hospital stowed the surgeon's offices in another wing far from the emergency room, and it would take the doctor a few minutes to travel from her ivory tower. With little to keep you occupied, you returned to your stool in Matt’s station. The two of you conversed about anything you could devise — his hockey career, your nursing career, how he ended up in New York, how you found your way from Detroit. Eventually, the surgeon showed up and stitched together a nice line in his head before giving him instructions on proper wound care. The dissolving stitches would disappear over the next few weeks, but the hospital required Matt to return a week to ensure proper healing. Matt nodded at everything the surgeon said, causing a few more strands of hair to fall to his face. The surgeon’s voice faded to the back of your mind as you fiddled with your watch band once more, trying to ignore the melancholy weighing in your heart. Some of you wanted to see Matt and his aesthetic face again and listen to his charming cadence blather on about his summer. But he was a professional hockey player who had better things to do than visit one of the hundreds of nurses working in the Big Apple. He would likely visit the surgeon’s office through another entrance or even the Rangers’ physician. The possibility of seeing him again outside of one of the hospital’s entrances on your break did exist.

But would he remember you?

Unfortunately, despite your wishes, you never saw Matt again after that day. You rationalized that he must have slipped in and out to visit the surgeon on one of your days off. His presence left a bittersweet mark on your life, like a dent in a hockey rink, for you were glad you met him but sad he left so soon. But you had no time to dawdle on what could have been, for other patients required your attention. It was almost time for the City’s annual Desi Heritage Day, uniting the Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi enclaves from around New York.

While reports of South Asians in the United States existed back to the 1700s, it wasn’t until the early 20th century that the Desi immigration began to increase. Today, New York City boasts one of the largest South Asian populations outside of California. It would only be befitting if the community celebrated their progress over the past 100 years. The Desi-American Association of New York obtains permission from the NYPD to block off a portion of Lexington Avenue at the heart of several Indian restaurants. They decorated the light poles and streets with colorful draping, flowers, and plastic folding tables lining the sidewalks, permeating the air with the delectable aroma of dishes from the local restaurants. You didn’t always receive a chance to visit the festival due to your work schedule, but you tried to get outside during your breaks to hear the dhols drumming in the distance.

This year, the hospital’s director of emergency medicine and human resources authorized you to have the day off to enjoy the festival after several previous tries. You immediately ran to your closet in your West Village loft and pulled out a gorgeous maroon kurta from the upper shelves amidst various clothes and sets of scrubs. It needed some cleaning and ironing from being stowed away for so long, but it was perfect for the occasion. The calf-length dress was solid in color, with two thin golden lines reaching from the shoulders down to the hemline. The tunic and the matching pants contrasted perfectly with the busyness of the dupatta, a long piece of chiffon with an aureate border and ornate flowers decorating the entity of the sheer fabric.

You made plans with a few friends to meet near 28th Street and put on your kurta, ready to enjoy some naan and biryani. But one thing was missing: a bangle your family gifted you before you left Michigan from New York. The only times you removed it were during showering and work. It always remained in a designated pocket in your bookbag, locked away in the nurses' lockers. But it disappeared without a trace over the past few days. You retraced your steps and searched high and low for any sign of it — your apartment, the hospital, and even the station where you treated Matt. However, there was no sign of it.

“Come on! Come on! You must be here somewhere!” you said as you lifted the pillows from your couch in the living area.

However, before you completed your quest, your phone rang an alarm, signifying it was time to gather your stuff and go. You hung your head and sighed, exasperated at your failure, before grabbing your phone off its charger in the kitchen and shoving it into a golden clutch. You also maneuvered a pair of crisscrossed chunky heals into place and draped the dupatta. After looking over your outfit again, you locked your unit door and went downstairs to the nearest subway station. It admittedly stung that you couldn’t find the bracelet, a treasured connection to your family and friends back home in the Midwest. But as the green line grew closer to the festivities, you remembered that the bangle could be replaced, but memories of celebrating your heritage with your friends could not. Outside the oblong subway windows, you caught glimpses of 28th Street Station’s tiled sign, causing you to rise from your plastic seat. The car stopped, allowing you and several other passengers to step out onto the musty underground. You followed the crowd through the exit turnstiles and the decrepit stairs toward the Manhattan streets. A familiar sound reverberated through the air as you returned above ground: the dhol with several other Desi instruments accompanying it. You followed the music until you came across a large gathering of Manhattanites and other New York residents of all ethnicities wandering through the blocked-off portions of the street. Women in delicate sarees and men in sleek jodhpuri suits mingled in the streets, catching up on lost time, while children did their best to draw mandalas with sidewalk chalk. The restaurants from the surrounding businesses help hand out sweet and savory Desi food to any souls who wander into the celebration, from butter chicken to jalebi.

“You look really nice today,” a man complimented behind you.

