The Look

He lets his eyes wander over the crowd from his place on stage, not looking for anything or anyone in particular. Or maybe he's trying to find her, hoping against the pit in his gut that she thought better of her letter and would be there to watch him play so he can stop feeling so hollow. He's never been one for all that unconscious mind mumbo-jumbo though, so he can't say for sure.

His gaze falls on a different her and he's shocked to see her: she hasn't come to one of his gigs in months. She gives him a half smile with a tilt of her head and he's not sure how, but it's clear from the look in her eyes, even in the dim lighting from this far away, that she knows.

One corner of his mouth hitches as he feels a shot of sudden elation at his good fortune that she's here. The hollowness in his chest and the ache in his stomach lessen a bit as his first measure of the song sneaks up on him and he lets himself get carried away into the music. He closes his eyes, letting himself feel the tempo in his heartbeat because he knows that he can. Whatever rollercoaster of emotions he'll be on in the next couple of days, he knows she'll pull him back from it simply because she's here with that look on her face that tells him she will, just like she always does.

As he plays, he's reminded briefly of Moby Dick, though he's never been a fan of it. He thinks about the metaphors for exploring dangerous places inside yourself and how it's okay to go inside them as long as you know you'll be able to come back out again. He used to be afraid that he went too far into those places in the past, but he's not concerned now. He could go too far out to sea, stare for too long at the sun, be entirely mesmerized by seeing nothing but haze in front of him and she'd still be able to reach out for him and pull him back. So he gets lost in the music.

He looks out at her again after a couple more songs and watches her thin fingers and her boot tap out the beat of the song gracefully. She meets his eyes again and gives a single nod: keep going.

She seems to remember when the set is nearly finished because she flags down a server to order their drinks: a Riesling for her and a scotch for him, though he watches as she adds "double" and "single malt" to his part of the order. The happiness bubbles in his stomach again when he realizes that she's waited for him and he's amazed yet again at how well she can respond to exactly what he needs when he doesn't even ask.

They finish the set to applause and he watches her mouth turn up in a closed-lip smile. He tries to return it, but his face feels stiff. She seems to notices and her eyes dart down to the table where the server has just placed his drink. The twinkle in her eye tells him that she's holding herself back from winking at him. He can tell what she means anyway: well, hurry up. That makes him let out a short breath that could have been a chuckle and he puts away his gear, says a quick good-bye to his bandmates, and lugs his bass through the crowd to her table.

She inches her chair over slightly so he can store it under the table without creating a hazard to the other club-goers. He takes a long gulp of his drink and notices that she hasn't yet touched hers; she seems to be waiting for him before she speaks. He expects comforting words or at least a mention of what's happened, but when she does, it's totally innocuous.

"Nice set." She finally takes a sip of her wine. "I forgot how much I like coming to your gigs."

"I think it went well," he replies slowly with a nod and another gulp of his scotch. He welcomes the haze already starting in his head.

She seems to notice, but masks her concern as easily as if they were talking about the weather. "Have you eaten?"

He looks at her squarely in the eye now and she immediately catches their waiter to order burgers for both of them. When their waiter squeezes through the crowd to pass their order onto the kitchen she says, "Friends don't let friends let you waste the good stuff on an empty stomach."

He takes another sip of the drink anyway, not out of spite, but because something in him doesn't want to stop. He wants to say something and by the expression on her face, he knows shewants him to talk too. They're in a club though and he's not about to talk about something so deeply personal as this in a place so public. He can't; he won't, so he settles for scarfing down his burger, fries, and coleslaw with vigor. He's finished in only a few minutes so she gets the rest of hers wrapped up, recognizing the look on his face that says he needs to go home. She presses two fingers on his wrist as he finishes his glass, gently refusing him another.

"I have more at home," she explains simply.

They're at her car pushing the backseats down to fit his bass inside when the practical side of his brain revs into action.

"My truck-"

"We'll come back and get it tomorrow."

That seems as good an idea as any, considering the fuzziness still in his head from the scotch. Sitting on the passenger side of the center console, he opens his mouth to ask if she's okay to drive, but she pulls out into traffic so effortlessly that the question seems moot.

