Robert didn't/couldn't/wouldn't like her, her optimism and cheerful, naïve mannerisms, except that she'd wormed her way under his skin and he couldn't quite get her out. He really didn't know what to do about it, standing under the spray of the shower, wishing it could wash the memories and regrets away, swirling down, down, down the drain and far away from him.
Giselle brought memories of Becky and everything he wished he could forget. He had told Giselle that he didn't dance and he didn't sing, but that didn't mean he hadn't done so long ago. He remembered how he'd sung to her, spun her around the floor… and then the day she was gone and his life spun out of control.
How did you explain to someone like Giselle what it was like to wake up one morning to find yourself alone in the bed you made the little life down the hall, a hastily-scribbled note on the dining room table, and an infant who was now your sole responsibility?
He scrubbed his hands across his face and sighed bitterly. Explain it to Giselle? It had been eight years and he still couldn't even explain it to himself, couldn't talk about it with Morgan. He knew, when he looked at her, that she wanted desperately to know about the mother who had abandoned her so many years ago, yet whenever he opened his mouth to say something—anything, really—about Becky, he was left with nothing to say. Not because there wasn't something to tell, but because what to tell first? Sometimes he looked at her and his heart shifted painfully in his chest when he thought about how she looked just like Becky.
Becky was painful to think about, to talk about, because then he was left to think about what a sucker he'd been for those years. How young he'd been, how stupid… what a chump, thinking he'd have a happily-ever-after. He turned off the faucet and climbed out of the shower, toweling his hair and wrapping himself in his bathrobe. He'd laugh at himself right now if he weren't so close to crying, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd cried at all, not even over Becky. He laughed briefly under his breath.
Tonight was a night for some good straight whiskey, so he headed for the liquor cabinet in the kitchen, but paused when he saw Giselle sitting on the couch. He smiled a bit watching her, swimming in the pajamas he'd lent her, captivated by Morgan's book, and he remembered the story she'd told Morgan earlier. She was so sweet with Morgan, had said all the things about his beautiful daughter that he didn't think anyone else would ever see. He was about to go on his way when she looked up at him and smiled, and he racked his brains for something to say, and before he knew it something about her story had flown out of his mouth, then something about Edward, and then he could only stare in amazement at the miniature force storming around his living room. A voice in the back of his head said she'd probably be more impressive if she weren't wearing clothing about ten sizes too large for her, but the larger part was worried at this display of… could it be anger?
He'd just about decided maybe she needed a little whiskey too, when she was standing in front of him, touching his chest. His mind blanked and then did a double-take. What was going on here? He watched her staring at her hand as if she didn't understand what it was doing, then suddenly she looked up at him, meeting his gaze. Did she even understand what kind of invitation she was giving him? he wondered in a daze.
Being with Giselle today had lifted some of the heaviness off his shoulders, the weight he'd been carrying since Becky left, and the way she was looking at him now… he thought maybe he could sing a bit, spin her around the floor, and… God, kiss her, because how long had it been since he'd really wanted to kiss anyone? He leaned his head down just a bit as she raised her face to his, when suddenly that nagging voice at the back of his head finally screamed "NANCY" and "EDWARD" and straightened him up, spinning him back towards his room.
He sat heavily on the side of his bed, wondering what had just happened.
And he didn't even have his whiskey. Damn.
Author's Note: I wrote this as a one-shot, but I'm thinking of continuing with different parts of the movie. What do you think? Depending on the response, I might continue this, so let me know!