#terry001

[themadisynhuang]

≈ meadowview farm. with @hairpintvrns  ( terry )

This had been four days in a row now. Madisyn watched the stranger from her place on the porch of the farmhouse, hot coffee warming her hands in the uncomfortable morning chill. Illinois was not as kind in the fall as it had been in the summer, that was for sure. She made a mental note to order herself a thicker bathrobe, the thin satin kimono-style one currently draped over her frame not doing much to retain body heat. 

Still, she’d sacrifice a bit of warmth if it meant she could finally capture proof that she was being stalked.

She had no idea what the person was up to, stalking the grounds of the farm, on the edges near the trees, staring up at the miserable gray sky as if there was something so interesting up there. Maybe for security cameras, Madi thought, taking a sip of her drink. Maybe they were looking for a way to get to the poor, defenseless llamas. 

Or the poor, defenseless influencer who lived alone in an isolated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. God, they were probably aware of Madi staring them down, and were going to wait until she turned around to go inside and get ready for the day to strike. 

It’d be like Kim Kardashian in Paris all over again.

With that scary thought lodged in her mind, Madi ventured to the edge of the steps of the porch, leaning out so they would hear her as she yelled across the ground, causing a few birds to scatter from the trees at the sudden interruption of the silence.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing on my farm?!” 

[themagdalenaotiende]

> The Mango Tree. For @hairpintvrns

Despite the smallness of the town, Magdalena had not been granted enough free time to explore all of what it had to offer. Tucked among the big chains she had grown accustomed to seeing in larger cities were boutique shops and restaurants, settling on The Mango Tree to meet up with her long-time friend.

"Katharine!" She greeted with a grin, standing up as they approached the table Magda had been seated at moments prior. "Mein Liebling! How are you? This town looks like it's been treating you well!"

[thephoebeyates]

It was true that no one deserved a childhood that was less than a fairytale, and it was hard to really acknowledge how many people experienced a similar environment to Phoebe, or much worse. Her thoughts flitted to Foster and Seb, and felt momentarily bad for her own (if private) ‘woe is me’ spiel, but catching herself last minute with the reminder that trauma wasn’t there to be compared to. She nodded at Terry’s offer about talking, but wondered what she could possibly talk about now that would help? That would undone all the damage caused? She had come to terms with her less than stellar childhood a while ago, and talking about her mom meant talking about other thing, and didn’t want to drag in the extra messiness of her relationship with Spencer, a key player in the awfulness that Phoebe was exposed to, her savior from her childhood being the tormentor of her early adulthood.

“Thank you, uh, but I’ll pass for now.” Besides, it wasn’t fair. The professor was merely trying to enjoy their morning sketching birds, not to be an unlicensed therapist for all of Phoebe’s bullshit. “Is that you, over there?” She spotted a cabin in the near distance, assuming it was Terry’s, not being able to spot any other buildings amongst the foliage and trees. She didn’t mean to deflect, to turn the conversation onto a different track, it was just an in-built defense mechanism at this point.

She smiled as Terry shared about their father, or grandfather, whoever they considered ‘Papa’ to be. Anytime someone shared a bit more about their paternal role-models, Phoebe wanted to drink it all in, coveting something she never got a chance to experience. Lisa’s boyfriends never counted — not even Dale who was the one who stuck around until his utmost betrayal — so it was like a sneak peek into a world she was otherwise not privy to. “He sounds like a smart man, I’ve seen all types of rich and he really isn’t that far off.” From catering to working in the higher-priced stores in the local mall, Phoebe had many experiences with many different people, and it was clear when someone thought the amount of dollars in their bank account correlated to how they believed they could behave.

“I…that sounds interesting actually.” Wasn’t she told to explore works different from her usual interests to help her with her writing? “That’s really sweet, thank you. You make buildings that are also poems — I like that.”  The follow-up questions stumped Phoebe slightly, it all seeming a bit too deep for an early morning stroll in the forest, and she couldn’t help but laugh, it echoing out in the otherwise stillness of the woodland. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s an easy fix, but it’s funny how it’s hard to just…communicate, right? Like, it’s a simple thing everyone wants yet hard to deliver on? What, friends that I love? I do, yeah.” She confirmed with a nod, regarding Terry’s next question. “Do you?”

Yeah. Quite a lot. Basically raised myself in the end. Terry had pushed for the admission, but faced with this vague confirmation, they felt unsteady. They weren’t particularly perturbed by Phoebe’s reticence; up until half an hour ago, they’d been strangers. If anything, they felt a flush of embarrassment, having overstepped a boundary they hadn’t intended to cross. They had been content to sketch away in peace, the scratch of pencil against paper a comfort in the quiet. But it was they who had carried the conversation, who had invited Phoebe to follow their trail, who had nudged her into revealing a part of herself that might not have been theirs to ask.

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” they said, noting the weight of those three sentences. They glanced at the brown earth, recalling how the Carolina wren had camouflaged—folded—into it. Phoebe’s story needed no elaboration, at least in Terry’s presence. It might be too intrusive to dig anymore—to excavate volumes of the earth—without offering some honesty themselves. “No one deserves a childhood like that.”

A part of Terry would have liked to share their upbringing, marked by stretches of silence; their marriage, marked by the recklessness of youth; and their relationship with their son, marked by infinite regret. How it had hurt to be alone. How they’d made the mistake of defining loneliness not just as the act of going somewhere by oneself, but also as the act of being left behind. And their family’s tenement unit, the married couple’s apartment, the mother and son’s house in White Plains? Home had contorted into places where they could be left. A loss—a mockery—of its original function.

But all this, they kept to themselves. It would be unfair to superimpose the structure of their life with Phoebe’s. Each unhappy family was unhappy in its own way. The structure might have been the same, but they grew, developed, and interacted in different environments. “If you’d like to talk about it, I can help some.” It was too late for Terry. It might not be for Phoebe. They could only hope, with the heaviest of hearts, that it was not too late for Micah, too.

Their thoughts were disrupted by another mention of Saul, with all his big city charm, the first of many backward aches. “You can make that same argument with all big city boys,” they lifted their shoulders in a slight shrug, easing the tension that had settled in their spine. “Papa always said rich people could be charming or nice because they could afford to be. And they could be the opposite, too.” The Weissbergs had been kinder than most, but they remembered how their butcher father had fielded condescending remarks from those with surnames of New England ilk. Daniel and the new-moneyed Lowlysteins. Had the Lowensteins been a rung lower on the social ladder, would the Weissbergs have looked down on them too? It was a thought best relegated to the back of their memory. “I’m sure he’s been a good friend to you. We just don’t see him the same way.” And that was that.

