Author's Note: UPDATED 4/26/2016 to reflect some plot changes I made in Hey There, Delilah.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize and some of the things you don't.

Playlist:
Your Guardian Angel- Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
First Day of My Life- Bright Eyes
Jesus- Brand New
Hate Me- Blue October

"Connie this is wrong, and it isn't like you," he said, placing an arm around her shoulders. He looked so disappointed, so very disappointed. The way his eyes locked on hers threatened to break her heart again, but it hadn't really healed from the first time he broke it, had it?

"I know," she responded, chocking back tears as she lowered her head to avoid his stare. It was so wrong. What made her think this would make things better? Lifting a strong hand, he raised her chin so that she had to look him in the eyes.

"You're doing this because you miss me, aren't you?" Those eyes. Those chocolate brown eyes she hadn't looked into for so long threatened to rip her apart inside. Seven years! It had been seven years! And as much as it hurt to admit it, she knew it was true.

"More than you could ever imagine."

Singing loudly and off key, twenty-one year old Connie Moreau, soon to be Connie Germaine, danced around the kitchen of the small apartment she shared with her fiancé. Taking a momentary break from chopping vegetables, she dug a large cooking pot out of the cabinet and placed it in the sink. Turning on the faucet to fill it up with water, she turned a wonderful pirouette back towards her cutting board.

"I could have danced all night!" she sang along with the record player in the living room, slicing up carrots and onions. "I could have danced all night! And still have begged for more!" Smiling at her silliness, she continued to sing as the telephone rang. "I could have spread my wings, and one a thousand things I've never done before!" Twirling and hopping, she landed in front of the cordless phone on the kitchen table and answered it.

"Future Mrs. Guy Germaine speaking!" she answered the phone cheerfully as the sound of Audrey Hepburn singing continued in the living room. Looking over to the sink, she saw that the pot was overflowing and was about to go turn the water off when the person on the other end of the line spoke.

"Connie, honey," it was Guy's mother, and she cried as she spoke. "Connie, I've got some terrible news."

Connie could feel her heart stop. Her knees buckled. The telephone slipped from her hands and tumbled to the floor with a silence-breaking "thunk." No, she mouthed upon hearing the news. Her empty hands went limp as her mind fumbled for thought.

Emitting a silent scream as the sound of broken glass filled her ears, she crumpled to the floor, her legs collapsing underneath her little frame. A glass she must have knocked off of the counter lay next to her in shards. Gasping for air as she braced herself against the cold tile of the kitchen floor, her mouth was stretched into what under other circumstances could have been a smile; her eyes had begun to well with tears, but they refused to fall. Vision blurred by tears, her long dark hair falling about her face as her whole body convulsed, violently rejecting the information she'd just received.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end of the phone begged urgently. "Hello, Connie? Connie, are you okay? Are you there?" It persisted, beckoning her to speak again, but how could she? How could she respond to what the unseen woman had just told her?

What could she say to the news that had just ruined her life?

"Connie?" someone called from what seemed like miles away. The voice was barely audible, like they were at the far end of a tunnel. There was a roaring in her ears, like the ocean, and her vision was so very blurry. "Connie, where are you? You're scaring me." The voice was louder now, and the roaring in her ears seemed to have lessened, as if the speaker was closer. She raised a hand to wiper her eyes in effort to clear her vision. The back of her hand came back wet, but it didn't help much. "Connie?" the voice was further away now, as if whoever was looking for her had gone the other directions. She wanted to get up, to let whoever know where she was, but she couldn't. She couldn't make herself speak, couldn't do anything. Finally, the vibration of footsteps on the cold linoleum floor reached her. In moments, the feet were right in front of her. "There you are! I came over as soon as Guy's mom called." The voice was still muffled, and she couldn't raise her head to see who it was. If only the roaring in her ears would stop.

The body turned toward the sink and in seconds the roaring was gone. That's right, she was filling up the pot to boil water when… The next thing she knew, the oh-so-familiar face of Charlie Conway was even with hers on the floor, and his hand grasped for hers. His eyes were weary and red.