Your eyes grew wide upon recognizing that gruff tenor voice. A kaleidoscope of butterflies danced around your stomach as you mustered the courage to turn around to confirm the man’s identity. There was no chance it was an acquaintance or a co-worker from the hospital. It was Matt, and you knew it was Matt. Eventually, after several moments, you strengthened your resolve to turn your head around slowly. Matt met you with the warm smile he offered you as the FDNY rolled him into the ambulance bay. His laceration, which had long since lost its sutures, began to form a neat little line of scar tissue in his forehead. He had his hair brushed back, giving him adorable angel wings around the ears and wore a simple ensemble of a tan jacket and black jeans. Despite the casual attire, he still had a sense of suaveness as he shifted his tall frame around, waiting for you to break the awkward silence.

“Oh, thank you. It’s for the festival,” you replied, turning around to gesture and the frivolity behind you. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to return this,” said Matt as he dug out something from his pants pocket.

Your mouth fell open as he presented you with your lost bangle. You quickly grabbed it from his hands and spun it with your thumbs, searching for any scratches or scuffs under the light of the spring sun. But it was just as pristine and polished as the day it came out of the box. You shoved your hand through the middle of the bracelet, allowing it to gently slide down on your forearm near the three-quarter sleeves of your dress. “Where did you find it?” you asked after a few moments of silence.

“I saw it on the ground while I was leaving the hospital. It must have fallen out of your bag or something,” he replied.

“But why didn’t you return it to the nurse's station?”

“I held onto it because it seemed important, and I also wanted a reason to see you again. You seem like a cool person.”

“I appreciate that. But that also doesn’t explain how you knew I would be here.”

“Well, a famous office manager once quoted a famous hockey player in saying that you miss 100% of the shots that you don’t take. I remember you talking about a festival down the road, and this happened to be the only festival down the block from the hospital in the next few months, so I decided this was the best place to catch you, if any.”

You giggled at his reference and said, “It sounds like you went through a lot of trouble to get it back to me, and I appreciate it. This bracelet cost a pretty penny for my family, and it means a lot. So, thank you.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem. I hope to see you around. Have fun at your party,” Matt said, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning around to leave.

“Wait!” you cried out as you chased him, attempting to stop him before he became another face in the strangers walking up and down the sidewalks. He turned around and faced you upon hearing your exclamation, allowing you to catch up with his long gait. As you skidded to a halt before him, you continued, “You came all this way down to return my bracelet, so you might as well stay for the party. I know it seems overwhelming, but it’s actually a lot of fun and open to everyone. Think of it as a tiebreaker.”

“I do have to admit that it does look like a fun time. I was just under the impression I would be stepping on some toes by intruding,” he replied.

“Nonsense. You’re more than welcome here. Come on,” you protested before grabbing his hand and leading him towards the crowd.

It took some work, but you eventually found your friends mulling around your designated meeting area and introduced them to Matt. Their eyes widened as they watched you drag a rising defenseman from the New York Rangers over to them, but they quickly recovered and welcomed him into the group without complaint. As the sun climbed high into the sky, the lot of you led Matt around the streets, introducing him to other community members and showing him Desi cuisine. At first, you thought Matt might be nervous, being thrust into a world of new sounds and smells. But he took everything in stride as he slowly learned about the community’s history and customs. Even when he pronounced a word wrong, the two of you would share a laugh as you walked him through the word’s etymology. The same tingling sensation you felt at the hospital had returned as you watched Matt integrating himself into the culture. It had been a long season for the underrepresented demographics in the hockey community, leaving you a bit jaded over meeting stars like Matt. As the league says, business is business, and there seldom were any consequences for players who expressed maladaptive views. However, as you listened to Matt’s chuckle and how intently he listened to your heritage, you slowly began to believe that Matt could be one of the good ones.

The party went well into the afternoon until around dinner time when the Association determined it was time to pack everything up out of respect for the people who lived in Lennox Hill. You and Matt said goodbye to your friends before staying behind to assist the association volunteers in cleaning up from the celebration. Your hands gently guided a broom down the asphalt, pushing colorful flower petals into a pile, while Matt assisted in folding up the tables and loading them into the rental truck. The work went by relatively fast when you have a 6’8”, 240-lb man on the clock. Eventually, the attendees began to dwindle until you and Matt stood in the middle of the road. As you committed Matt's features to memory, a gentle breeze swayed your hair and dupatta.

“Thank you for such a wonderful time,” Matt eventually said, breaking the silence. “I definitely learned a lot.”

“It’s the least I could do after you return my bracelet.”

“I know you said this was a tiebreaker, but now I feel like I owe you again. Maybe I could leave you some tickets at will call when the season starts again. It would be my treat.”

“That sounds lovely. I think I’ll take you up on that offer in the fall,” you laughed. “I should probably get going. This kurta is beautiful, but I would prefer to change into something more comfortable.”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, may I escort you back to the subway,” replied Matt, offering you his elbow’s crook like a true gentleman.

You nodded and slinked your arm through the aperture he created. The two of you walked toward the Manhattan horizon, painted in soft hues of orange and yellow as the sun prepared to set, now friends brought together through the power of medicine.

#2k24 summer fic exchange #nhl #nhl hockey #nhl fic #new york rangers #matt rempe #matt rempe fic

35 notes · View notes