Terry noted how Phoebe stood a little straighter at the mention of books, the subtle shift in her posture catching their eye. “Zadie Smith’s a good choice. My reading tends to be more academic, but there might be a few essays I can share with you if you’re interested. There’s one called A Pattern Language, and it talks about how architecture has its vocabulary, syntax, and grammar. The process of compressing patterns—making use of that economy of space—it's a bit like poetry. I like how he ends it. You make buildings that are also poems,” they remarked, realizing how much they’d taken up the conversation. “Just… if you want.”

“Do you think it’s an easy fix, then, communication?” They hummed in thought, the low sound vibrating in their chest. It might be true for most people, they supposed. But they found the whole talking thing a bit aggravating, how each word could easily be a misstep. “I understand, though. It can be all sorts of things.” Still, they can't help but ask, “Do you have that in your life, Phoebe? The second point.”

[pcdma-blog]

@terrybootus​

Discovering that she was Terry’s secret cupid had made Padma very, very happy. While they’d both been Ravenclaws and South Asian, she and Terry weren’t the sort to talk to each other very often. Instead, they enjoyed a quiet, friendly bond; she’d been so glad to see Terry around the few times it had happened after the war.

They had, it seemed, gone into the same occupation, though Padma rarely saw Terry around at the monthly Potioneers meetings. When she’d checked the list, she’d discovered that he’d been on the waitlist for a while. Padma resolved to do something about it that Valentine’s week, vouching loudly for her friend’s skill, resourcefulness, and sheer enthusiasm. None of these were lies, and when the higher-ups heard about it, they quickly granted Padma’s request.

Padma wanted to do more than that for Terry, however, and she decided to send some of her precious ingredients over. She’d wanted someone to give them to for a while now, and she knew the place where Terry worked often had orders for Polyjuice potion. 

In an envelope, Padma enclosed some fluxweed picked at the full moon, and a handful lacewing flies she’d left stewing for three weeks in a small glass container. Along with this, she sent the letter of his acceptance to the Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, stamped with the official seal. 

Mr. Boot,

We at the Extraordinary Society of Potioneers are excited to welcome you as one of this year’s new members. Upon the recommendation of one of our officers, we looked at your portfolio of work and your background and discovered that you were amply qualified for membership. 

Please drop by our offices to pick up your badge, certificate, and the schedule of our meetings and conferences.

Congratulations!

Ambrose Cadwallader, Chief Potioneer

[archived-thecjwelford]

Half expecting Terry to roll their eyes and call CJ silly for thinking such a thing as Bigfoot existed, he relaxed at them basically admitting that they also believed in him. The only other person he knew who did was Seb, and he only wanted to prove the cryptid’s existence just to fight him. Which was, like, not cool at all. “Thanks, dude.” He said softly, genuinely at the promise. 

Whilst it was probably a cool hobby, the word ‘birder’ elicited a giggle from CJ, even if there was nothing inappropriate about it; no vulgar innuendo that could be derived from it (no clever ones anyway, ‘flipping the bird’ was very nineties and not that original) but it was something satisfying to the former F1 driver. Like when he had to spell words that had a capital ‘Q’ in them. “How do you like…become a birder?” He asked, curiosity authentic, trying his best to not seem like he was teasing the older woman. “Like, do  you get a membership and a goodie bag? I did when I first began driving.And like, what counts as birds to spot? My buddy, David H, he lost his parakeet and I saw the parakeet — I think it was his anyway — in the mall parking lot. Would that count? Can I give that one to you if you need a mall parakeet checked off your list?” Truly, Terry’s hobby was eliciting more questions than answers from him, and he felt almost bad for bombarding them, and they must have been glad when the focus once more shifted to him. 

Despite what others may have believed about CJ, he never cared about what people thought of him. Everything good that happened to him was pure luck. He grew up financially well off, became more financially well off due to his talent on the grid. And, realistically, his ‘pretty face’ as Peter often called it, benefited him as well. He was good at sports, he was good with people.. His lack of giving a shit only transferred to his public image, and if people were so bothered about him and Seb getting married, they should have — in the words of his beloved room-spouse — sucked a fat one. “Yeah, but like…’spose I’m still figuring everything out. You make it seem like Saul likes money a lot.”

As unlikely as it seemed, the very image of ghost rodents skittering and scuttling through their otherwise pristine home painted their face with no small amount of distaste. CJ, fortunately, was glad to skip ahead towards something even less likely to be encountered in small town Illinois. Forest Lake might have been a little ways off the map, but Blue Harbor itself, however quaint, was not entirely remote. “No Bigfoot sightings, I’m sorry to report,” they said, by way of mild consolation, “but I’ll let you know when I do.” 

Taking a sip of their drink, Terry fixed their gaze towards CJ, as if testing the claim. A cursory glance at his features did denote that he was young, to be sure, but in the absence of sporting knowledge besides what he had shared over the years made them a bit uncertain as regards to how much time he had left. And, anyway, he isn’t sure whether he’d like an old woman’s opinion on the matter. The matter of post-retirement, though, is something that they were quite able to share. “I’ll be teaching part-time at the university come fall, but, otherwise—I track birds. I’m a birder,” they confessed, less stilted, a ghost of a smile playing at their lips. Now, birds? Birds came easy. “I’m currently working my way through a birding life list. It’s a record of the birds you've properly identified and where. You’d be surprised at how much it can keep you busy.” 

They bit the inside of their cheek, holding back the rest of their birding soliloquy. Talking about their special interest with strangers, they found, was best traded in parts, and they didn’t want to appear too overeager.

“Not as much as you’d expect. And, anyway, it all got a bit tiring, in the end,” they chuckled, softly, though it died out as they made sense of the other’s words. “For what it’s worth, I think there are worse things to be than married to your best friend,” they lifted their shoulders into a bit of a half-shrug, not really wishing to intrude, but — “That’s sort of ideal, actually. But I suppose image is very important especially in those circles.” Something that they can sympathize with, at least. The art of happy endings and keeping up appearances. “And I wouldn’t want to deprive my ex-husband of his beloved legal fees.”

[theromandaniels]

There was something about this pseudo-stranger’s tone that amused Roman more than it pissed him off. He appreciated that there was no sugarcoating of their questions, no trepidation unlike the usual interviewers he dealt with. The results of a difficult reputation, he mused. “I don’t want to manage my own social media, but it’s best for my team for me to have something, so my sister took it on.” Never mind that he was actually disallowed from running his own account following an incident pre-accident in which he got into a massive fight on Twitter with some fans of another band. “I’m not a fan of anything.” Because he had to be pompously apathetic. 

