A/N: I do not own One Tree Hill, New York, or anything else I talk about.
Walking out the door with the knowledge that she would be late for work, she sighed. This was the third time this week alone. It wasn't looking good for her career; she saw the ad in yesterday's paper for her position. It seems her boss was ready to replace. Her life seemed to be falling apart right in front of her. But stepping out of the yellow two story Victorian that she shared with her husband, she appeared perfect to the outside world.
But why was she late for work so often? The morning sickness or the late nights she spent waiting for her husband to come in? It seems that she had missed her period this month and the mornings had been less than pleasant. To make things worse, her husband had been growing far more distant. He normally got off work at 6, but had lately been stumbling into the house smelling of whiskey and Victoria's Secret in the wee morning hours.
The signs were quite obvious; her husband, the man she had shared the last nine years of her life with was having an affair, she is pregnant and soon to be unemployed. Her problems were many, and the number of solutions she had was zero. Her only goal right now was to make it through another day, appear to be happy. She would start completing this goal by getting in her black Comet, the one she has had for so many years now, navigate her way through the New York suburb traffic to her mediocre assistant job at an art magazine and pretend like everything was peachy keen.
She waited for the valet to park her car and return her keys before making her way up the fifth floor office building that had employed her for the last 5 years. Upon walking to the door she was immediately greeted by the editor who she assisted.
"Mrs. Scott, can I see you for a moment in my office?"
"Yes, ma'am." She said while making her way to the office in the corner to see the woman who while had been her employer for several years had not offered her a friendly word the whole time.
"Mrs. Scott, I know we spoke last week about the excessive tardiness, this week it seems that no corrective actions have been taken. Is there anything you can say to defend your position?"
Even though she had known this was coming, it didn't make the blow any less painful. She needed this job if she was going to support a child, and she still didn't know what to do about Lucas.
"I am sorry; I can't foresee it getting better given my personal circumstances."
"I assume you know what is next, Mrs. Scott? I need a reliable assistant. I have placed an ad and found a suitable replacement. I expect when you leave that it will be your final day of employment with 'Impressions'. I hope things work out for you in the future."
"Yes, ma'am." She walked out of the office holding back the tears. Was this it? Her life would crumble at the age of 28. She is pregnant and married, this should be the highlight, but instead the future looked grim. But today was a paycheck, and emotions had to be put aside because tomorrow she would be unemployed.
Lunch came slowly, but Peyton welcomed the break. She was supposed to meet the one person it seemed she could always count on, the woman who was there for her when her mother died, who went through a hostage situation with her involving a psycho, and had been her Maid of Honor. After the internship failed in LA and she had come to New York to start over, they had shared an apartment until Peyton was married. The day she thought was the start of a faithful relationship with Lucas that would last until death. The had all remained in New York, deciding it was the place their dreams could come true. None were sure now that that was the right decision. Peyton was an assistant at an art magazine soon to be ex assistant, Brooke was a struggling designer with a small store and a few seamstresses making her designs, and Lucas had failed to publish anything more than a short story in a New York only publication. She had faith that Brooke would be there for her no matter happened between her and Lucas.
Making her way past three blocks of New York skyscrapers, she crept into the tiny café that she had found to be a jewel in New York. It reminded her in so many ways of Karen's Café. The clientele all seemed to know each other and the owners seemed to be everyone's long lost friend, much as Karen, her mother-in-law was for the resident's of Tree Hill. The space was tiny but seemed to support enough capacity for the customers needed. The walls were posted with quotes from Gandhi, Bob Dylan, and other various inspirations. While admiring the atmosphere, she noticed Brooke walk in and take the seat directly across the small circular table.
"P., honey, what's wrong?" That was Brooke for you. Words had not been spoken, yet she knew there a problem. Peyton didn't want to become a mess on her lunch hour, but felt she would be unable to keep silent about anything any longer. She had to release it.
"Oh Brooke, everything is wrong. I am no longer employed as of 5 this evening. I only wish that was the worst problem."
"Oh Peyton, you know I am here for you, and Lucas will make enough for you both until you can find something else." She said while gently rubbing her back.
"I wish I knew that were true, but I don't see him as it is. Brooke, he doesn't come home until after midnight and even then he smells of alcohol and worse women's perfume." By this time Brooke had taken her into a hug, where Peyton was letting the tears flow from her eyes. "And I think I'm pregnant." She managed to whisper through the brunette's hair. "What am I going to do?"
The normally cheery woman was unable to come up with words to comfort her friend. She thought back to a few nights earlier when she had went to the Blue Note uptown and seen her friends blonde husband. He had been mingling with a woman, the only thing she was able to see was Lucas whispering in her ear and the woman giggling. Then she noticed them walk out of the club together. She had hoped it wasn't Lucas or that she had misinterpreted what she saw. But holding the mess before her, she was afraid she hadn't.