"Hey," he whispered, squeezing her fingers in his hand. For the first time in hours her eyes were able to focus. She didn't say anything, but instead held his eyes with her own. They were so warm and dark, like Guy's.

The two of them lay there for some time. Neither spoke, neither moved save the clockwork motion of Charlie squeezing Connie's hand, as if to assure himself that she were still alive. Suddenly, without warning, Connie sat up, weakly pushing herself off of the floor. Charlie followed, and the two leaned their backs against the oven door.

"Twelve hours ago we were having sex." It was the first thing she'd said in some time, and her voice sounded as if it had forgotten how to work correctly. "The really good kind that you can only have when you really love the person you're having sex with." Charlie wrapped an arm around her shoulders, listening, uncomfortable at the revelation. "We're supposed to get married in four days," she continued. "He stopped to help an old lady change her tire and got hit by a drunk driver. Isn't that ridiculous?" She stopped for a moment. Her breathing quickened, sounding as if she was about to hyperventilate. "Isn-" her voice cracked, "Isn't that the most ridiculous load of shit you ever heard?" And with the last word, she began to cry, convulsing violently once more.

Working his jaw, as if holding back his own emotions on her behalf, Charlie stood. Effortlessly, he scooped up the young woman's body, wrapping her arms around his neck. Slowly, he walked towards the bedroom, shushing her sobs as they went. He laid her on the bed then found a spot next to her, hesitating before he lay his head on the pillow. There was a dip there still, presumably from Guy's head. A head that would never touch the pillow again.

She felt so guilty there in the sanctuary of the church. Everyone was there from Coach Bombay and the original Ducks, to Team USA and Ms. McKay, to Coach Orion and the high school players, to everyone Guy had played with in college. The room was full, with some people standing in the back. She was such a hypocrite. She'd claimed to have loved him from the moment they met when they were seven, but not even twenty-four hours after his death she'd been with another man. He was dead, and she could never make things right. Perhaps it was fitting that she'd have to live with the guilt forever.

She wasn't even a widow. She was four days away from being a widow. She was a cheating whore of a not-widow. She couldn't get it out of her mind. It was so wrong!

But it had seemed so right at the time.

They'd lain in bed all day. Well, she had. After carrying her to the bedroom, Charlie had stayed with her for some time, holding her shaking little frame close to him and sleeping only after he knew she was no longer awake. He didn't know it, but she'd heard him crying in the middle of the night, woken by the slight shaking of his torso. He'd gotten up early and made her a breakfast she merely picked at, and spent the rest of the day leaving the room only to answer the phone or the door.

"She needs some time," he'd told the visitors and the callers. "Just a little more time." The funeral had been planned for two days hence; arrangements were made by Guy's mother. All Connie had to do was sit there and look solemnly pretty as the guests came to pay their condolences. Her mother had immediately sent out a notice canceling the wedding, and they were to drive in to town the following day.

Charlie was a good guy. He had stepped in without being asked to take care of her, letting her world stop for just a little while. He understood she needed silence, so he'd said practically nothing all day. The room was dark and silent for most of the day, punctuated with a few weak whimpers from Connie.

It was nighttime now, but what time exactly, she did not know. Charlie had taken the clocks out of the room, and she was grateful—the constant tick-tock would have driven her mad. The young woman's head lay on her companion's shoulder, her arms wrapped around his trim waist. He held her close, chin resting on her head with his arms hugging her comfortably tight, as if protecting her from something. He couldn't protect her, though, it was too late.

"He's gone." Her voice was weak and scratchy. To speak actually caused her pain. Charlie lifted his head, moving back from her to see her face. His brows were knit with concern. Slowly, he raised a hand and brushed back a wild strand of dark hair from her face.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice equally ragged. Hand settling her jawbone, he soothingly rubbed his thumb across the smooth skin of her cheek. And then, something totally unexpected happened: Connie began to laugh. It was soft at first, so soft he actually thought she was crying. But then no tears came and the laughter grew, and with it Charlie's confusion. Her tiny hand reached up to cover his, squeezing it.

"What a way to jilt the bride," she said, finally explaining the reason for he laughter. Shaking her head softly, the laughter quickly turned into tears. "He never half-assed anything, did he?" Moving his hand, Charlie wrapped his arms around her torso and pulled her closer, really to comfort himself more than anything.