Since he last looked at Instagram, it seemed that the entire app had changed its layout, frowning in confusion as he failed to recognise the program he was forced to abandon almost a decade ago. He can’t help but note Terry’s following account, wondering if they were withholding information about their status, but couldn’t bring himself to care enough to pester them about it (the apathy wasn’t always theatrical, but a genuine condition of being Roman Daniels). He instead shifted his focus on the picture, seeing himself through the lens of Toni.

And…well. Fuck. He knew better than to let his eyes drop to the few comments peeking out from under the post, self-centeredly staring at his oblivious self, not paying attention to the fucking tree Terry had first cited that brought them to this point. He bit his tongue about the blonde comment, because it had been twenty years of this by now (and one “fact” website was still refusing to change the hair colour section out of pure spite it seemed), and well, their follow-up comment held more importance to him anyway.

“He’s an all encompassing flame.” He murmured in regards to Toni. The warmth so inviting, you couldn’t help but let it consume you, willingly breathing in the smoke, letting it claim you from the inside out. But that wasn’t something one said about a friend. Roman cleared his throat. “That’s sad.” He added louder, “Needs better topics of conversation, if you ask me.”

It was odd, being told he was funny. Roman often thought he didn’t have a sense of humour, not in the typical manner. His jokes were more often than not cruel, or self-deprecating. So their laugh at a comment about their parenting style was a surprise, but he let it slide. “Don’t you find it odd that such a good university is in such a…unremarkable place?” He pondered, because despite everything else he had to say, he was an alumni of an excellent institution. “I came back to fight my demons. That, and my sister chased a job that fell through.”

It wasn’t uncommon for anyone above the age of forty—and this, they assume, purely because Antonio was the same age—to not have any social media accounts, but it put Terry in a strange position in which they’d rarely found themselves where they had the upper hand in terms of digital technology. “Oh, can’t you manage your own social media?” They figured it would be easier to navigate a phone than a personal computer, especially given his splint. “I take it you’re not a fan of people,” they commented, taking out their phone from the front pockets of their jeans, “I have a few accounts on online forums. It’s social media without all the fuss of likes and comments and measuring engagement.” Some practical advice, they thought. 

Their eyes squinted against the abrupt light of their phone screen, sliding their thumb over the control center to adjust the brightness. Opening the application—having gained another thousand followers, they’re afraid, which they assumed was their nature photos’ doing—Terry closed the distance between them and Roman so they could view the image. “Here,” they said, again taking note of the ash tree, the way the ivy had crept through the trunk and its branches, “You’ve got great hair. That blonde of yours reflects well in the light,” they continued, “I told Antonio once that he’d reminded me of fire in the hearth. I think that flattered him a little. He talks about you a lot. It’s quite interesting.” 

Uncertain, exactly, why they’d elected to volunteer that information precisely. Only that Antonio Beltran was the one man who could bridge the gap between them, and they’d clung to the memories of Antonio that was most vivid to them—a decidedly difficult repository to sift through, given that a chunk of it had been made in alcohol-addled late nights in Weaver Ridge pubs. Like this night, they thought, though Terry’s head was decidedly, and almost stubbornly, sober. 

They can’t help but let out a gravelly laugh at his question, candid and concise. “You’re funny,” the rest of the laughter petered out, “No, I had a job opportunity here. My contract at the university runs for a year.” The questions held morsels of truth, they supposed. But what was there to say? “I don’t play any instruments so I haven’t really entered it. So why Blue Harbor, then?” 

[thephoebeyates]

Every excuse for Lisa Yates died on Phoebe’s tongue the moment Terry’s direct question hit her. There was a period of time where she had been in denial about the mistreatment she received at the hands of her mother, though her relationship with Spencer further complicated things as he began to treat her poorly whilst validating Phoebe’s narrative that what her mom did over the years was wicked and cruel.

It got to the point where she didn’t know what to believe, if her childhood was just misremembered through an exaggerated lens, so she always laughed it off, made jokes at her mom’s expense without blaming her directly. That’s what you get for being raised by a sixteen year old, was the most common one, pinning every wrong move on Lisa’s age rather than her personality, her capability of being a parent. 

In the forest, where there was no one but the birds chirping in the trees — themselves softly swaying in the summertime breeze — and someone she shouldn’t have trusted purely due to her allegiance to their ex-husband. No one who would buy the bullshit Phoebe would have spewed about her mother otherwise. It helped that there was something to the bluntness of the way Terry asked, as if they had no patience to sugarcoat anything. So Phoebe nodded. “Yeah.” She confirmed. “Quite a lot. Basically raised myself in the end.”

A part of her hoped Micah knew how lucky he was. But she didn’t voice that aloud either.

“Yeah, he has that…big city charm, can’t help but draw you in.” Phoebe agreed about Saul, and wondered just how many people he had disarmed with a flash of his smile, and an unspoken promise that you were important to him. Phoebe knew the lawyer, knew he wouldn’t waste his time going for breakfast and inviting her to eat takeout food in his seldom-used kitchen if he didn’t care, but as the wise woman Taylor Swift once sang; ‘a friend to all is a friend to none’. She loved Saul, she did, but there was something about being in Terry’s presence where she didn’t know if she could defend him with as much fervor as she could if faced with anyone else. 

Finding the hopes of having some common ground of reading was quickly dashed when Terry admitted they weren’t a big reader, but Phoebe stood up straighter when they mentioned essays (a quirk of hers from her school days, going from boredly slouching in her seat to sitting upright when a topic in class began to interest her; her body taking it as a reflex all these years later). “I, um, have started getting into personal essays myself. I’ve just read some Zadie Smith so far but, I might check those titles out.” When Terry dismissed their preferred reading as boring, Phoebe shook her head. “If you don’t find it boring, then it’s not boring.”

The next question was one that was hard for Phoebe to answer. Simply because she had a distinct feeling Terry had no idea what fanfiction was, and then she’d have to explain that to them, then get into One Direction and Twilight lore, and then share more of her own personal history too. So instead, she went with the basic: “Oh, cliche beach reads mainly. A lot of two people meeting, a lot of non-plot happens, some conflict arises that could be easily solved with communication, but that’s too easy a fix. A big romantic gesture. A happily ever after.” A common tale told a million times over the decades, and a formula that clearly worked. “I like to write about second chances, and how sometimes the love isn’t something romantic, but in yourself, in your friends.” Phoebe then added more seriously, the themes she had been playing with the last couple of months. 

They walked steadily, finding themselves closer now to the rim of the forest than deep within it. At this juncture, the trail path became wider and more conducive, they thought, to the leisurely walker who’d taken the exercise up as a hobby and not as a way of life. The normal way to be, perhaps, though they couldn’t understand why people weren’t as compelled as they were by the holy quality of the dawn, the crackling sounds of twigs snapping underfoot, the sun rising, filtering through the trees, before the world was again swallowed in the dark—and for the exercise to repeat, over and over and over. How it was a privilege on its own to move alongside nature, to trudge along its pattern of circulation, to find logic amid a perceived disorder. Though, Terry digressed, they had never been inclined to do anything in half-measures. 

