Author's Note: Yes, this was originally a one-shot. And yes, I was incredibly apprehensive about posting this second chapter. Here's the thing – everything I've ever written on here (with the exception of Slow Dancing in a Burning Room because that one's a bit more personal) has some kind of sequel/continuation/etc saved on my computer. Some are crap, some are unfinished, and some I just never felt like posting. Posting this one, actually, was entirely unplanned. Deciding this one-shot was going to be a three-parter (third part to come soon) was definitely unplanned. But here's another thing – it's been a while since I've written a story. One-shots are sort of stories, but there's not a lot of work as far as development and plot (in mine, at least). I wanted to fix that. Hopefully, I didn't ruin the one-shot for you. Let me know what you think; I could always use the feedback!

That said, here's part two…

They write letters.

It's only fitting, given their history.

They write letters for years and years on end. Some are short - only a couple lines or so - and some are very, very long. Once, one of the letters spilled over ten pages and cost two extra stamps to send.

Lucas is typically the one responsible for those kinds of letters.

Sometimes, the letters include pictures. As promised, Lucas sends a picture of the wedding party. He's dressed sharp in an Armani tux, and Lindsey is gorgeous in a slinky, champagne-colored dress that looks nothing like her first one. The bridesmaids are in blue, and Nathan is the only familiar face Lucas has got among his groomsmen.

Brooke sends him pictures of Jamie's basketball games, Jamie's baseball games, Jamie's sixth birthday party, Jamie wearing clothes from the kids' line she's starting, Haley's second baby bump (she isn't actually showing yet), and all the times she remodels her store – just to get his opinion, she says, even though she knows he doesn't know a thing about interior decorating. She never sends pictures of Peyton or herself, and though he'd very much like her to, he thinks it'd probably be highly inappropriate for him to ask.

More time passes, and the letters keep up a steady pace – never more than once a week, never less than once a month. Lucas stores all his in a box that he pushes to the back of the closet. Some things, he thinks, you never really grow out of.

They share good news,

The Baby Brooke line is getting a lot of buzz. Jamie modeled some of the clothes for the board the other day – they said they were very interested. Screw you, Victoria, I'm back!

-Brooke

bad news,

Lindsey just called to tell me my publishers are expecting another book soon. I told her I was working on the next one – hell, I told her the damn thing was coming along well – but the truth is, I haven't written a single word. I haven't been inspired by anything in ages. I wouldn't even know what inspiration looked like by now. I thought I did, with my second book, but we all know how that turned out.

I'm worried I lost something I had back in high school – talent, integrity, a voice. I don't know. Something.

And now I'm about to lose something else: my job.

-Lucas

inane observations,

Tree Hill shuts down by nine o'clock. It sucks. I'm drinking wine all by myself at my house, and at first it was okay because it was just a glass but now the whole bottle's gone, and that's kind of pathetic, I think.

-Brooke

I fear for my life whenever I get into a taxi cab. No, seriously. I've been in enough car wrecks already, and hailing one makes me feel like I'm signing my own death warrant or taunting God or something.

-Lucas

funny stories,

Deb and Skills were making out during church today in one of the confessionals. Everybody knew. They came out when the service was done, and Deb's hair was a wreck and her bra strap kept falling down her arm. Skills must have stretched it out. You should have seen Nathan's face – he was practically purple. I think he's probably jealous that his mom's getting more action than he is.

-Brooke

things they're looking forward to,

I'm really excited for winter this year – and snow. I missed that in North Carolina; icy slush just isn't the same as foot-deep powder. I want to do it all – sledding in Central Park, skiing upstate, skating at Rockefeller Center. Did you ever do those things while you were here in Manhattan? I feel like you would have wanted to, but you were so busy with your company, so I'm not sure that you ever got the chance to.

Plus, it'll be my first Christmas with Lindsey as husband and wife.

I know what you're thinking; you don't have to say it: I'm a sentimental freak. And random. But October's ending soon, and that's really all I can think about. Besides, since I'm pretty much jobless, I'll really be able to live it up during the holidays this year.

-Lucas

and things they don't want to get around to,

Thanks to Hayley blabbing her big mouth to the new principal, I have to give a speech tomorrow at the high school about success and all you can achieve if you believe blah blah. You know, since I was student council president back in my day and went on to head a clothing line and everything. I have no idea what to say to those kids, especially now that I'm not even in control of my own company anymore. I'll feel like a total fake.

