His feet shuffle against the side of the pavement, the dead cold winter air at his back. The city doesn't smell funny in the winter. There's no rancid odor of refuse, metal and public domain. Maybe the cold has all the homeless people burrowed away from the air. Maybe it's the cold blasts of winter air at his back wafting it away from his nostrils. Its harsh but he handles it because he understands the cold blast very well. Its his penance, he bear it all the same.

He remembers high school clearly for a moment but its nothing from the portfolio of his usual memories. They are sitting in a circle with Ms. Zinger, no Mr. Anagbo, no he can't really remember clearly. He pauses. No it was Ms. Zimmer, he promised himself he wouldn't forget her. They are sitting in a circle and in one of the few classrooms with walls the campus had reading their stories they'd been clacking at for the week. His turn is next. He pauses and he begins to read his creation. It was about her but he hadn't the gumption to dare talk to her yet. Its just what he thought the story of their lives could be one day. It won the prestigious Athenaeum award in England and he still couldn't believe his professor had talked him into submitting it. She wanted him to submit it to something domestic but he was mortified she would find out and then...she'd know.

That was far worse then being recognized for his talent internationally. Mortifying.

His ears were always the coldest but he never employed a scarf or ear muffs or at least one of those cheesy looking head band things made out of fleece. He just stuck it out as he trudged the city sidewalks. The lingering odor of fish wormed into his nose as he passed the fish market. The shit he did to save money. Then again cabs smelled like ass and cigarettes. Disgraceful.

Once he wrote a better story then the short one from creative writing class. They published it and it sold like it was Shakespeare himself. He didn't even need Oprah for that. It was the story of his life after he had finally got up enough courage to speak to her. Actually he was forced to speak to her. Her car broke down on the side of a deserted rode and his uncle's garage was the tow company she called. HIs father's car dealership service department was refusing to take AAA at the time. She was beautiful then. He imagined she was breathtaking at this very moment. She always was.

He picked up the pace as he saw a snow flurry settle in. His feet chose to lead him up Mercer from Prince today for some reason. He'd never done that before. He'd always taken West Broadway. That's when he saw it. The city did that to you. You got so used to your same route as variant as it could be that the slightest deviation produced life changing results.

His?

A used book store. They specialized in procuring rare finds. He entered thinking of getting his hands on something like a first edition Marquez or Fitzgerald. Maybe a couple of hard cover sci-fi books. He was a dork he'd admit it. If he was lucky a Charles Dickens. He entered brushing past the newer used books. The repetitive binding at the top row caught his eye as he headed toward the back towards the rare books. It was his second book. A comet in more ways than one. What's a comet but a celestial asteroid?

One of the reviews described it as 'imploringly boring, a must-not read'. He had missed the boat on that one. On second thought it was a plane. He'd been too late to the airport. They were closing the doors to her gate and wouldn't let him on as a part of the new security regulations. Damn terrorists. He sat in the chairs facing the windows watching it take off and then watching them all take off and leave. He missed his life's dream by two stop lights and a swerving hybrid driver who'd sworn a Prius had more speed then his '67 Mustang. Never that. Screw trees and going green...he was a writer. Paper made him paper. However he did use only plastic for most transactions. Interesting.

He assumed she read it but his mental state at the time didn't really encourage her to respond in any such way. Besides he agreed with the critics. It sucked. Seeing it here in such a tucked away fashion at the top of the used book store shelf with yellowing sides on some of the volumes furthered the argument. Not his best work. Kind of like his pathetic attempts at getting her back.

Her curly blonde ringlets were God's best work in his book. No girl's hair had even compared. He missed her. Funny how the difference between heroin and heroine was an 'e'. Did the effects really differ when you were addicted to one or the other. Addiction is as addiction does or maybe more. Life changing thoughts.

He'd always thank God for how bad the second book did. It was the five minutes he stood debating the small epiphany between the drug and the woman ( they were quite certainly the same he had decided) that changed everything. Five minutes. Three hundred seconds. His entire life.