Part of them was bemused at how the younger woman reacted, uttering a reassurance about Micah and motherhood. “Oh,” they began, “thanks, that means a lot.” They continued. Something rather like a grin formed at their lips, then, though the muscles faltered, dropped, at Phoebe’s attempted metaphor. While Terry had appreciated the thematical consistency, they could only arch a brow. “What, she left you alone?” They tore the euphemism, fast and sharp, like a scythe cutting through overgrowth. 

Terry could stand to be less direct, they knew. But their cabin was quite close now, and they’d been keen on talking with the young woman who’d proven well at volunteering so little of herself. It pulled them back into the past, if only slightly, recalling how they themselves had shrunk away from the world only to end up folding into it, camouflaging against the paint of the walls, the bark of the trees, the stillness of placid water. 

It seemed only fitting, then, that his name would be brought up. He who had been among the first to disrupt that stillness, to have coaxed them out of the shadows. Only Terry’s presence, made tangible against the light, was a beast of its own, who would not readily yield the fight to him. What a pair they made. And what a pair they could’ve been, had Terry been different. “Well, he does indeed have a lot of friends in town.” They said, simple though curt, dismissing the exercise of recalling names that need not be recalled, the how is hes and how are yous that no longer need to be said. 

The sun loomed higher in the sky now; it was no longer the early morning. On the subject of reading, they shook their head. “No, not particularly. Unless the subject interests me,” they rolled their shoulders, though willed themselves to be helpful, “there’s some personal essay collections I really like by Mary Oliver. Long Life and Upstream. Anne Carson’s Plainwater.” Their repository of knowledge was limited, but one couldn’t live with a roommate turned English professor for four years—and a son who majored in that same degree—without picking up a few things.

“I like non-fiction. Architecture, mainly. I’m interested in how structures operate in multiple contexts, cultures, and practices… all a bit boring, I’m afraid.” Turning to their companion, they asked, “What kind of love stories have you written?” 

[thephoebeyates]

Phoebe was worried she had deeply offended the professor, the look she was levelled with completely…well, like one a cross mother would give to their disobedient child. The intern had never been on the receiving end of it herself, but had caught Linc’s mom giving him that look, and a few other of her childhood friends when they were dared to be told ‘no’ by their parents. Lisa had given Phoebe her own fair share of looks, sure, but they were more pure exasperation or desperation; the scared sixteen year old with no support system begging her willful child to see she was doing her best, even if in hindsight she wasn’t.  

Still, before she could stammer out an explanation of sorts without seeming too sad, Terry seemed to click what Phoebe meant, though it didn’t necessarily stop how her heart was racing in pure panic, knowing she wouldn’t feel settled until she shared her own piece. “I’m sure you’re a great mom to Micah.” She assured, as if they needed it. “I just…my mom was one to…uh, fly the nest herself a lot?” Perhaps the bird talk might have been insulting, though any other euphemisms had fallen out of Phoebe’s head in her desperation to right this wrong. “But yeah, not all moms succeed.”

If Lisa could see Phoebe now, with her internship and her apartment and her successful head-chef boyfriend, would she be proud? Would she claim the credit of raising such a bright young girl? Or would her jealousy flare up, finding another reason to despise her daughter for having a life she never had, because of a stupid mistake her teenage self made? Phoebe didn’t want to think about it, pushing the thoughts of her own messy family tree to that of the Weissbergs instead.

“The Weissberg office, yeah. I, uh, know Saul actually. We met through my old boss, Nilay?” She referred to the anthropologist she had name-dropped earlier, deciding not to delve too much into her pseudo uncle and niece dynamic she had with the lawyer. It wasn’t due to some twisted sense of inferiority like she had with Theodora, but more concern about how Terry might have reacted, due to Saul’s anecdotes. If they’d be upset at the weird, yet comforting, relationship she had found with their ex-husband.

“I’m not entirely sure what the age-range will be. It’s one of those private companies that are open to all backgrounds,” Due to confidentiality, Phoebe couldn’t find out who exactly was attending the same time she was, but the information on the website sated most of her curiosity. “Oh, I’m not entirely sure, I’ve been trying out a bunch of different styles and genres. I normally write love stories, but I’ve been reading a lot of published personal essays recently, which I find fascinating. Do you read much?”

The snort rupturing the stillness of the forest had been unexpected and, frankly, a bit displaced from the sentiment of the truth they’d offered. Motherhood, after all these years—or perhaps, especially after all those years—tended to be a sore subject, and Terry assumed that their honesty should not have been returned with an expression so blasé as a snort. Terry’s gaze sharpened at once and the corners of their lips tugged back down. Their eyes narrowed as their mind attempted to piece together what might have provoked her unexpected laughter—and perhaps, in subtle challenge—though she was quick to explain. 

A case-by-case basis? The knee-jerk sting of offense simmered as she continued her explanation. The words circled back to her, laced with sincerity and an offer of her own truth. Their features softened, back to their earlier form of casual curiosity. “Well, I’ve tried my best to be a more positive case.” At the brief flash of their own maternal regrets, they willed their eyes to flicker downward for a small second, burying the thought in the damp earth. “Not all mothers succeed,” they replied. 

Only then do they understand the weight of her initial expression. Their gaze flitted back to the other’s features, scanning her expression for any subtle shifts that might lay there, as they continued, “I suppose your gut reaction tells me what I need to know.” An invitation was issued, there, to elaborate if need be—but in the absence of a real protruding, their eyes only shone with understanding, extending a silent sympathy towards the younger woman. 

And the invocation of their son’s name pulled them back into reality, as it often did. “Yes, Micah. That’s him. He’s interning at that law office?” There was a half-hearted attempt at obscuring Micah’s association—and by extension, theirs—with the man who operated the law office in question, but they figured Phoebe would parse through the thought, anyway. It wasn’t like Micah’s father had made himself unknown in Blue Harbor. The very idea sounded ridiculous. He was a man always in motion, and the crowd was simultaneously with him and against him. Terry tended to fall in the latter more than most people. Micah, too. 

“Mhm, I understand what that’s like. I hope it will be productive. What are you hoping to write?” Terry began, idly wondering whether writing retreats and conferences and cross-country workshops might have been the future that their son, an English major, would’ve taken had they not gone through the more traditional route. “And you’d be with a lot of people, then? Graduate students, or?”

