A/N: Wow! On the response to chapter 1. Thank you so much. I loved reading all your comments. This storyline clearly hit a nerve. Glad I'm not alone in being frustrated here.

Before anyone yells at me for the title of this chapter, can I just say that I have an excellent sense of direction, I've never lost my car in a mall parking lot, I know my way around a Rand McNally, and I do not hold the view expressed in the aforementioned title. It just sounded good. ;)

We're switching to Castle's point of view now.

This chapter is dedicated to a dear friend who is very much in my thoughts today. The song lyrics below are a favorite of hers.

"If you could soldier on

Headstrong into the storm

I'll be here waiting on the other side

Don't look back

The road is long

The first days of the war are gone

Take back your former throne and turn the tide"

"Cause if you never leave home, never let go

You'll never make it to the great unknown till you

Keep your eyes open, my love

So tell me you're strong, tell me you see

I need to hear it, can you promise me to

Keep your eyes open, my love"

- Need To Breathe, "Keep Your Eyes Open"

Chapter 2 – Women Can't Read Maps

"Kate," sighs Castle, already sounding defeated when she steps around the massage table with her bag in her hand and attempts to brush past him.

After the argument they've just had the bedroom suddenly looks tawdry - like some supercharged Thai massage parlor - with its dizzying array of flickering candles, incense burner, scattered petals that seem so derivative and unoriginal now, and the muzak… What the hell was he thinking with that?

Then there's the table itself. When he looks at it now, it makes him think of fat, hirsute businessmen wearing cheap cologne and Walmart underwear made from man-made fibers, and beautiful, exotic, young girls, forced to give 'happy endings' for lousy tips left on rickety nightstands, if they're lucky, by sweaty hands with too-tight wedding rings embedded into grossly swollen fingers.

Great idea at the time. Doesn't look so hot now.

He goes to reach for her, but Kate swerves past him, batting his hand away at the last minute.

"Just…don't," she says, arcing her arm high and wide to avoid his grasp.

She heads to the kitchen to collect her cell phone and charger, which are plugged into the wall next to the kettle, and then she goes to the hall closet, jamming a random pair of shoes, her favorite scarf and her sneakers into the bag, before grabbing one of her coats and shrugging it on.

Castle stands helplessly in the middle of the living room, all out of words to stop her leaving. He watches while she flicks her own hair out from under the collar of her navy raincoat – something he takes great pleasure in doing for her these days – and then digs around in her purse until she finds her keys. She has both sets, for her own apartment and his loft, on one keychain, and he's fearful for a second that she's going to take his key off and leave it behind. But she just checks that they're there and then drops them back inside her purse with a noisy, metallic clatter.

She does at least turn around before she opens the front door, and he's grateful for that; that she can be civil enough to say goodbye to him when he's beginning to think that maybe it's more than he deserves. He really pushed the boundaries tonight, and though he isn't backing down on anything he said – except maybe that he knows (hopes) she wouldn't cheat – the way he said some of that stuff…

"I'll call you, okay?" Kate says quietly, and it's her face that kills him. It's this heartbreaking mass of contradictions. She's trying to be bright and breezy about it - brave-faced Beckett. But he can tell she's on the verge of crying, her lower lip trembling just slightly, and that just crushes him.

"Kate. Please? Stay, so we can talk about this," he implores her, somehow finding the energy and the gumption to put one foot in front of the other to carry himself towards her.

She stands quietly waiting for him, her head bowed, looking at the floor. Only when he stops a couple of feet away from her does she answer him.

"I'm exhausted. I don't think we should do this now, Castle. We'll only hurt one another more. This is too important to…"

She shakes her head, and he reaches for her hand. She lets him take it and he holds onto it for the longest time. But then silence swallows them up again and Kate stirs first.

"I should go," she says quietly. "It's getting late."

When she drops her bag on the floor by her feet, his heart soars. When she throws her arms around his neck to hug him, the tears come.

"I love you," she whispers, burying her face in his neck, and he holds her so tightly that he almost lifts her off her feet.

But then all too soon she's withdrawing again, swiping at her own damp cheeks and stooping to pick up her bag.

He's standing dumbstruck inside his own entranceway when the front door closes, and he's still there when the elevator doors slide shut and the familiar 'ping' sounds to announce his girlfriend's departure.

He's still standing there ten minutes later when Martha comes home, and what comes next isn't pretty…

"You said what?" asks Martha, once they are both settled on the sofa, his mother's wine glass filled dangerously close to the brim. "Oh, stupid boy," she admonishes him, taking a slug of her wine and leveling him with a disbelieving look, before leaning in to pat his hand affectionately; a crumb of maternal comfort.

"I know. I know," he says, shaking his head, tormented enough by everything that's happened without having his mother rub salt in the wound. "But you were the one who said she wasn't totally committed to our relationship. In fact, 'not committed at all' were your exact words, as I recall," he adds bitterly, taking another long draw on his Scotch.

"Not to you, darling. I merely meant that she didn't have a ring on her finger," points out Martha. "And why you haven't remedied that before now is a mystery to me. All that time you pined for her like some lovesick puppy. All that soul searching and pacing, and those long, dry months of celibacy. That wasn't natural, I'm telling you. A man of your age and…capabilities," she adds, awkwardly, giving her son the once over.