He stepped out the aisle again and almost stepped on her miniature statue. At least he was most definitely certain that's what Brooke Davis was calling her. Of course he hadn't heard from Brooke in several months but he could tell the precious little girl whose curly hair was tied into two french braids had heard from her yesterday. In fact he was quite certain that woman had dressed her today.

'Mackenzie Rose Scott! Why do you insist on giving me a heart attack and walking off,' her voice was somewhat muffled through the stacks of books. It still made his heart beat wildly. His head swam much like it does when the alcohol first hits the blood stream.

His face must have been something between a mixture of the Messiah and the Accuser because the little statue in front of him froze unable to move. Her mouth was the perfect 'O', her little green eyes were a mixture of emotions he was sure he was supposed to know how to read.

'Mac what the hell,' her mother's voice called closer and with more concern. The statue stiffly faced her mother whose heels could be heard clacking down the aisle over from him. The aisle that was on the other side of the one that housed his rejected book. He suddenly loved that book very much yet his face must've never showed it. The statue turned back to him her face doing much of the same.

'Mac I know we're in a book store and all but...,' the voice was soft now as it trailed off. Astonished green eyes met far more astonished blue ones.

Breathtaking was an understatement.

A small rebellious part of his mind had hoped she lived in the same miserable state he did. That she would go for days without shaving and wake up with red-rimmed eyes. This little portion of his brain hoped that her neck would snap in the direction of every blonde haired man that walked past her. It hoped that she couldn't watch his favorite television shows without her eyes brimming or pick up novels from his favorite authors. And it most certainly hoped that every love song on the radio somehow reminded her of him.

Another part of his mind, the idealistic one that created short stories and novels, hoped that God had repeated perfection twice. That somehow she had a child, a miniature, that he could claim too. That side never considered how he would react if he actually met this miniature. That's because the rebellious part would always interrupt that fantasy and hope that her little miniature's upturned nose would remind her of him and how miserable she was without him.

'Hey,' he stuttered. One reviewer said his third book was 'eloquent, quick-witted and sharp Scott proves he's an author to watch and remember'.

Not today.

'Um hey,' she said. She still rung her hands when she was nervous. But clearly Mackenzie Rose Scott pulled at her free curls when she was nervous. Lucas looked down at her statue and mouthed the name to himself but it still didn't hit him.

He studied Peyton for a second her wide eyes screaming CAUGHT. He still didn't get it. She still could make him feel useless. He wanted to feel useless everyday. She bit her lip.

'Sawyer I don't know why we had to detour. Mac has at least a thousand books,' her raspy voice always had that jilting effect on him. He could hear her hurried footsteps near them both. This was a little much. He shook his head and blinked.

'A thousand books huh,' he said squatting down to the miniature.

'Yeah,' she said nodding before her eyes widened and she looked for permission from her prototype.

Peyton's mouth worked wordlessly before she shrugged. She wanted to run wildly into the streets. His calm hardened features had her scared and wet at the same time. She hadn't told him because he was engaged. She hadn't told him because after he got engaged she left. Then she refused his calls. The two blue stripes on the test strips a month later told her maybe she should have answered.

Dilemma.

Call him and break up his happy honeymoon or let him live in pure bliss. She had no idea there was never a honeymoon. Not until Mac's fifth birthday. Not until on said birthday Jamie accidentally told Mac that his Uncle Lucas was a writer living in the same city with her and her mommy. A year's worth of questions and two months of the silent treatment. That's how Mackenzie Rose Scott discovered her father was her hero. Now at age seven she stood pulling her hair nervously hoping he liked her.

'Peyton and Mac seriously this place is dusty,' the raspy voice was in the aisle rushing forward to them.

'Guys what's wrong? Hole in the floor or something,' Brooke asked her voice riddled with the phrase 'What the Fuck?'.

Peyton turned her wringing hands to Brooke. The miniature's eyes widened further and a groan escaped her now petulant lips. Lucas let his eyebrows burrow down deeply.

