Disclaimer: Desperate Housewives is not mine in any way, shape or form.
Story Summary: A summer apart holds no promise for the future. Speculation for the finale.
Summer Holds No Promise
A story by Ryeloza
It felt like one of those times that she should have been a smoker.
As much as the reality was a smell that saturated everything—clothes, fingernails, lips, tongue, hair—and a bad cough and deeper wrinkles and probably an early death from emphysema, in her mind she pictured the cool, suave ease of indifference that every woman had in those old black and white movies. Cigarette in one hand as she stared down the man across from her; nothing could penetrate the exterior of nonchalance. That type of woman silently screamed you can't hurt me, and right now, more than anything, Lynette wanted to exude that air of strength.
But she didn't smoke. She never had; a reversal of youthful rebellion because her mother had puffed away a pack a day when she was a kid, even if they were short on cash for the rent that month. Still, in that blind instant of panic between him opening the door and stepping out onto the porch, she actually looked around as though a cigarette would magically appear and save her from the disgrace of being herself: tired, weak and a complete wreck.
It didn't happen.
And then he was there.
Immediately, she tensed. For all of the ways she had ever been tense around him—excited, anxious, angry, stressed—this was completely new and rather unwelcome. It was desperation, she realized, futile in her effort to quell it. Pure, old fashioned desperation to prove to him that she was fine, that she didn't need him, and that he didn't bother her one little bit by merely existing. Desperation for him not to find out that every part of that was a bald lie.
"Hi," he said. It came out low and hesitant, and his head drooped slightly in that nervous way he had, but at the same time he leaned back against the wall with his hands in his pockets, and somehow despite knowing him for twenty-two years, she still had no idea how to decipher any of it. This had never been them before. She didn't know how to understand this version of them.
She wasn't sure she wanted to understand it.
"Some party, huh?"
"I didn't know you were coming."
She nearly winced as soon as she said it—she could hear the reedy unhappiness in her voice—and covered it by jumping up to sit on the wall around Gaby's front porch. When she looked back at him, their eyes met, and immediately they both looked away. "Yeah, well," he said shyly, "Gaby invited both of us."
"I know." She'd thrown the invitation in the trash weeks ago in a fit of despondence, unable to stand seeing their names twined together so casually, mocking her. "But I thought—Things have changed."
"I wanted to see you."
She hated the way her heart got tight and fluttery for a second; she hated the way his words could still make or break her. Covering, she said, "You see me all the time." It was true. Kind of. He'd been by to see the kids, and she was there. But they hadn't been alone together in weeks.
For a separation that was supposed to help, they certainly only seemed to be drifting further apart.
"Fine," he conceded, and she couldn't help but look at him then, forcing herself not to turn away from his frank gaze. "I needed to see you."
The words barely had time to settle uneasily between them before the door opened again and some drunken guests spilled out into their uncomfortable cocoon. They were laughing loudly, the lone woman among them slurring unintelligibly as they stumbled toward the stairs. As if encouraged by this infuriating show of happy confidence, Tom suddenly stepped toward her, not touching her, but leaning down into her personal space; her heart stopped—she couldn't breathe.
"Can we go somewhere and talk?"
She nodded before she could think, sliding back down onto the porch and nearly standing on his toes. She couldn't look at him then, just blindly leading him down the stairs to the sidewalk and purposefully turning in the opposite direction of their house. She was trembling as they started to walk; only aware of how shaken she was by his physical presence now that they had some distance between them again.
He had more power over her now than he had in a long time.
It made no sense.
They remained silent until they actually turned off of Wisteria Lane—she frantically trying to regain her bearings, and he…well, she didn't know. She didn't even remember that they weren't on this walk to escape themselves until he cleared his throat and said, "It's warm tonight."
"Yeah," she agreed blandly. "July."
"You hate summer."
"No." It was a defiant response; she did hate summer. She hated the long, hot days. She hated running up her gas bill by running the air conditioner. She hated how stifling it was. She hated how there was never respite from the routine of her day. And like all things in her life, it really stemmed back to how much she'd hated being stuck at home all the time as a child without even school to escape from her mother.
"You once told me that it was the only season that held no promises."
"Yeah…Well…" Neither of them pointed out that it had been her response to his suggestion of a summer wedding. She was glad. Knowing that was enough to make her heart heavy, let alone actually having to hear it said out loud. "Maybe this summer is different."
