those bitches.

it's her own fault, really.

she'd been kidding herself all along, thinking that this minor act of civil disobedience — gluten and nuts, what had she been thinking ? — would be enough, would sate her hunger for a life she'd had to leave behind. but she was trying. beth had done her level best to get back into the swing of her new ( old ) normal, throwing herself back into PTA events and school parties and the kids' extra curriculars. and it had been working for a little while, she'd told herself, even bringing a smile to her face as she laid out the plans for all of the fall themed goodies she was going to make, reveling in a little bit of rebellion at the thought of packing them full of gluten.

somewhere between picking balloons and paper plates, it had begun to slip a little —that mask of normalcy she was wearing like a badge of honor. and then she saw the chapstick, and then she saw the security guard, and everything slowed down for just a taste of the thrill she was missing.

she wasn't satisfied, but it was a start.

so she'd thrown herself into baking, making perfect cookies and decorating cupcakes to look like turkeys, and her smile was a little bit wider, and she felt a little bit prouder of her accomplishments, even if only in the realm of treats.

but those damn bitches

she'd felt the drop in her stomach, that old familiar feeling of dread, in the moment of her approach. the snack table was littered with plastic container after plastic container boasting gluten and nut free, and somehow, somehow she managed to stand there, expression mild, and not break down in the middle of jane's school as they explained their worries, and how they'd packed up the treats for her to take home. how had she ever thought of these women as her friends ? they were just cowards who delivered their barbs underhanded and behind her back. all of that work, all of it down the drain.

literally.

she'd barely made it through the door before the edges began to fray, and she could feel it unraveling a little bit with each step she'd taken into the kitchen, feel the thread pulled out from under her as she ripped lids from containers, shoving treats down the drain, stuffing them into the garbage disposal and letting it all explode from within her in a wave of wracking sobs. she jabbed the spoon handle down, pushing all of her work farther into the drain, along with her sanity, and vaguely wondered if she'd miss it.

the cool breeze cuts a little bit deeper than she'd like, paying no mind to her blazer and the way it's supposed to provide some protection from the cold. emma doesn't seem bothered by the chill in the air, though, so beth remains perched upon her bench — watching, but not quite watching.

she hears his voice first, and for a moment beth finds it odd that she hadn't sensed his presence, felt him in her space the way she always seems to when he's near.

but maybe she'd given up the right to feel him.

maybe she'd given up everything.

it hits her like a punch to the gut all the same, head whipping back, eyes blinking up at him as though maybe he's a figment of her imagination, maybe her misery had drawn him out of the reaches of her mind in an attempt to provide comfort. she's not that lucky, beth knows, and works hard to situate the mask of calm back over her features, to hide her reaction to him from him, because she knows he'll use it against her, here, now, after her claims of it being over, after she'd dismissed him, blocked his number, and he'd still managed to find her.

( not that it would have been difficult. she's not sitting at the same bench where they used to meet, but it's the same park, and maybe a part of her wanted to be found, but that part will never speak up over the part of her that's indignant, defensive, and completely frazzled by his presence )

and it's infuriating, because he sees right through her — just like he always does — noting her misery, noting the soul-sucking reality of her life. beth boland, housewife and PTA mom had died that day in a fine & frugal as she held a toy gun and screamed like some kind of crazy vigilante. he knows, but it doesn't make a difference, and she can't let it.

"what are you doing here?" she asks with all of the indifference she can muster, and thinks, maybe she's pulling it off despite the way it feels as though she's falling apart at the seams — as though all of the calm she'd hoped to obtain here at the park with her kid, all of the post-breakdown breathing, is out the window as soon as he's in close proximity. and she's glad that he's on the other side of the bench, grateful for that barrier between them because it makes it easier to avoid looking at him, leaning into him, touching him...

"i tried to call," he says, and there's something in the tone of his voice that catches her off guard, snags her attention sharply. it's not harsh or angry or frustrated in the way she'd expect him to be, all things considered. it's casual, a statement of fact, but not cold in the way he gets when he's closed off. and for a moment she lets herself wonder if maybe now that he'd opened himself up to her, she'd always be able to see through him, too. the thought terrifies her.

so she tells him she blocked his number, and he laughs — he laughs. and it's still a little softer around the edges than she'd expect, not quite coming at her on the defensive, and she's almost in awe of the way things have changed so much and somehow not at all. it feels like lifetimes have passed since she'd seen him last, but he's teasing her the way he always does, and she still can't find the bitterness she's been waiting for even when he calls her cold, and some how it infuriates her even more — that he can seem so unaffected while she's crawling out of her skin. and maybe this is what she deserves, after all, to be made to feel stupid, because she'd done stupid things, and the most idiotic of all had been thinking she could let him go.

but she tells him she's good — she's great. and even beth can hear the way the words don't quite ring true in the space between them, the space around them. she knows he hears it too, the way she's hanging on by a thread, and maybe if he gives it just a little tug, he might be able to draw her back in. but she's doing everything in her power to keep her eyes straight ahead, because if she looks at him, it's over, if he looks at her, it's over. the only way this works, the only way she doesn't slip right back into that addiction — because it's not just the thrill of the life that's got her hooked, but the thrill of him — is if she doesn't have to see him again.

she hadn't looked at him when she told him it was over, she blocked his number because she didn't trust herself not to answer if he called.

and here she is, on the heels of a breakdown just trying to breathe, and he tracks her down.

and really — it's inevitable, they're inevitable. so she shouldn't be so surprised. but she's trying so hard to be strong, because she's worried about slipping, because it feels too good, and it would be so easy, and —

maybe he'd known it, too. maybe this is all a test.

but he wouldn't be there, wouldn't have gone through the trouble just to torment her. somehow, beth knows this. somehow she knows he's not going to be cruel to her for cruelty's sake ( even if she might deserve it ). so he has her on that thread, gives her a little tug, and it's enough — it's just enough to pull her back just a little, to have her wondering.

so she turns around.

and christ, it's a bad idea. it feels like a thousand emotions are bearing down at her at once as she turns and gets a good look at him. and he's not looking at her, yet, but everything about him is painfully familiar, makes her heart ache as she catches his profile, gaze moving to his lips automatically, involuntarily, inevitably. and then he's looking back at her, that smirk tugging at his lips like she's been caught, and shit, she wishes she'd never sat down at this bench because it's too much, too quick, too overwhelming. he stares at her with something unreadable in his eyes, but it's not indifference, it's not cold, and somehow that makes it all worse because wouldn't it be easier that way? hatred would be so much better than whatever this is.

he stares at her for too long, even as she demands he forfeit whatever information he'd come peddling, and it makes her squirm a little beneath her skin where he always seems to situate himself, draws out the flush that always crawls across her skin when he looks at her like he's peeling her apart layer by layer, dismantling the armor she's so painstakingly crafted around herself.

but she can't dwell on that, not now. because he didn't show up at this park to prove that he can still get under her skin ( though he is doing a great job ), he came to warn her. and she doesn't have time — not to dwell, not to ask questions, not to let her gaze linger on him for one more silent goodbye after she'd been unable to do so that day in her bedroom. she barely has time to get emma, call the sitter, and get home.

she unblocks his number on her way to the dealership.