Mac. Mackenzie Rose Scott. That was such a sweet beautiful name. Mackenzie. Rose. Scott. Scott. That sounded so familiar. Quick witted talent of the decade. Hmmm. Scott. Hey I'm a Scott too. In this Scott my Scott. Oh shit she's a Scott. Sawyer has a Scott. Great Scott. Damn. Dan? Oh Damn. NO!

He stood up straight rather quickly suddenly wishing he hadn't . Damn he was old. Twenty-nine would do that to you.

Brooke's face appeared and took one look at him then burst out laughing. His face was flushed somewhat with a wave of emotions. He couldn't think, especially when she bit her lip like that.

His hard set squint unnerved he and set her on fire. She shifted again in his reserved silence as he seemed to freeze much like her baby girl had. Yes, maybe she was wrong but he didn't wait. He never came looking for her. She ran and he wasnt searching for her. She was certain that Brooke or Haley or even Nathan had spilled by now. They wouldn't seriously keep a secret this big from him. Not even Karen. Yet he stood before her clearly try to climb out from under a ton of bricks.

He squatted down back to her miniature's level. She had his nose.

'Do you think you could play with Aunt Brooke while I talk to your mother,' he asked. She nodded her head but he caught the emotion in her eyes. Their was only one this time...rejection. She turned slowly her little eyes looking at him starting to water. He wasn't sure what he had done wrong but his heart was slowly breaking. The child silently grasped the outstretched hand of her aunt in such a defeated manner he almost cried out from the pain it caused.

Mackenzie Rose Scott. Love at first site.

'She's beautiful Peyton,' he said. His breath was coming in short gasps.

Peyton's head sagged in shame. He was going to hate her for a long time. She'd ruined everything for Mackenzie. Things like this left a scar. Hers were still a little visible. Her breath hitched as she felt her chin gently lifted up. He was upset she could tell. How couldn't he be. She stolen seven years from him. She could see him struggling to say the right words.

'I want to see her,' he said finally. He couldn't bring himself to yell or fight or argue. He was still helplessly in love with her. She nodded quickly her eyes were welling. His fingers went from her chin to cupping her face. Her hands instinctively reached for his despite their slight tremble.

'I'm so sorry. I thought that...,' she began. She had absolutely no control over any of emotions at the moment. His eyes seemed to be pooling in conflict but he was clearly far more disciplined than she. He shook his head silencing her. His head leaned forward till their foreheads touched. Lips parted and inch apart. She had the infamous Peyton Sawyer coffee breath. He closed his eyes knowing she was truly sorry and the truth was withheld because of pure terror of a sort, not spite. How they were so sure that they knew exactly what was going in the other's head would never be fathomed. It was clear they didn't else they'd be together yet in the thousands of moments like these they were in sync.

'It's a lot...baby steps,' he whispered. Her hot breaths were causing his memory to short circuit. They were no longer in a stuffy old bookstore in Manhattan on a cold winter day. It was the summer between junior an senior year. The day she broke down with the weight of a really bad year on her shoulders. They were on the beach their toes dug into the still hot summer sand while the sun set behind them. She'd been quiet all day despite Lucas's attempts to entertain her. She stood and started to pace her head swirling with each diminished wave that crashed against the shore. Lucas watched her face fall deeper than it hall all year and he found himself on his feet. Enveloping her. He cradled her in his arms as her shoulders heaved into his frame. At some point their foreheads came to touch as they were now. Their was something different though. He could feel something heavy leaning up against his leg now.

He moved his head down slightly being sure not to break contact with her. He could feel a tear pool at his chin and drop mingling with hers. He spied his little girl curly blonde head leaning heavily onto his thigh. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans and his tears continued to betray him, falling on her. It didn't deter her. She remained clutching onto his right leg and her mother's left as tightly as her little seven year old hands could.

-FIN-

A/N: Can I get a Review? One Two... thousands. Tell me what you think.