Title: a sense of home
Disclaimer: Apparently the characters don't belong to me. What can I say – I'm as shocked as you are...
Summary: Terri briefly returns to Lima and realises that Lima isn't home anymore. Wemma.
Notes: First Glee fic and first fic generally in, well, quite some time. Feedback is gratefully received.
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It's your first return to Lima, Ohio, in nearly three years. Having lived nearly all your life in Lima before that, it's been quite the feat. But once you'd moved to Miami and settled into your life as manager of the new Sheets 'N' Things store, you'd stubbornly refused to go back to the place where home used to be, and finally actually attempted to move on.
Unfortunately, family connections and history and, well, more than a little intrigue, cause you to finally decide to return for a fleeting visit. Your sister Kendra had refused to come visit you in Miami this year, not trusting the combination of three adolescents and an airplane, and certainly unwilling to chance a road trip.
So, instead, you'd happily (feigned) agreed to visit her for a two-week summer vacation. You'd realised the implications of this less than two minutes later. But Kendra doesn't allow indecisiveness or weakness of character and you barely even attempted to retract your agreement.
It's that what brought you here, to this place you never really wanted to see again (at least not until you had married well, with at least one child and, preferably, a Mercedes). Well, actually, it was Kendra's kids and their inability to keep their germs to themselves that lead you here: to the only drug store in Lima.
When you were growing up, you loved the small town feel of Lima. That you knew everyone (well, more that everyone knew you), that it was quaint and homely and just what small town America should be. You'd be driven home in the quarterback's car and by the time you'd returned home, your best friend would already know and you'd spend the next hour on the phone, caught up in the wonder and awe of it all, describing every small detail about how your hair was swept by the wind and how the guy who ran the gas station had waved at you (much to your disgust), and you'd feel so... special.
But now, after Miami – even only the small area of Miami that you spend the majority of time in – Lima feels small and claustrophobic. Every corner brings the fear of meeting people you knew from years ago who never quite managed to leave, despite dreams of travelling the world – or at least Ohio.
Every corner brings the fresh fear of meeting your ex-husband. Even now, the title does not roll well across your tongue.
But you need decongestants and flu remedies and pain killers, and whatever other pharmaceuticals you can obtain. You hate being ill; it makes you feel useless and reliant on others and small, and the sooner you get over it, the better.
You place your hand on the door to the drug store, ready to push it open, and pause. Somehow, instinctively, you know, even before you push open the door that there will be something, someone on the other side you'd rather avoid. Although you push the feeling away; you've felt like this all morning, and so far have managed to only see three people you knew from high school, two people from Sheets 'N' Things, and one more from that a craft class you went to. Given past experiences in Lima, it's not a bad tally.
So you enter the drug store anyway. And it takes all of two seconds to spot him. Unfortunately, it's two seconds after you've closed the door behind you and your brain is fogged up in a haze of cold, and so there you are, trapped in the same building as him. Will.
He doesn't notice you at first. He's preoccupied with the baby he's holding and talking to; looking at in adoration to the exclusion of all else around him. And for a second, you almost feel slighted that in this first meeting in three years, you're not the immediate centre of his attention, that he doesn't have this sixth sense that he's had in all your fantasies of this moment (which, you would like to admit are few and far between) where suddenly he's aware of you being in the same room. You flatten down your skirt, look in a small mirror fortuitously placed to your left (where the sunglasses reside) and then realise that you're sick, and look it. This is not the moment you're going to make him realise all that he's been missing.
But the reality is, looking at him now, even if you had looked your very best, it doesn't look as though he's been missing anything. He looks happy and content and all those things together you'd failed at in the last years of marriage. It makes your heart ache.
You look away. You make the decision to get what you came for and leave as discreetly as possible. It's a self-preservation thing.
But to do this, you have to pass him and you have to ask the woman behind the counter for stronger drugs, and he hears you.
"Terri?" he asks, and for a moment his attention is not on the small child he is holding; it's on you.
"Will!" you exclaim in the most cheerful voice you can manage. It sounds false, even to you. "I didn't see you there!"
He looks at you and smiles and you're not sure whether you would have preferred him to dart his eyes backwards and forwards, anxiously waiting for whoever he's waiting for to emerge, or this genuine reaction. Because, while the genuine reaction is great for the moment, it makes you realise something with absolute certainty. He's over you. He's so very over you and thinks you no longer have any feelings for him, that he seemingly doesn't even think twice about coming closer to you and sharing with you how great his new life is. Because you see that's what's going to happen and you see what a great life he has.
He doesn't disappoint. His happiness is uncontainable; he has a wife (you see the wedding ring that is definitely not the one you gave him), he has a baby, he has his dream job (not that he's told you this yet, but it seems likely).
"It's great to see you!" (This you are not entirely sure he means). "How are you? Still living in Miami?"
You feign happiness yourself, tell him that you're visiting your sister, your job is going great (actually, this is not untrue; but you'd rather work less – or not at all) that you've met someone who is absolutely perfect (you mention the non-existent Mercedes), and hint that maybe marriage is even on the cards (you've been asked and said no).
He smiles (actually, he doesn't stop). "That's great. I'm really happy for you." Unfortunately, again, he appears genuine.
And then you realise that you're supposed to ask the questions back. Ask about the small child he's holding, his job, his wife. And somehow, you manage to ask "And how are you? Who is this adorable little thing?" Unfortunately, the baby actually is adorable. And her father is clearly entirely aware of this fact. And you really can't help but be envious that in another life, this could have been yours.
"This is Anna. Say 'Hi', Anna," he prompts; the baby is too young to respond, but laughs anyway and it's all just a little too cute for words and the Will-shaped hole in your heart somehow widens. You thought you'd moved passed this; that somehow that hole had begun to heal. "We're just waiting for mommy to get diapers and baby wipes, aren't we? It could take some time, since mommy likes to make sure she's checked out all the varieties on offer and make the best choice, doesn't she? Yes she does." This to Anna, who clearly finds him incredibly amusing, and he's distracted from you again.
You smile briefly, and it doesn't extend to anywhere near your eyes. "Well, I should get going. Kendra will be wondering where on earth I've got to!" you tell him with false joviality.
"It was good to see you Terri," Will tells you, his focus only a fraction on you. The other parts are equally on his daughter and his wife, who approaches with a basket laden with baby products. And you laugh internally for one moment at your naivety; that there could have been any doubt who his wife would have been.
"Terri," she says, her wide eyes somehow even wider than usual. But she, too, looks so nauseatingly happy that you just want to leave.
"Emma," you nod as congenially as you can. "Will, it was lovely to see you. Congratulations to you both on... everything." And then, you promptly exit, your bag heavy with cold and flu remedies that somehow seems heavier than it should.
There's this Will-shaped hole in your heart that just won't go away. Despite all your efforts. You've met someone now, but still, he's not anything near to being Will. And this meeting only highlights the disparity.
And you think as you walk back towards your sister's car, that you really can't go home. And next time, Kendra's just going to have to deal with the flight or the road trip, because you won't be coming back. It's not your home anymore.
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