He stopped at that; she could feel his eyes on her as she continued to walk, refusing to turn around and acknowledge his curiosity. She couldn't explain what she meant anyway; it was all nonsense.
In two steps, he caught back up to her. "I had lunch with the twins yesterday."
"Oh yeah?" she scoffed. "Well at least they're talking to one of us. I'm so happy that it's you."
"Lynette."
It was the first time she'd heard him say her name in weeks. Somehow just the sound of it falling from his lips so possessively made her stop in her tracks, and she turned toward him, thinking maybe she'd just punch him and get it over with. She might even feel better.
"Trust me, they didn't really want to talk to me either. We didn't even get to order entrees."
"Do you expect me to punish them for you?" She shook her head, disgusted, and took off again at a more brisk pace. Tom trailed a step behind her, making up for the distance by speaking twice as loud. "They wanted to know how long this is going to go on."
She squeezed her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms, her heartbeat racing in her ears. She'd been avoiding this conversation. This, this was why they hadn't spoken in weeks. This was why they'd barely seen each other.
This was why she'd felt ill from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him tonight.
"Lynette!" He reached out, touched her elbow, and she rounded on him furiously.
"Stop saying my name!"
"What—?"
"I'm not ready for this!"
She backed away, stepping out of his reach. Any hint of composure she might have had was gone. All that was left now was the raw, bruised woman who had been beaten weeks ago, and she couldn't trust that woman. She couldn't trust her not to fuck this up beyond repair.
She couldn't trust her not to fall into his arms and forget everything.
"I'm not ready for this," she repeated, shaking her head. "We can't have this conversation. Not tonight."
He was looking at her incredulously. She pretended she couldn't see the hurt in his eyes. "We can't keep going on like this."
"Like what?"
"Like…This!" he sputtered. "This limbo—purgatory—whatever. We agreed weeks ago that we were going to take some time apart to sort out our problems, but we haven't solved anything. We've just been apart."
"To think about things."
"I have been thinking about things!" He stepped toward her, arms encircling her waist as he pulled her flush against his body. She struggled ineffectually, trying to escape, trying to pretend that her heart wasn't in her throat, beating so fast that she thought it might explode. It was too much—his arms and his scent and the look in his eyes. "You know the only thing I've figured out?"
"Let go of me."
He ignored her, only holding her tighter as she squirmed against him. "The only thing I've figured out is that I don't want to be apart from you. Whatever problems we're having, we're not solving anything by being apart."
"We weren't solving anything together either."
"Yeah, but at least we weren't so fucking miserable."
She managed to pull away from him then, stumbling a bit over her heels as she reeled backwards. He was still staring at her with the saddest eyes she'd ever seen, and she shook her head, hating him for making her pity him. "I was miserable," she said. "Now I'm just a different kind of miserable. You're just asking me to trade one for another."
"I don't understand."
"That was part of the problem."
For a moment, there was nothing. She was breathing too heavily, and he was trying not to cry, and they were both too proud and stupid and sad, but there was nothing. Then, as her heartbeat slowed and her fists unclenched, she really focused on the man standing before her. The stranger—this Tom she didn't know. The Tom without her.
She couldn't let it stand at nothing.
"I miss you."
And she wondered if he understood. She wondered if he knew that she missed the Tom who always put her first and laughed so easily and didn't take her for granted or expect her to be something she wasn't.
She missed the man she'd married.
"I miss you too," he echoed quietly.
And she understood. She did. She knew that he missed another version of her as well, one that hadn't been jealous and petty and clingy.
God, she missed that woman too.
"What do we do now?"
It was the question she couldn't answer—the question she had been pondering for weeks; the one that kept her from falling asleep and haunted her night and day. She wasn't sure they could go back to what they were before; she wasn't sure that anyone could. They either had to reconcile these changes—to grow back together somehow—or cut and run.
She'd never run away in her life.
With a helpless shrug, she said the only thing she could. "Walk me home?"
He nodded slowly, and she stepped toward him, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. For a second, she reached up and held his shoulder as she struggled to take off her shoes. Her heels clicked together as she looped her finger through the straps, hand dropping ineffectually to her side. She looked up at him one last time, feeling strangely young and small next to him, more innocent and vulnerable than she ever remembered being before. Gently, he reached out and brushed his hand against her cheek, and she didn't fight him when he leaned in and lightly kissed her lips.
"Which way is home?" he asked quietly, shattering her heart.
She tried not to cry as she took his hand and threaded their fingers together and led him back the way they came.