He carries the bass at an awkward angle as they climb the stairs to her apartment. He counts the steps as they go, still trying to drown out the nagging voice that hasn't shut up since he opened the letter, the one that reminds him of how weak he is. He wants to speak, to ask her for help, but he still can't seem to do it. He focuses on his voice in his head that chants "Not yet. Not yet" with each step he takes.

She unlocks her door, takes off her coat, and holds her hand out for his, but he doesn't notice, observing the grain of the wooden floorboards intently instead.

"Mac, your coat." Her voice sounds far away. "Mac?"

"It's ironic, isn't it?" He starts. Though playing at the club seemed to take the edge off for a short time, he can't hold it back any longer. He hadn't realized that his guitar had been literally weighing him down, but when she takes it out of his hands, he feels lighter, if only for a second. And because he finally feels safe in her home, like he can speak freely, he keeps going. "Just yesterday I was telling you to 'take the plunge' with the guy who sent you that skydiving gift certificate, to enjoy the rewards of romance rather than focus on the risks."

He still makes no move to take off his coat, nor does he stop her when she goes to slip it from his shoulders herself.

"That makes me a hypocrite, doesn't it?" She faces him again and they both know he's not asking.

"No Mac. Of course it doesn't." She tries to lead him to her living room, but he stays put.

"It does." He lets out a mirthless snort. "I'm the damn poster boy for romance, aren't I? My wife dies and it takes me years to even want to date again and then finally when I do, my girlfriend decides she doesn't want to stay."

Not waiting for him to follow her this time, she takes his wrist where she can feel his pulse and pulls him to the living room, apparently intent on getting him to sit. But he can't, doesn't want to. He wants to pace off the energy that's rearing up in his chest and feels like it's going to burst out of his muscles. While she sits, he stays standing and begins wearing a short path in her carpet on the other side of the coffee table.

"It's something with me, right? I'm the problem here. Maybe I wasn't ready for something. I mean, I know I get too stuck inside my own head, so maybe she just got tired of me. I know I get tired of me, so what's to say she didn't?"

She's never known Peyton well and never had much of an opinion of her either way, but right in this moment, she can't help but hate her a little bit. It wasn't that she'd broken up with Mac; it was how she'd broken up with him, that she'd decided their future alone when it was something they both needed to decide. Hadn't she known? Couldn't she see what her letter would do to him? Mac had never put a name to what he felt at times like this, but she understood.

He hated feeling out of control. With Claire, it was unavoidable: neither of them chose what happened to her and she knew it ate at him. But she also knew the fact that Claire hadn't gotten to choose it either comforted him in a way. She never chose to leave him.

But this time, Peyton took his control. She made the decision for both of them. Maybe it's worse, she thinks, when someone takes the control from you when it easily could have been a mutual agreement.

"How did we get here, Stella? How did we get to this point where she thought we couldn't talk about it? There has to be a way for me to fix this. Isn't there?"

He's looking at her with helpless eyes, twisting his hands anxiously. She wants to go to him, but she also wants him to make the choice to ask for help himself, to give him the opportunity to get back even just a little of his control. She might not be able to give him back what Peyton took, but she can do this much for him.

"I can't stop, Stella," he says in a quiet voice she's only heard once before after Claire's memorial.

There it is. She stands and pulls him into a tight hug.

"I can't stop."

"I know."

He's not crying, but he is starting to panic, the nagging voice of his insecurities finally too loud for him to take on alone. She tightens her arms around him. "Just give it a second," she whispers, "just hold on." She doesn't let go and she doesn't speak any more, even as she feels him begin to relax, preferring to let the pressure of her hug continue to calm him down.

Finally, the rational voice in his head that he recognizes as his own appears again, reminding him comfortingly of the science behind her tight hug on his nervous system. He turns his face in to her ear. "Thank you."

When she feels the last of the tension leave his body and his heart slow down in his chest, she releases him and rests a gentle hand on his cheek. Her eyes shine at him with another look. "It's what we do."