[archived-thecjwelford]

CJ had a knack for getting wires crossed so, when Terry mentioned apprehension for rodents, he didn’t consider the obvious but instead offered a solemn nod. “Ghost rodents.” A very real, very big issue in Forest Lake as far as he was concerned. “Oh, speaking of like, rats and stuff, do you ever get Bigfoot sightings?” It was still a debate amongst him and Seb on what Bigfoot counted as. Obviously he was like, a mammal and not like a fish or a bird. But then like…was he similar to a bear or a dog or like one of those capybara things CJ once saw in the zoo? Either way, he bet if anyone would have spotted him, it’d be Terry.

It was truly a big decision to make. Maybe the biggest since deciding to retire in the first place. CJ knew that he probably wasn’t talking to the best person for this, but he had limited options at the minute. Well, not really, but everyone in his life either told him what he wanted to hear, or the complete opposite. “I still got a bit of time.” He mused, “So what do you do now you’re retired?” 

Saul the Divorce Lawyer not being a divorce lawyer once upon a time was funny to CJ. Like seeing teachers outside of school, or like, pictures of Morgan Freeman as a young man. To to race-track owner, who never knew another side of Saul, that’s all he was. Like he came out of the womb in his little lawyer suit and rattling on about annulments. “Did he ever use like, lawyer words? Like interrupting with ‘I object’ and stuff?” If he were a lawyer having a personal argument, he would. “Coolness is like, subjective right? Besides, people ‘round here think New Yorkers are cool as shit anyway so he’s got like a one-up over half the people here.” He frowned at Terry’s follow-up question. “Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong with Seb, I love Seb. He’s my best friend. My sister and my team think it’s just like, the best idea for my image and that.”

CJ’s enthusiasm felt disproportionate to Terry’s own, and briefly they’d wondered if that was just the disposition of his character—he seemed to run in a different wavelength than others—or if there was something in Forest Lake that they ought to know about. Oh–ghosts of old lumberjacks—he continued. “Hmm,” they began, contemplating. Granted, when they’d leased the former rental place, they’d not so much cared for its details as much as they were attracted to how the cabin looked almost like a leafless, white oak tree amid the thick forest foliage and the expiring light of the evening. “No, I don’t think so. Honestly, I’m a bit more afraid of the rodents.” 

They took another sip from their glass, decidedly better, the second time around. He seemed to contemplate the question for the moment, but soon registered their hesitant inflection, not dissimilar to Micah’s own when he’d been unsure himself, with the drawn-out pause and gaps between the words. “Sure. It’s a big decision to make,” they said, somewhat unhelpfully. Somewhere against her tongue were what they’d hoped were assuring words—that it was ultimately his decision to make, not his family’s—but they’d withdrawn the sentiment, not wanting to be too intrusive. 

A light chuckle escaped their lips, punctuating the silence. “He wasn’t a divorce lawyer yet when we got divorced. I get what you mean, though. He could deliver a killer argument, but—well, I could, too.” Their arguments had been vicious, admittedly, but that felt so long ago, now, Saul as the lawyer’s son and she the butcher’s daughter. “I think Micah would appreciate being called cool. He didn’t always use to be.”

Another sip from the glass, before contemplating their next question. They tried to parse through what little they knew of annulment and its needlessly bureaucratic nature, finding only one ground: “Annulment, not divorce, then? That’s curious. Did they hide a major issue that you didn’t know about?”

[themadisynhuang]

It was like everytime Madisyn started feeling comfortable in this town, some freak popped right back up to remind her that Blue Harbor was backwards and boring. She found herself wishing that the stranger in front of her was some sort of burglar, because then there was at least some sort of social norm to follow. Call the police, make a statement, so on and so forth. 

She didn’t even know how to process the information they were spewing at her. “I own Meadowview Farm.” It wasn’t the most important gig in the world, but she assumed that someone obsessed with birds would be slightly more impressed with the glamorous world of dairy farming rather than her online career. 

Ugh, again with the birds! Madi felt like screaming that she didn’t give a flying fuck about birds, jaw setting, managing to grit out a snarled “no it isn’t” about Chicago. Because at least there it was a reduced risk of…birding. 

Birding.

“That’s not a word.” She declared, pointing at them accusingly. “I don’t know what sick little mind games you’re playing, but you need to stop.”

A lift of their shoulders. “I thought I should provide context,” they explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Talking about the birds once they had been out of sight, though, created a sort of sobering effect. The day had passed; the momentum had gotten away from them. Spring or fall, by the time the sun came out and the trees had casted far harder shadows, the birds were now carving themselves places to rest. And, on the matter of the Lawrence’s warblers—

—of course I don’t know a Lawrence. Right. They were nonplussed by the other’s fire, if only because it was ire they had seen several times before. Almost amusing, the way the delicate outlines of their face contorted in rage. With furrowed brows, Terry attempted to gauge the other’s words. “That might be the case for many people. But I suppose I just hadn’t heard of you,” they said, “Why, do you do anything important?” 

Above them, the sunlight began wafting through the foliage, the leftovers of sun dappling the grass. “Most birds are active in the morning. They rest during the afternoon to conserve energy, and then sleep at night. Urban birds might stay active a bit longer, but this isn’t Chicago, is it?” Brows furrowed, they wondered why she should be this pressed about a hobby shared by several million—a concession here: perhaps only hundreds of thousands, if their forum numbers were anything to go by and had already made up a large sample of their population—of people. “Haven’t you seen anyone birding around these parts before?” 

[thephoebeyates]

If Micah — presuming this was Saul’s ex-wife and thus he was the son in question  —  hadn’t been particularly happy about his presence in Blue Harbor, Phoebe could respect not being told straight-on. It wasn’t really any of her business, after all, and besides, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She had promised Saul she’d keep an eye out on him, but at the end of the day, it was hard to keep that sort of oath with another adult. Whilst it wouldn’t stop her trying, obviously, it was hard for her to navigate especially if his own (apparent) parent couldn’t give a straight answer. “I see.” She answered instead, because there was not much to say to a non-answer except returning with your own.

Phoebe focused on the sight of her legs stepping one in front of each other as the professor explained their profession, not necessarily surprised that they considered another person in their decision-making, but slightly astounded that such thoughtful people were out there. Other mothers especially… The snort that left her at the comment was completely involuntarily, because Phoebe honestly couldn’t remember Lisa Yates worrying about anything, especially maternal manners. “S-sorry,” She managed to stammer out, momentarily forgetting the other woman’s presence, and the fact they’d have no knowledge of the complicated web that was Phoebe’s relationship with her mom. “Guess it’s just a case by case basis.” 