I wish you were here to help me with my speech again, like old times.

-Brooke.

But there are some things in their lives that they never write about – big things – because they don't really know how.

Lucas keeps a secret from Brooke for nearly a year, and then once, a whole month and a half goes by, and he doesn't send any letters. Brooke sends him two in quick succession, demanding to know if he's dead or what. After some deliberation, he tucks a picture of a newborn baby swathed in white blankets and a pink bonnet. He writes one word on the back – "Marie."

It's almost another entire month before he gets a response. He starts to squirm a little, because usually Brooke is the quicker one to respond. He wonders if she'll ever write him back at all, or if that was the breaking point.

The letter comes two days before the month is up. She's precious, Luke, Brooke writes. I'm so happy for you. Really, I mean that with all my heart. Oh – and just wait till you see the baby clothes I'm going to send her. She's going to be the best dressed baby in all of Manhattan. Suri Cruise, eat your heart out.

Lucas shakes his head and chuckles. He should've known things weren't going to change.

From then on, nearly all of Lucas's letters center around the beautiful little girl that has stolen his heart. He rambles on for pages and pages and he know Brooke reads every word because she'll reference the little details in her own letters and she always begs for pictures, and he is more than happy to oblige.

One day, Lucas comes home from an outing to the park with Marie, excited to sit down and write to Brooke how good his baby girl's balance is getting and how she picked up a shovel and said "dig!" for the first time. But after tucking Marie in for a nap, he goes in his room to find Lindsey sitting cross-legged on the floor with hundreds of envelopes scattered around her.

"Lindsey," he says softly, "this isn't…"

She holds up a hand to silence him. They stay there for a few long seconds, still and silent, before she looks up at him. There's a quiet desperation in her eyes that Lucas hasn't seen since…before.

"All that time," she says, sounding dazed, "all that time, I thought I had to worry about Peyton."

"This isn't like that, Lindsey," Lucas protests.

"These letters," Lindsey says. "She's pouring out her soul to you, Lucas. And I can only assume you're doing the same because she seems to know everything about us."

"We promised to keep in touch," he says lamely.

"You've certainly been doing a good job," she says, massaging her temples.

"Really, that's all we're doing. We don't even talk on the phone, ever. This doesn't mean anything," he says.

She drops her hand, and he can see her eyes tearing up. "Then why do you keep them?" she asks.

Lucas falls silent. For someone so good with words, he thinks, he always manages to lose them at the exact wrong times.

"They're just a reminder," he says at length. "Of my past, of where I came from. They're all I've got left."

Lindsey looks down at one of the envelopes in her white-knuckled hand. "I just don't understand why you insist on holding on to all of that, Lucas. I really don't. I thought we were happy."

"We are," Lucas says.

"Then why do you still need all of this? Why can't you just move on?"

He's interrupted by the sound of Marie wailing down the hall. His immediate instinct is to run to her room and make sure she's all right but before he can do anything more than twitch, Lindsey drops the letter in her hand and jumps up. "I'll get her," she says in a tone he can't quite decipher. Lucas nods and lets her go without protest, listening intently as she pads down the hall, hears the quiet rustle of Marie being lifted from her crib and the soft lullaby Lindsey always sings as she rocks her in her arms. In no time at all, Marie's wails fade into whimpers, then dissipate all together. Lindsey's good at that.

Lucas looks back at the letters scattered around the floor in piles that look like little mountains. So many words she's written him about her life – and he knows he must have written her nearly double that.

He can't blame Lindsey for being upset.

The next letter he sends her is the shortest one he's ever written. Only one sentence – four words.

Lindsey found the letters.

He doesn't even sign it.

An envelope arrives in his mailbox about two weeks later, and Lucas dreads opening it – puts it off for three days even until curiosity gets the best of him. The letter is about two pages. In it, Brooke doesn't express surprise that he kept all her letters or dismay that they were found and read by somebody else. She says she's sorry if Lindsey's upset, and she hopes she hasn't caused too many problems between them. Then she says that if she has, she's certain that they can work it out and even lists a few suggestions of what Lucas can do to make it up to his wife. She also says that she thinks that they should discontinue the letters.

