a/n: hi, so... first, i want to say that I saw something like this on here, and I am NOT stealing that idea, I promise. I actually started this a VERY long time ago. Probably summer time? I don't know. Way before I saw the similar plot line on here? So, yeah. I promise I'm not stealing any ones plot, okay?
Basically I have a lot of ideas for this story, but I don't know. I'm still a little weary about it. Tell me what you think! ? I know I always start things and erase them or never finish them, but idk, we will see how this goes. LOL.
Also, title from: The Lightning Strike (What If the Storm Ends?)because a) I really had no idea what to call it b) so I chose a song c) and hmm, the song doesn't really have anything to do with the plot, but the line, "what if the storm ends?" kind of does? Because...well, I can't say, but I don't know, maybe you'll see what I'm seeing when you know what the storm is, and yeah.
"There is so much about my fate that I cannot control, but other things do fall under the jurisdiction. I can decide how I spend my time, whom I interact with, whom I share my body and life and money and energy with. I can select what I can read and eat and study. I can choose how I'm going to regard unfortunate circumstances in my life-whether I will see them as curses or opportunities. I can choose my words and the tone of voice in which I speak to others. And most of all, I can choose my thoughts."
― Elizabeth Gilbert
Chapter One: The Carpenter
Spencer Hastings keeps her eyes low to avoid the eye contact of the strange woman with blonde hair, whom writes down something in her note pad approximately every twelve seconds. She has been coming to her for two weeks now; apparently therapy can help bring back memories. It is exercise for the mind, her doctor told her. Although, Spencer wasn't seeing much improvement. Nor did she see the point. Her therapist wasn't even doing anything. She was just asking her the same questions each session. "What was your last memory before everything goes blank?" Spencer would then proceed to tell her.
She was at the Fonder's Day Festival with her friends when it began to rain, and they were forced to go back to their dorms. It was her first year of law school. That is what she told her the first time and it seemed to be enough. The second time, she asked her to describe the event a little bit more thoroughly. "What kind of smells were there? Name the people who were with you? What were you thinking?" She was able to go into pretty good detail because she had a photographic memory, but nonetheless, she still couldn't remember what she needed to remember.
"I'm going to say a word, and you're going to say another word that reminds you of that word, okay Spencer?" her therapist looks up, her tone patronizing.
"Okay, Mrs. Wellington," Spencer mocks.
"Sandra."
"Okay, Sandra."
"Tomato."
"Ketchup."
"Blanket."
"Sleep."
"Library."
"Books."
"Old Movies."
"Rosemary's Baby."
"Boat."
"Titanic."
"Danger."
"Everywhere."
"Safe."
"Danger."
Her therapist makes a sort of pondering hum as she sketches something in her notepad. She sucks in her lips, and scrunches up her face a little, "Spencer, were you in a good state at this festival? How were you feeling? Not about the rides, and the smells, and the rain, but how were you really feeling? What was your overall mood throughout the last few days you remember?"
"Um…I guess I was a little stressed out."
"That's it?"
Spencer shrugs, "I guess."
Her therapist doesn't say anything.
"Why?"
"It's just that all of your answers are pretty dark."
"I wouldn't call ketchup dark…"
"Yes, well…" her therapist responds, "you know what I'm referring to."
"I don't see why this has to do with anything?"
"It's just, maybe if you got through whatever is going on right now, then you would be able to persevere and pull forward, and continue on with your life."
"What's going on with my life right now, is that I can't remember the last three and half years of my life!" she yells, her breathing heavy.
Her therapist stares at her, blinking, giving her a look a parent would to a child when they were misbehaving. Spencer sucks in a breath, "I'm sorry, but you want me to be honest. There it is—honesty."
"No, don't be. It's understandable. You're upset. And angry. And looking for someone to blame."
"I don't blame anyone," Spencer shoots bitterly. She doesn't mean to sound so catty, but it just came out that way. "I don't blame anyone," she repeats the words a little bit more softly.
"You don't blame yourself, do you?"
"That's ridiculous."
"I'm glad you say that," Her therapist tells her, writing another something down in her note pad, a tiny glimmer of a smile glossed on her face. Spencer doesn't say anything in return; she simply just lets herself drift like she has been doing the last couple weeks. Why does her life have to be one disaster after another? Why can't she just get a break?
"So, Spencer, our session is over, but I will be seeing you next week."
"Yeah," Spencer replies, standing up to give a handshake to the woman. "Thank you," Spencer says half heartedly, grabbing her purse off of the chair she was sitting in seconds before.