When Terry gave their name, it all but confirmed it was the Terry: there were too many coincidences for it not to be! But again, Phoebe felt it was a tad rude to ask straight up about their possible ex-husband. “Nice to meet you too, Terry. Your son wouldn’t happen to be called Micah? It’s just, he’s one of my neighbors.” Which was a much easier subject to navigate than anything they could say about Saul that Phoebe was unsure she could defend. “Yeah, that’s the goal.” It’d be something she’d be training herself on, saying ‘goal’ or ‘target’ instead of ‘dream’ or ‘hope’. Language that aimed for productivity’ that made it sound like a feasible, tangible thing rather than wishing upon a star for it to happen. “I, uh, actually have a writing retreat coming up soon. Been having a bit of a block and I think the change of scenery would do me some good.”

There was a hum of thought before Terry eventually landed on an answer. “Mhm, it’s not really in my place to say.” Not a particularly helpful answer, in retrospect, though they were not being deliberately cagey. Micah hadn’t hidden that he wanted to finish his education on his own terms, but the decision to bring him to Blue Harbor was partly their design. That Terry should contribute to his potential unhappiness was not a thought they’d like to entertain in the presence of a stranger, however friendly might be.

Noting the other’s blink of surprise, Terry cast their gaze towards the young woman, searching for a microexpression that might lay there that might indicate she knew something Terry didn’t. Searching for a purposefulness, perhaps. She did mention she worked for the paper. The questions weren’t particularly intrusive, but they fell silent for a moment, musing the question. “Not entirely,” they decided, “I’d been looking for a change in profession, and it made sense to teach where my son was.” Granted, Micah had made known that his commitment was only for the summer, perhaps the first few weeks of the fall term, but—“Well, you know how it goes. Mothers can’t help but worry.” They punctured the air with a hesitant chuckle.

The point of nests was to raise one’s young until they were fully independent. Humans took it for granted, this nest-building—it was a challenge that birds had to resolve, making use of the materials available to them, engineering it to the point that it might be isolated and inconspicuous to the naked eye, hidden from predators, even from the all-seeing eyes of humans. There were bird species that bred in colonies, and even built nests together, resembling haystacks hanging in the sky, others like the Eurasian penduline tit whose nests made from plant fibers were so sturdy that humans would repurpose them into purses, or ovenbirds who might stack their nests atop one another. 

Micah had left their nest long ago. Prior to Blue Harbor, prior to his year backpacking in Europe, even prior to university. He’d grown up too quickly, and too soon. It was hard to articulate that strange pang of guilt of leaving him with his father who, always and unfailingly, associated parenthood with his taking flight. And more so to disclose those reservations with a stranger whom, as far as Terry can tell, was harmless, but with whom they had already traded with a good number of truths.

They listened intently at the other’s words, brows furrowing as they mentally mapped her schedule. It didn’t seem that busy, in retrospect, though it was likely she was downplaying the nature of the work.

At her assent, Terry tilted their head slightly to indicate the direction in which they were going, before settling at her side. “It’s nice to meet you, Phoebe,” they acknowledged her introduction with a small nod, gaze already drawn towards the trail, “I’m Terry.” They returned the courtesy, before treading the familiar path back to their cabin. A silence stretched over them before Terry continued their questioning, cautiously courteous.

“Is that what you’d like to do, then? Be a writer?” 

[archived-thecjwelford]

"Oh that's sick!" CJ declared, because it absolutely was. He had a couple of friends, back in high school, who either lived in Forest Lake or had rental cabins, and the parties there were insane. Not that Terry seemed to be that type, but still, there was a lot of uses the quiet granted. "You never get scared of like, ghosts of old lumberjacks or anything do you?" The one downside to the cabin; a lot more haunted than other places in town.

Whilst it seemed like him returning to the circuit would benefit CJ's popularity, that wasn't the sole reason he wanted to get back out there. It had been difficult to explain, how he felt like his life was slipping by. How racing was the only thing he was good at, and coaching was fun and all, but you didn't get the same high from it.

The cocktail was placed in front of him, and he plucked the cherry from the top of the glass, propelling it around via the stem for a moment, as he tried to sort his thoughts. "Yeah I guess," He answered, unhelpfully, "Iunno, gotta talk it out with like, my family and stuff." He knew Wren was relieved, secretly, that he wasn't flying across the country for a majority of the year getting into mischief or risking his life, but he also knew she'd support him if he got back out there.

"Your son is cool, and Saul is too. Though it must have been hard divorcing a divorce lawyer, y'know?" At this point, CJ didn't, often feeling like his mouth just ran away from him at the most inopportune times. "Nah, honestly, they're both great. Not like pushing me to annul Seb or anything."

At his question, Terry shook their head. “Oh, I live in a cabin in the woods,” they said, succinctly, until they realized they ought to explain further lest they sounded far too ominous. “It was originally a holiday rental, but I’ve leased it for a year, and a bit off the beaten path. I suppose it’s a very different environment compared to this one, and your place, too, but I don’t mind the solitude.” Solitude in the city, she thought, was more stifling and lonelier than the solitude found in places more remote, like here, in Blue Harbor. And in Forest Lake, solitude always meant the quiet presence of something else—of birds foraging and chirping nearby, of ants living under strange rocks, and of an occasional neighbor or two—in this case, a passing acquaintance—to break the silence. 

They listened to his explanation—or really, a lack thereof—but stopped themselves from prodding further. “Ah, I understand.” Clearly, the situation was complicated, and they were careful not to be too intrusive. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d do numbers if you came back. Comeback seasons are always the best things to watch.” 

The bartender arrived soon thereafter, with their two Black Russians topped with a single maraschino cherry in tow. 

“Thanks. I guess I just need the rest, for now,” they said, lifting their glass to their lips take a sip—bearable, so far. “He is, yes. And Micah is my son, yes,” CJ’s enthusiasm was quite infectious, and a small smile crept up on their lips at the thought of the small coincidences. “Well, are either of them giving you a hard time? Because I haven’t quite retired from giving anyone a talking-to.” 

[theromandaniels]

He wasn’t sure what to make of this stranger. Sure, they were friendly with Antonio, but who wasn’t really? The guitarist had a certain charm about him, he oozed charisma without being slimy, always seemed interested in others in a way that seemed effortless. Roman was both awed and envious of such talent, always finding the threat of small talk daunting and unnecessary when encountering social interactions. Perhaps it was because the Englishman simply wasn’t good at it. Still, it left him in the awkward position of having to entertain — however briefly — someone who knew his best friend and not him. 

Instagram. That explained it then. “Ah.” He replied, intelligently. “My sister is in charge of my account. I don’t have it downloaded on my phone.” Roman, despite having the latest iPhone, only had a limited number of apps excluding the built-in ones. His G-Mail, his Spotify and Apple Music, a news app, and one of those annoying mobile games that conned you out of money every five levels lest you be subjected to advertisements of even worse games. The former bassist had few vices these days, and everyone had to have at least one guilty pleasure, right? “May I…see the picture?” Because Toni had never shown him. Strange within itself, but they were reconnecting properly after five years of pain, and then a previous twenty years of knowing each other as part of a unit rather than as individuals. Perhaps the other man had been embarrassed, or cautious, of Roman’s reaction. Not that he blamed him, thinking of the times he yelled at paparazzi during the height of their career.