"Nope," he replied, the lump in his throat clearly audible, "he sure didn't." Looking into Connie's hazel eyes, the relief that swept over him was clear as her tears stopped, but he couldn't have predicted what happened next. As if in slow motion, he watched as her face grew nearer to his, as her sad eyes closed, as her lips met his. He shut his own and as if having relinquished all control over his own actions, he slipped into the kiss without a second thought. Moments later, he pushed her away as the magnitude of the kiss set in. "Connie?" He questioned, his eyes full of worry and fear and anger and sadness and, as much as he wished to vanish it, desire. Ashamed, Connie turned away, biting her lip as if realizing what she'd done for the first time. What had she done? Kissing Charlie wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't bring Guy back. It wouldn't turn back time. It wouldn't make her feel any less pain. It wouldn't make him feel better. Kissing Charlie would only bring about a world of guilt for both of them.

"I'm sorry," she quickly apologized, looking up to the young man with her big hazel eyes, her bottom lip still caught between her teeth. She looked so like a little girl in that moment. So like that little girl Charlie had first met when he was six on the playground, the day she'd kicked him in the knee for not letting her play basketball with them. That little girl didn't deserve this. Connie didn't deserve this.

"It's okay," Charlie replied, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. They lay there for what seemed like hours in the silence, but could really have only been moments. Slowly, despite her better judgment, she moved closer to the young man and placed a seductive kiss on his slightly scruffy neck as she rested a hand against his chest. "Connie," he began to stop her, his voice sounding a little less emphatic than before.

"Charlie," she interrupted, placing her lips against his ear, "I feel so hollow right now, and I don't want to feel like that. I want to feel anything but that." She pressed her mouth to his ear, her bottom lip lingering against it. "So either you are going to let this happen, because I know you need to feel something else, too, or I'm going to go into the kitchen and stick my hand over the burner while the stove is on." She sounded so desperate, and as insane as it seemed, in that moment she made complete sense to Charlie. Complete and utter sense. Without further discussion, he turned his head and captured her lips in his own. One hand tangled in her messy brown hair, the other wrapped around her waist, he maneuvered so that he was on top of her, and now in control. Her delicate arms, no longer sculpted as they were when she played hockey, wrapped around his neck as he began to tug her jeans away. She removed his shirt with ease, and in no time they were completely without clothes.

When it ended, Connie refused to admit it, but she felt even emptier than before. Turning away from her fellow mourner, she curled into the fetal position, her little body shivering as if cold. "I'm sorry," she'd mumbled over and over again, and Charlie knew it wasn't he whom she was apologizing to. Guilt settling in, Charlie wanted to comfort her, but couldn't find it in him to touch her again. He left early that morning, with a plate of eggs and toast prepared for Connie on the kitchen table. He thought she'd been asleep when he snuck out, but she wasn't.

Hanging her head in guilt, the girl let out a sob. Certainly the other mourners assumed it was for Guy. All but the man beside her. Guy's parents had asked that she, Charlie, and Adam sit with them at the funeral, and really, it was proper. Guy had no siblings—Adam and Charlie had been his brother. In high school, they were like the Three Musketeers, completely inseparable. And Connie, well, Connie was the love of his life. Mrs. Germaine caught the girl's hand in her own and squeezed it tightly, as Charlie shot her an unreadable look. How could we? Connie thought. How could we do what we did in our bed? In Guy's bed. They didn't deserve to be there. They betrayed him in death, and that seemed even worse than betraying them in life. Sobbing once more, she was a little surprised as Adam reached across Charlie and took her hand. Looking down the pew, she squeezed it and offered her best attempt at a smile. The redhead next to him caught her attention. Adam and Delilah were to be married soon, in a month or so. Oh, how she hated the woman. Delilah had her Adam, and it was not fair. So not fair.

The man's hand slipped out of her own, and Connie began to feel as if her lungs were shrinking. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think, she couldn't be here. "I'm sorry," she cried softly. Jumping up, she covered her face as she ran out of the church in search of fresh air. She was so ashamed, and they didn't even know why.