Then she shares a few random stories about Nathan and Haley and Jamie and their new addition Sarah – and even Peyton. She drops a line or two about how busy her store has gotten and how fantastically her children's line is coming along.

She ends it by saying how dearly she'll miss their correspondence, but really, it's for the best that they end it.

I love you, Luke. I wish all the happiness in the world for you and your family.

He can't bring himself to throw this one out like he does with all the rest of them. He just can't.

The end of the letters, though, is the beginning of the entirely new set of problems for Lucas and Lindsey. He wouldn't say he resents her, exactly, for making the letters stop, but it's something like it. And the trust issues and insecurities that she had successfully buried back in Tree Hill have returned full force. She races home now to check the mailbox first, pours over telephone bills, and questions him incessantly. He can't blame her, but living under with this kind of tension is unbearable. It's hanging over him, broiling under him, and choking the air out from around him.

Marie cries all the time now, as if she can sense the shift. Lindsey barely ever lets him be the one to go comfort her.

He tries to fix it, he really does. He follows some of the suggestions in Brooke's last letter.

But the conversation over a dinner date is strained, and Hannah the babysitter calls them before dessert because Marie's hysterical, and she's so sorry but she doesn't know what to do. Lucas can't even say he's that disappointed the night's ended early as he pulls the waiter over for the check, and he and Lindsey hurry out of the restaurant.

The day he brings home chocolate is even worse. They're expensive little hazelnut clusters from a specialty shop in the West Village – that's the day he learns Lindsey's allergic to hazelnuts.

"You didn't know that?" she says tersely, after reading the label on the box.

"Of course not," he says, "God, Linds, it wasn't like I was trying to poison you."

"That's not - ," she takes a deep breath and looks away. "That wasn't what I meant. All these years we've been together," she said, "and you didn't know I was allergic to hazelnuts?"

It's something so simple, and he could kick himself for being so stupid. He doesn't know what to say.

"It just never came up," he mutters after a few beats of silence, lamely shrugging his shoulders.

She looks back up at him, and he can see the tears in her eyes. She doesn't say anything, just hands him back the box, goes to their room, and shuts the door.

After the hazelnut incident, things get quiet. Really, really quiet.

Lucas feels like a robot now; everything's mechanical. The routine, the family meals, the writing, the conversations, the sex – it's all mechanical and empty and painfully cordial.

Gradually, the sex stops, the conversations stop, and Lindsey starts working late and early, so the family meals stop too.

So, when he comes home from the grocery store one day to see Lindsey's bags packed, he feels like he's been kicked in the stomach, but he's not surprised.

She comes out from the hallway, holding Marie against her hip.

And the way the tension choked him before is nothing compared to how he feels now.

"You can't take her," he says, pleading, desperate.

"I'm her mother, Lucas," Lindsey says. Her eyes are cold, but glittering with tears.

"She's my baby," Lucas says. "Please, Lindsey."

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat. "We can't keep living like this, Lucas."

"It'll get better," he says. "I promise. I'll do anything."

"It's been this way for months."

"I will do anything," Lucas repeats slowly. "Please, don't take away Marie."

Marie twists her head around at her name. She smiles at Lucas, reaches for him. He's pretty sure he can feel his heart breaking.

Lindsey shakes her head and pulls Marie a little closer. "What about me, Luke? You could give a damn if I left as long as Marie stayed."

"That's not true," Lucas protests. "You're her mother. I want you to stay too – here, where you belong. With your family."

"But this isn't working!" Lindsey nearly shrieks. Marie begins to wail in response, and Lindsey immediately begins to rock her. "No, baby, no. I'm sorry. Mommy's sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I can help," Lucas says, taking a step forward.

"No," she says sharply, eyes flying to meet his. "I don't need your help. This is what I'm talking about, Luke. We can't keep it together for two seconds, and Marie's suffering because of it. She cries all the time now, and I can't stand to see her so upset."

"She'll be more upset without me," he says anxiously.

"You'll still be in her life, Luke," Lindsey says, her tone kinder. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"I just…" Lucas trails off and wants to berate himself. He can't lose the words now. Not when the most important thing in his life is about to be yanked away from him. "Lindsey, please. Please don't do this."