She walks up to the car that she is sure hasn't left the space since she went in there, and slumps in the seat, awkwardly. The man watches her for a second before speaking. "How'd it go?" he asks, after a moment's hesitation.
She doesn't look at him, but her response is like lightning, "good, I guess."
"That's good."
And that is the whole conversation. Neither says anything as the car begins to move, starting the journey to her parent's house, where she is staying.
He parallel parks and the car comes to an easy stop as they arrive in front of her parent's house. It has never felt like home, but she is grateful for it. It is something familiar, and in these dark days of emptiness, she needs that feeling of familiarity more than she cares to admit.
"Thanks for driving me," Spencer tells the man awkwardly, forcing a smile.
He nods, hoisting up his own façade of a smile at her.
She feels bad, she does. She knows she should be trying harder to remember, for his sake at least. She can't imagine how heartbroken he must be. His fiancé doesn't even remember his proposal—or anything for that matter. She didn't even know his name for the first couple days. But it isn't like she is in the scene. She feels like she is watching it, on a movie or a TV show, feeling sympathy for the poor guy, but nothing more.
That's all she feels for him. Nothing else.
She doesn't know him. She can't feel his pain. All she feels is her own. She has her own reasons for wanting to remember the past four years of her life, and she has to say, remembering her fiancé isn't one of them. Perhaps she is being selfish. Maybe if she was Aria Montgomery—the hopeless romantic, writer, whom wears her heart on her sleeve—this situation would be different. But she is not Aria Montgomery, she is Spencer Hastings; the cynical, neurotic, over achiever, whose belief in love is nonexistent. At least she thought she was that person. But apparently Spencer Hastings has changed.
She holds her head, feeling a headache coming on. She should get out of this stranger's—her fiancé, Andrew Campbell's,car.
"You okay?" he says in a soft voice, reaching over to her, but not touching her. He made the mistake of touching her a couple days ago. She freaked out on him. Once again, she felt bad, but it was just sympathy.
She leans away from him a little, nodding, pulling her hands to her lap, "just—sometimes I get these headaches," she mumbles, not daring to look at him. He is always looking at her with an intense gaze, and she can't deal with that right now.
"Okay," he seems defeated, letting his arm fall back to his side.
A beat.
"Do you want me to walk you up there?"
"No, it's fine," Spencer immediately reclines, still not making eye contact with him. She stares out the window at her childhood house instead.
"All right," he answers, sighing.
Spencer says her goodbye, offering another half-ass smile, and leaves his car. He stays there until he sees she gets inside, like she is a twelve year old going to her friend's house, and he is her father. She shakes her head, trying to stop herself from getting annoyed. He is just trying to be a good…. Good fiancé, she guesses.
"I'm home," she shouts into the emptiness.
She wonders if her parents are even here. They were never around during her childhood, why would they be around now? They took care of her the first couple days, but as the days goes on, she sees less and less of them.
A small, but genuine smile forms on her face. She has been craving the quiet all day.
She walks over to the kitchen, letting her purse fall on the counter. She searches the pantry for a cup.
Maybe she'll take a nap. Turn off her annoying phone that seems to never stop beeping. Maybe she'll go somewhere—somewhere alone. She doesn't remember the last time she did anything alone, but then again she doesn't remember much of anything. She laughs silently at her own morbid joke as she pulls a cup out from the pantry. Turning around, a shriek escapes her mouth.
She nearly drops her glass. A man stands at the end of the hallway. She doesn't know this man—well maybe she does, but she surely does not remember this man.
She sets her glass down on the counter, feeling shaky. She crosses her arms, keeping her distance from the stranger. Before she can yell, or curse, or do whatever the hell she was planning, he speaks.
"Sorry," he immediately apologies, moving from the hallway to the living space across the counter. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just—," he swallows, "I was looking for Mr. Hastings. Do you know where I could find him?"
Spencer eyes him, furrowing her brow. If he isn't sure of her relation with , then he doesn't know her, does he? Which means…he doesn't know of the tragedy that clings to her.
He doesn't look at her with pity and concern like everyone else does.
"Um," she finally murmurs, "I'm not sure," she says. "Who are you exactly?" Spencer inquires, the crease above her eye refusing to part until she gets an identity of this man.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" he quickly reprehends himself, looking to the floor. He walks closer to Spencer, extending out his long, strong, arm, "Toby Cavanaugh. I'm going to be making some additions on this house during the next couple months."
Spencer shakes his hand. Well, there goes her place of familiarity. "Spencer," she greets. Feeling witty, she decides to make a joke, "house robber."