Because I hadn’t offered it. There was something…not exactly charming, or welcoming, but something, about their bluntness. Their admission into not caving into social norms. “Terry.” He nodded, and, to pay back in kind, offered; “I don’t shake hands anyway.” Mostly because it drew attention to the right arm in its splint. “Does your son suffer from severe separation anxiety or are you one of those helicopter parents?” He asked about their reasons for being in the small Illinois town, taking a final drag of his own cigarette. “I arrived from London, I own Re-Chording. Attended uni here back in the day but I’ve only been back fully since December.”

Terry thought of trees. There was an absence of them, here, in Weaver Ridge, but it was easy to picture the paths in which they had been uprooted, making way for terraced houses built from red brick. The neighborhood was a drab place, deliberately forgotten, but Terry wondered how many could still see the merits of its bricks and mortars—resistant to damage, non-combustive, highly compressive.

“No,” they shook their head. It took them some time to reply to Roman’s question, having become distracted by the presence that came with absence. “He posted the photo on Instagram. I got one of those recently. Mostly to post photos about things I love.” Judging by Roman’s surprise, though, he had not known of the picture being posted at all. Some confusion flickered on their features. It could just be that Roman Daniels wasn’t on social media. Though, Terry mused, that surely other people showed photos of people they loved all the time. 

The cigarette remained wedged between their fingers. “It’s nice to meet you, Roman,” they began, taking a long drag of their cigarette. I don’t think I got your name? “Oh, right.” They said, catching themselves, that rare lapse in manners. “Well, that’s because I hadn’t offered it. My name’s Terry. I’d offer you a handshake but the smell of tobacco can be quite persistent against one’s fingers,” they said, hoping that was an acceptable rationale to bypass the typical gestures of touch and courtesy. 

Still, they supposed they had to make an introduction of their own. “I’m a university lecturer. I’d just arrived here from New York last May. My son moved here shortly before I did.” Taking one last drag of the cigarette, they tapped off the ash, pressing it against the brick behind them to extinguish the embers, before flicking it to the nearest bin. Turning again to meet his gaze, they continued, “You have been here for long?”

[thephoebeyates]

Phoebe knew it was more than likely that Nilay’s name was unheard of, the curator leaving the museum permanently before the architect had even started. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll meet her eventually, I think she’s still friends with people who still work there. And Blue Harbor is…” She trailed off, gesturing around them to indicate the quaintness of the town, despite how vast the forest felt in the moment. Being here was a constant game of six degrees of separation. If she ever met someone who had no ties to anyone upon moving here whatsoever, Phoebe would give them her first born child.

A son who worked at the law firm…it seemed almost too coincidental, that surely the woman before her wasn’t who Phoebe assumed it could be. Whilst they were unnerving to the younger of the two, if this were Terry — the Terry, ex wife number one — they weren’t exactly as Saul had described. “Is he…enjoying it?” Because it felt too much to set up the line of questioning to ask if his name was Micah, and happened to be currently living in the same building as Phoebe. And maybe, a part of her wanted to be a good pseudo-niece for Saul, to gather intel about his son he wouldn’t be privy to elsewhere. Phoebe didn’t have two parents, but she always expected you’d tell the one you were closer to the truth about your feelings, and from the sounds of it, Micah was closer to his mom. 

Potentially-Terry name-dropping Leon caught Phoebe off-guard, and she blinked in surprise, before nodding. “Yeah, Leon. He, um, he’s helped me out over the years. So, you’re a New Yorker, huh? Was it just your son that brought you here?” She was aware she was toeing the line, but Phoebe wanted to know. For Saul, of course — if this were his ex-wife — but also just out of curiosity of why you’d leave New York to come to Blue Harbor, of all places.

Phoebe  shifted her weight from one leg to the other, never thinking about how her multiple jobs seemed like a lot until it was addressed out loud. “Oh, well, the paper is only three days, and the tutoring is freelance, and well, Leon doesn’t like the idea of me ‘wasting my time’ helping him out, when it’s the opposite really, so it’s not that often I’m actually in the bar working.” She excused, guessing they didn’t need the explanations but granting them anyway. She wanted to make a joke about her highschool schedule being worse — out of the house by 6am sometimes, not returning home until about 11pm, managing a morning shift, school, and an evening shift in one day — but decided against it. It made Phoebe sound like a workaholic, which she absolutely wasn’t. Just poor and needing rent money.

“Um, I kinda write the puff pieces, or like, the odd movie or album review, but they’re like heavily edited anyway.” Her opinion of BRAT wasn’t even published, though she supposed it did hold language not suitable for printed publication. When they invited Phoebe to join them walking, she obliged, both to get to the bottom of who they were exactly, and also, the forest was a bit creepy to Phoebe, and extra company wouldn’t hurt. “Thank you, it’s nice to have company sometimes. Oh, I’m Phoebe, by the way.” Surely a name reveal would be helpful.

Terry nodded, once, as the young woman echoed their occupation. Their brows furrowed at the mention of a former academic in the university, but ultimately conceded the question. “Oh, I don’t know her,” they lifted their shoulders in a curt shrug. Should they know her? The Bailey name rang familiar in the same way the name of any socially prominent family would. Names, Terry knew firsthand, were powerful determinants of societal scale. But in the absence of any real curiosity to their workings and informed by their father’s own resentment towards upper-class folk, they remained just that. Names and syllables. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t met many people in town yet. I really only know my son at the moment. He works at the law firm,” Terry said, hoping the trade was respectable. It was only just, she thought, for one name to beget another, but they obscured his identity all the same. Partly by instinct, partly to delay the questions that it would ultimately surface, because moving through a small town where people knew anyone and everyone felt like walking through a building with exposed wires. 

The young woman appeared harmless enough, identifying herself as a Blue Harbor native who’d never stepped foot outside of Illinois. And then came the rundown of places of value: the local paper, Leon’s pub, even this very Forest Lake trail. All cities and towns were alike in that way, at least, comprised of places where people moved, interacted, and came to rest. “Ah, I know the owner of O’Shea’s. Leon?” They said, with an almost incautious intimacy. Leon’s friendship was an easier and less bittersweet memory to recall, even if it did carry its own set of regrets. Still, the tension against their shoulders receded a little, pleased by the distant connection. “We met in New York City and reconnected here.” 