"I wish there was another way," she says quietly. "Believe me, I've tried to...I just can't get past this. Not again. I'm sorry."

There are no words, he realizes. There are no words to fix this.

It doesn't stop him from begging, pleading, wheedling – everything, for the next fifteen minutes as Lindsey stacks her bags neatly by the door. She's not indifferent, but silent in response to the desperate words spilling from his mouth.

When the cab gets there to pick them up, the last thing he sees is his baby girl's face, tear-stained but smiling, peering over her mother's shoulder. Then the door swings shut, and he falls to his knees.

The next few months are the worst of his life.

He doesn't call anyone, doesn't write, doesn't do anything. Just sits there and waits for the few bright spots on the weekends when he gets to see Marie. Lindsey says she's beyond reconciliation and files for divorce. She says she's already given him too many second chances.

"They were just letters," he says, over and over, every time she comes to drop off Marie or pick her up.

"They were more than that, Lucas," Lindsey says one day, breaking her silence. "She knew more about you than I did."

"That's not true."

"Lucas, I learned things about you from reading those letters," she says. "How do you think that made me feel? I was your wife."

"You still are," Lucas says.

Her eyes tear up, but she keeps her gaze steady on his. "It's over, Luke," she says slowly, forcefully. "I'm done trying to pretend that I'm the one. Please stop trying to drag me back."

And so it's over.

She's true to her word, at least. He sees Marie every weekend, and even some weekdays when Lindsey has to work late. She knows better than to hire a babysitter, knows that Lucas would be crushed to find he missed out on even a few hours with his little girl.

He still misses them both terribly all the time. He feels depressed, he feels hurt, he feels alone. Some days, he thinks about picking up a pen and writing to the one person who might understand, but that's what got him into this whole mess in the first place.

And then one day, the postman delivers a letter.

I'm so sorry.

His hands start shaking.

He waits a week, then two, then a month. Finally, he musters his strength and picks up a pen that feels oddly heavy in his hands.

How did you find out?

The response comes quickly, no more than three days.

Karen told me. I understand if you're upset with me. I never imagined…

Anyway, it's my fault. I shouldn't have pressured you to keep in touch. I should have just let you and Lindsey and Marie live your lives in peace. I hope you can forgive me.

He thinks a lot about what his response is going to be. It's not a welcome distraction from everything going on in his life, but a distraction all the same. He rewrites the damn thing eight times before sending it off.

I don't blame you.

The letters stop there, for a while. He isn't sure exactly how long. He's pretty sure Brooke is holding off, letting him make the next move, and he's just not ready to do that yet. His days are still hazy – hazy and gray and never-ending. He half-heartedly works on a book that has no beginning, ending, or meaning in-between Marie's visits. All he knows is that one day, writing for the book turns into something more personal and his protagonist is saying everything he wants to say, and without even realizing it, he's written his next letter to Brooke.

Thank you for giving me space.

Thank you for knowing that's exactly what I needed. Thank you for knowing me better than I know myself.

I think I'm ready to start living again.

Less than a week later, she writes him something back, and then he writes her something back, and they've resumed a rhythm that feels as familiar and as natural as rediscovering an old favorite song. He tells her this in one of his letters, and she devotes the entirety of her next letter to making fun of him for being such a sap. He laughs, tells her how much she's wounded him, and she writes back: Oh no, you're not going to start that whole tortured athlete thing again that you had going on in high school, are you?

No, he writes, a small smile touching the corner of his lips, don't worry. I think I'm done being tortured. For now, at least.

It feels like the truth.

He's off the couch, at least, taking in his surroundings for the first time in a while. He spends three whole days cleaning up the mess he's made of his place and does five loads of laundry. He throws out all the expired stuff in his fridge and re-stocks his pantry. Hell, he joins the Crunch gym around the corner from his house.

He wonders if it all isn't symbolic: cleaning up all his tangible messes as a way of cleaning up the intangible one – the one inside of him.

And then Brooke's next letter comes.

The Baby Brooke line is exploding. I'm coming to New York!

He closes his eyes and feels a cool exhale of air over his shoulder, swears he can hear her whisper:

"How many moments can you point to and say, 'That's when it all changed'? You just had one."

She's coming to New York.