His hand falls from hers, and his eyes—his eyes that she did not notice the beauty of before—give her a quizzical look.
"Joke," she states. "I'm Mr. Hastings' daughter."
His eyes widen. Is he doing this because her father told him what happened to her? No. Why would her father do that? What happened to her is an embarrassment in his eyes. He would not just tell the carpenter he hired the tale of how his daughter got amnesia.
"Oh," he replies. "I didn't know he had two daughters," the carpenter replies.
"Yeah, my parents tend to pretend I don't exist…" Spencer says, turning around to pick up the glass from the counter. She goes to the sink, filling it with water.
"Oh..." his voice trails, seeming baffled by her outburst. "Well, I know how you feel. I've been there tons of times. I'm pretty sure my father likes his step daughter more than his actual son…" he goes on. There isn't self pity in his voice. He is seemingly just sharing something relatable.
She takes a sip of her water before setting it back down on the counter. She leans against the granite, eying him. She wants to talk to him. He is the only person who doesn't have a look of pity in his eyes when talking to her. The only one who doesn't treat her like she is made of glass.
She struggles with what to say, desperately trying to hang on to this conversation, "sometimes I wish I was just put up for adoption," she sighs. She knows it is a morbid thought—something normally she would never confess, let alone to a complete stranger, but she needs this to continue, and besides, she doesn't remember ever having someone who understood.
He stays quiet for a moment, "there isn't one memory you would regret not having?"
Spencer swallows. The question is heavy on her considering her circumstance, but she lets it ponder in her head anyhow.
She thinks of when she was little and how her sister, Melissa, and she were actually close. It was before boys and academics and trophies. They were so little that Spencer doesn't even know how she still remembers it. They would play all day in their grandmother's beach house. They would perform magic shows, Melissa always being the magician, and Spencer always the lovely assistant.
"I guess so," she shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant about it. But thinking about losing those memories on the top of the memories she has already lost, makes her emotional. Knowing is better than not knowing, any day. She suddenly regrets her words. He is right.
"Do you want some water? Or anything?" she asks, desperate to change the subject, but still have him in her presence.
He looks conflicted.
"I really should try to find your father," he looks away, clearly struggling between staying with her and going on an endless search for her father. "It seems kind of unprofessional, doesn't it?" he looks back at her.
"I'm not going to tell on you Toby," she leans over the counter, setting her clasped hands on the granite.
He still doesn't look convinced.
"I'll tell you what…if he shows up, I'll cover for you."
He stares at her, looking so hard not to give in, but eventually he caves.
"Fine," he sighs, "but...if I lose this job, my boss will be livid."
She waves him off, "it will be fine." If her father catches Toby and her having lunch, she will just tell him she felt a psychotic meltdown coming on, and she needed to distract herself. He will probably just be glad it was the carpenter, not him.
He sits in a chair, and offers her a smile. Then she does something that surprises herself. She settles her hands on his. Her eyes widen. What the hell is she doing? She pats his hands, giving him a nervous smile, "it'll be fine," the reassuring words make a cameo again.
She backs away, turning immediately around to the pantry, mostly to hide her embarrassment. Why is she so embarrassed? It was just a friendly gesture, but yet she feels the temperature in her cheeks rising? And was that a spark she felt when her hands brushed his? No. No, no, no it couldn't be. She was simply just using him for a decent conversation. There was too much going on in her head for thoughts like this to occur.
She clears her throat, finally regaining herself. "Do you like toast?" she asks, pulling out a cup. She waits for an answer as she fills the cup with water.
"I like whatever's convenient," he responds in a joyful tone.
She places the glass of water in front of him, "well, toast is pretty convenient."
"Then I love it," he smirks, raising the glass of water to his lips.
They stare at each other, both with animated glows.
She lets the moment between them linger for a few extra seconds before turning around to prepare the lunch for the two. It is the first time in days that she has felt normal. She can't help but wish this moment—this feeling could just last. She knows it won't though. She can't just pretend her life is this. She knows that she owes it to her fiancé, to her friends, to herself, to at least try to remember.
As meaningless as it seems to be, she needs to try to work with her therapist, with Andrew, with everyone else. She needs to make things work. The carpenter had a point. There are some memories that she would never wish to erase. Surely, there has to be some good moments that have happened to her in the years she cannot remember. She must try to get those memories back.
But for right now, she'll live in this moment. She'll have her moment of peace with the carpenter, and live in normality, knowing it will soon be over.
She grabs the slices of toast from the toaster, putting two slices on each plate. "Do you like jam…or butter or… anything?" she asks, not turning to look at him. She goes to the refrigerator, pulling out the butter and strawberry jam.