Somewhere above them, the female wren chattered a final time, and the male wren sang and took flight in response. Mere seconds later, his little patch of earth lay forgotten, and he had joined his partner in the trees. 

Terry took the renewed silence as their own cue to leave, and promptly stood up from the exposed tree stump on which they sat. “That’s a nine-to-five internship on top of part-time work, is it? You seem to do quite a lot for someone so young. Doesn’t it get tiring?” They began, curious, though their attention was mostly drawn to brushing away any stray leaves or branches that might have settled in their earlier position. Granted, much of Terry’s early twenties had similarly been a blur of resident and teaching assistantships, with the aim of curbing the expenses that came with a college education, the first in their family to do so. There wasn’t necessarily more time when one was young—indeed, the next years of juggling a career, studies, marriage, and parenthood were memories they’d cared little to draw back to—but they did concede that opportunities were far more plentiful at her age. 

“You’re a reporter? A photographer?” They asked, gripping their handle of their messenger bag, casting what they’d hoped was a friendly smile before issuing a small invitation—“I’ll probably be heading back, now that the wrens have left. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

[archived-thecjwelford]

CJ would probably have to agree to disagree on the smell of meat, but then again, coffee was delicious… Maybe he and Seb would just have to do some sort of experiment to work out what they’d prefer when waking up. That was like, the best thing about living with your best friend who was also on your wavelength, they got you in a way like no one else did. “Is that what you smell now? You also above a coffee shop?” Probably the best way to find out that wasn’t directly asking where in town Terry lived.

The line of questioning caused him to kiss his teeth, sucking out a harsh breath as he tried to figure out where answering honestly would get him trouble…or at least earn some type of lecture. “Yeah man, just turned thirty-three and…maybe, Iunno, it’s like…complicated, I guess.” He was going to talk to Lainey about it all, but never found the right time. “Nah, NASCAR isn’t really my thing either.” He added with a chuckle.

“Mid-fifties is mad young, especially when you have, like, at least another fifty years to go!” He assured, honestly thinking Terry was younger than they stated. His eyes widened in shock at the knowledge of who Saul was to them. “Dude! Guy is my lawyer, actually. Well, if I go through with my annulment. Damn….wait, so Micah’s your son? Fuck!” This was insane, it was like finding out Santa fucked the Easter Bunny or something.

At his apparent enthusiasm, Terry chuckled, a ghost of a smile lingering in their mouth as they raised another digit towards the bartender. Normally, Terry liked the same stuff—anything too bitter or too sour or too sweet had felt like an assault to their senses—but a change of pace might prove them well. Provided that the drink in question would not come with an abundance of flowers on top, however perfectly edible, as what CJ’s drink had been. 

“Oh, lots. And all kosher, too,” they replied, parsing through their childhood memories—of customers coming and going, the hum of machinery and idle chatter, the scent of meat always hanging in the air. They supposed it was strange, somewhat, that their quiet life was built around a shochet father’s busy one, smack-dab, too in the middle of a busy neighborhood in Upper Manhattan. “I think the novelty wore off after a while, though. I’d trade it for a whiff of morning coffee any day.” 

“Well. That depends. Are you below thirty-five years old? Do you ever plan on coming back into racing? Because either of those things might dampen your prospective run,” Terry added, brows furrowed. Maybe they’d misjudged his age, then. People who had an excess of whimsy often looked younger. Perhaps CJ Welford was just that: youthful and relentless. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve been. I’ve been in a NASCAR track to Daytona, I think, near a diving spot my ex-girlfriend frequented, but… it was just the one time.” They replied, attempting to relate, to little avail. Extreme sports had been a favorite of their ex-partner, whereas Terry was perfectly content with sifting through the morning news.

“I’m in my mid-fifties. So, it’s a bit early, but not by much.” A smile tugged at their lips upon CJ’s mention of that dude, chest hitching within the onset of amusement. “Yes. That dude named Saul, that’s him. He’s my ex-husband, actually.” A brow arched, curious. “Do you know him?” 

[themadisynhuang]

Eyeing  them suspiciously, Madisyn huffed when they — such a fucking know-it-all too — explained the birds that were so damn special it was worth commiting a whole-ass crime for. “Who the fuck asked?” She snapped, with a petulant eye-roll to boot. Perhaps she was coming off as too stand-offish, too guarded, but it was hard for people like Madisyn. Beautiful, rich, famous. All sorts of creeps lived in this town, it wasn’t such a jump to be careful now, was it?

“Of course I don’t know a Lawrence.” Madi scoffed, though it was clear that whoever this Lawrence guy was had nothing to do with the birds named after him after all. She wondered if there was someone she could ask around. Clearly not this psychopath, stalking through the trees to look at birds.

Still, it weirdly stung when they expressed their admission they had no interest in Madisyn. Jaw opening and shutting a few times, she tried to think of an answer that both highlighted her importance and notoriety, but also didn’t give the stranger any idea to strangle her to death and take her TikTok views money. “I’m a hell lot more interesting than birds. Why the hell are you stalking them around this early in the morning anyway?” Madi settled for, turning back to the matter at hand that this person was, in fact, definitely in the wrong. And weird.

It wasn’t often that Terry had found themselves with a lapse of judgment especially when it came to their interests. One of the cardinal (ha!) rules of birding was not to encroach on people’s private property, one which they had violated—if a bit inadvertently—as the impulse grew. 

There was half a making of an apology in their lips. It was clear that they were at fault here, and the best thing about encountering situations like these so frequently—albeit in different contexts, and usually not in the form of a younger woman who, while comely, had an expression that soured her features—was that they already had the appropriate recourse canned. An apology. A brief explanation, or a justification. Then, a promise not to commit the same slight again. 

Yet, recognizing the hardness in the other’s cadence, and the inaccuracy of her assumption, Terry felt the need to point out that: “The hybrid species is called Lawrence’s warblers. They result from the mating between a golden-winged and a blue-winged warbler.” They explained, voice in a measure that was typically reserved for their students. “I don’t know a Lawrence. Do you know a Lawrence?” The chances of a Lawrence owning Lawrence’s warblers would be quite hilarious, though the birds appeared to be free-roaming, belonging to no one else but each other. 

“I got carried away,” they offered as an explanation, however belatedly. “I have no interest in you.” They resisted the urge to lift the binoculars back to their eyes, hoping to survey the empty nest. In retrospect, it might be likelier that the bird they’d spotted was only a golden-winged warbler, after all, but the species' genetic history was so altered that any pure form was a rarity as it is. “Why? Should I be interested in you?” It wasn’t uncommon for the town to have some relatively famous faces, whom they suspected as needing privacy—though Leonard Katz seemed to make his presence far too insistent—but, as with most things, the repository of their knowledge fell flat.