A/N : I know I said I would work on something old but this sprung into my mind. It's only two chapters so I went ahead and completed it. Enjoy!
Soundtrack : For Blue Skies by Strays Don't Sleep/ Let It Go by Blue October
Both songs work for both POVs.
It's been a long year Just between you and I Before all of this
Since we last spoke
How's your halo?
You and me and the satellites
I never believed you
I only wanted to
What did I miss?
"For Blue Skies" by Strays Don't Sleep
---
Sandy opened the front door of the spacious Newport mansion and was, well, incredibly surprised. To begin with, he thought his mind was playing tricks with him, just as it had for the past 12 months. Through his blurry eyes, it looked like Carter Buckley was standing on the front porch. The man who left Newport a year ago, the man Sandy had accused his wife of cheating with.
"Hi, Sandy," Carter said politely. He noticed that Sandy did not look like he had when Carter had left. His face looked tired, his eyes void of… something Carter couldn't place.
There was a prolonged moment of awkward silence. Carter had planned out his words for Sandy, Kirsten, and anyone else who crossed his path on the journey. Yet, when he found himself finally here, all of his prepared lines seemed all wrong.
"I suppose you're here to see Kirsten," Sandy broke their silence. His voice was rough, raw. Without waiting for an answer, Sandy walked back into the house and out of view. Carter stood on the porch, waiting with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. Now, with clear vision of the living room, he noticed boxes scattered around and bare walls. Suddenly, Sandy returned. He shoved a paper at Carter with an address scrawled on it.
"This is where she is." Carter's brows scrunched together as he read the scrap of paper. He looked back at Sandy, nodded before turning to walk toward his car. Sandy closed the door.
The name of the street, Foster, sounded familiar and Carter felt he could find it although he had never been. His brain raced with possibilities.
They must have finally split. His heart soured with the thought. He hadn't expected this when he scheduled the trip, honest. But he certainly wouldn't lie and say he was disappointed.
Or maybe they're moving and she's out shopping at this address. But why would Sandy look the way he did? He looked like he'd been hit by a semi truck. Carter knew that losing Kirsten would cause anyone to look that way.
His heartbeat picked up again as he saw the street sign, Foster. He turned right onto the road. He was looking for the number, 2300, and he was starting at 1400. He sighed as he caught sight of the speed limit. Only 40 miles per hour.
Large houses and grand apartments passed the car's windows. He checked off the numbers as he made his way. Soon, he was to 1800, which was the number of flips his stomach seemed to be doing.
He furrowed his forehead at the 1900 block when the houses became farther and farther apart. When he reached 2020, there was nothing beside or ahead of him; the only sign of life was in the rear view mirror. Tall mountainous rocks to his right and the Pacific Ocean to his left made for a gorgeous view but all Carter could see was a dead end.
Sandy had lied to him. The son of a bitch. He'd probably grabbed Kirsten as soon as Carter's car had pulled away. Probably lied to her and told her they had to leave for a romantic getaway in the Tropics. His stomach lurked at the thought. He was going to turn around but the speed limit had sprung up to 55 and he punched the gas, needing to hear and feel the engine roar angrily.
He rounded a curve at 60, much faster than was safe. He was surprised to see an opening in the rocks several yards ahead of him. It resembled a driveway. His car was suddenly doing 65.
As soon as he could, Carter turned to wheel and steered the car up the incline. He was startled to find what waited for him at the top.
Grave stones freckled the earth in front of him. He must have made it to 2500 Foster Street. He had missed 2300. A few headstones into the lot, a gardener was sitting on his lawnmower, cooling off with a bottle of water.
An idea leapt into Carter's mind. Newport was relatively small and even if it was huge, the Nichols were practically royalty. Surely everyone knew where Kirsten Cohen was now living after her inevitable divorce from Sandy.
Carter exited his car and approached the man.
"Hello." Carter started. "I'm looking for this address." He held the paper out to the man. "I must have passed it on the wa…"
"Who're you looking for?"
"Kirsten Cohen, or maybe Nichol, I'm not sure."
"Three rows up, first one on the right." The gardener pointed deeper among the stones.
Carter was breathless. This was some kind of mistake.
"No, no. Kirsten. Cohen." He annunciated carefully. This man should wear earplugs before his hearing was gone forever.
The man responded by pointing at the same plot and glaring at Carter.
A huge lump jumped in Carter's throat as his legs moved numbly.
Three rows up. First one on the right.
The engraved letters acted as a punch in the face.
Kirsten Nichol Cohen
1967 - 2005
Beloved wife, mother, daughter, and friend.
Carter couldn't breathe.
Inspired by this quote from Ansy Pansy aka Panz's Fairytale of New York :
His fingers tightened over hers imaging alternative outcomes. He wondered if the worst had happened whether he would have found out. Would anyone have thought to let him know? Unlikely. And he would never have known, he'd have been in NYC, thinking of her, missing her, never knowing.