He tells her yes and she proceeds to smother the slices of toast with jam and butter. She places the plate of toast out in front of him, offering a smile. He gives her a smile back, making her feel warm inside.
"Oh!" she immediately snaps, "do you want any coffee?"
He lets out a chuckle, then a sigh, "I feel like you're waiting on me."
"Trust me; I'm not making this coffee for you. I'm only offering to be nice," she gives him a coy smile as she begins to prepare to make a pot of coffee. "Whether you choose to accept the offer is completely up to you," her voice goes on as she turns around once more.
She hears him sigh, "okay. Then, yes I will have a cup, please."
A smile of victory springs out across her face as continues to make the pot of coffee.
A couple, long, excruciating, minutes pass before the coffee is done. She pours two cups, and calls him an amateur when he asks if she has cream and sugar. When she gives the carpenter what he requested, she teases him, "I'm beginning to feel like I'm waiting on you, Toby." She adds a smirk to her statement a second after, making sure he knows she is only joking.
She finally sits down at a seat across from him, and takes a bite of her toast. She notices Toby has not touched his meal. "Is something wrong with the toast? I mean I know I'm not the world's best chef, but I thought I was capable of toasting bread…" she eyes him, taking a sip of her coffee.
"No, of course not," he chuckles, stirring his coffee with a spoon to mix the sugar and cream. He looks up at her, setting the spoon on the counter. "I was just waiting for you to sit down," he tells her.
She feels odd. The action is so…sweet that she doesn't know how to even process it. "Oh, well…" she begins, not knowing what to really say, "that's nice of you," she decides.
He smiles at her, taking a sip of his coffee. His smile parts from him once the liquid makes it way down his throat. He pulls the cup away, setting it on the counter. "Wow," he states, a crease in his brow. "That is very strong," he notes.
She smirks at him, taking her own cup of coffee and letting its heavenly taste wash over her taste buds. She sets it back down, "just how I like it. If you can't handle it, you can always make another pot," she hums, picking up a slice of toast from her plate, and biting into it.
"No," he shakes his head, "I'll be fine. I'll just…get used to it," he murmurs, biting into a piece of toast. He stares up at Spencer, "you have very strong taste buds."
She shrugs a shoulder, a smile of smug taking place on her lips. "I've been drinking the stuff since I was twelve," she admits, indifferently. She bites into her piece of toast.
"Wow..." he muses.
She smiles to herself, spreading the jam out more thoroughly with her knife.
"So you've been drinking it for how many years…?"
The question's intention is clear. He is looking for a subtle way to ask her age.
She is about to say ten, but she quickly remembers that is not the truth. Three years have passed, even if she can't remember them. She may feel twenty two, but she is actually twenty five. She quickly does the math in her head, "thirteen years," the words slip from her mouth. "What about you?" she looks at him, a curious look in her golden eyes.
"How long have I been drinking coffee?" he questions.
She gives him a short nod.
"hmmm," he gives thought to the question. "I started drinking it during my first year of college, so….eight years? Maybe. Definitely not as long as you," he grins at her, taking a sip of coffee.
She drops her gaze, but keeps her smile. Well, she doesn't have much control over her smile. She can't seem to tame it for some reason. She doesn't know what it is about Toby. He is different…different than anyone else she knows.
"What do we have here?" the words enter her ears, making her smile weigh down into a terrible frown. It is her father, and from the sound of it, he is not pleased. Spencer suddenly curses herself for using Toby for a decent conversation. What if he gets in trouble?
She quickly stands up, greeting her father before he can say anything to the carpenter, "dad," she exclaims, her words laced with anxiety. "I offered lunch to Toby. He was looking for you, and I told him he could wait…" her words fumble out, unorganized.
"Toby, huh?" he acknowledges the first name basis, a twisted smile on his face. "Well, Mr. Cavanaugh, here I am. What can I do for you?"
Spencer swallows. Why the hell does she always have to screw things up? She shoots an apologetic look at Toby as he stuffs his last piece of toast in his mouth. He doesn't look mad, or upset, or anything. She is relieved.
The two begin to talk about the work Toby is doing. The men walk out of the kitchen, leaving her to her lonesome. As they walk away, Toby shoots one last look at her. She keeps his gaze until he is forced to look away. She isn't sure what the glint in his eyes meant. Sadness? Longing? Was it supposed to be a silent goodbye? She shakes her head at the thought. It doesn't matter.
a/n: idk? dumb or not dumb? i have another plot that i am thinking about writing about, but idk...i think i like this one better. What do you think of this?