"I'll take that as a compliment," replies Castle dryly, swaying when he stands to refresh his glass.

"So, why oh why, when you finally have the woman practically living under your roof, you would hesitate at the final hurdle, I fail to understand, Richard," continues Martha, seemingly oblivious to Castle's pain.

"Why? How long have you got?" he asks, sullenly, slumping back down on the sofa.

"Oh, darling," sighs Martha, tilting her head in sympathy at her son. "For you? As long as it takes."

"Lots of reasons. There are lots of reasons. So many I wake up during the night sometimes in a panic over this exact issue. I thought if I brought it up or straight out asked then she'd say no. It was too soon. She needed more time. And things have been going so well between us… Or at least I thought they were," he says, bitterly.

"Beckett doesn't agree?"

"She said we're getting stale."

"And what do you think?"

"I think…I think that we're comfortable with one another," he shrugs.

"Stale!" declares Martha, waving her hand in front of Castle's face dismissively.

"What's wrong with comfortable?" he protests.

"Old slippers are comfortable, elasticated pants are comfortable, sneakers are comfortable, footed pajamas are comfortable, but you don't see me wearing them, do you, darling?"

"So…what? I should run my relationship according to your fashion sense now?"

"No. My point, Richard, is that relationships take effort. They need sparkle to keep them alive, nurtured, the flames fanned, the heart set a pitter-patter with poetry and thoughtful little gifts, date nights, kindnesses, compliments and the occasional surprise. Not to mention something of a long-term plan. Women, Katherine Beckett especially, like a roadmap. They want to know where their life I going and they want to know that you're planning ahead with them."

"That's what Kate asked me tonight. That's what sparked this whole thing off."

"Well, then, there you go. You should listen to your mother more often," she tells him, taking a long slug of wine.

"I do. I did. I went out and got her a ring," admits Castle, scrubbing two hands down over his face, while Martha falls back in her seat in astonishment.

"You bought her a ring? Oh, how wonderful! Then what's the problem, kiddo?" she beams, patting his knee.

"Eric Vaughn is the problem."

"He got her a ring too? Because I don't want to offend you, and I'm sure you did a great job with your selection, but I'll bet that man knows gemstones," she coos thoughtlessly, looking longingly at her own ring-clad fingers.

"Mother!" exclaims Castle, about ready to empty the entire tumbler down his throat in one go. "What is it with this guy?"

"You tell me," says Martha, primly.

"He turned her head, okay," admits Castle. "All those months I pined for her?"

"Try years," sighs Martha.

"Years. Whatever. You were right. I was pathetic. This guy, he has her charmed inside five minutes."

"But you did all the hard work, darling. Don't you see? You laid the groundwork. Do you even remember what Beckett was like when you first started following her around? Forgive me, but that girl had issues. Major issues. And you are the one who opened her up. You! You are the one who made her happy, who made her laugh, who brought her into this family and showed her that life was worth living again. All of that is down to you. The only reason she's looking for more now is because you opened her eyes and her heart to the possibilities. Don't let someone else take credit for your hard work, Richard. Certainly not this Vaughn character. Although, let me tell you…" adds Martha, conspiratorially.

"If you were ten years younger. Yes, mother, I know," interjects Castle, shaking his head at his mother's predictably cutting remark.

"Richard, I know that you feel she betrayed you and your hurting right now. But she hasn't. Not really. I don't think that girl has it in her to betray you, or anyone else for that matter. She's far too honorable a person for that. But she loves you deeply. That, anyone can see."

"I know she loves me. I just don't know if it's enough. What if I screw this up like I screwed up with Meredith and Gina, huh? What then?"

"Nonsense. Those two imposters are not Kate Beckett," Martha tells him, fiercely. "And can I remind you that she is the one pushing for some kind of a commitment here, even if it is just a discussion about where you go next. Don't you think that's a turn up for the books? Isn't that what you'd call real progress from the woman who hated the sight of you for the first…oh, I don't know, shall we call it a round year and be done with it?"

"But she kissed him," says Castle, with real steel in his voice, ignoring his mother's unpleasant trip down memory lane.

"Not from what I heard."

"So he kissed her. Potato potahto. She still put herself in that position. And drinking Champagne with the guy, when she's on duty and supposed to be protecting him? The Beckett I know would never do that."

"Oh, and you've never made a mistake, darling. You've never been inveigled into a situation you later regretted? Because a certain Kristina Cottera springs to mind. On this very sofa, if I'm not mistaken," says Martha, turning her nose up at the leather couch.

"That was different."

"How? You tell me how it was different? You know, you are doing a great job of dishing out the blame tonight. But when it comes to your own wounded pride…"

Martha shakes her head and sighs, and then she leans forward to grip Castle's hand. "Do not let this one go, my boy. I am warning you. You let Katherine Beckett walk away now and you will regret it for the rest of your life. Believe me. I've been there. I know. Don't be a fool, Richard. You can get past this. Question is, do you want to? Do you love her badly enough to forgive her?"

Martha rises from the sofa, the colorful folds of her dress dropping to hang around her slender frame, and Castle stands with her.

"Go to bed, darling. Things will look better in the morning," his mother tells him, tilting her face to receive the kiss that Castle plants on her cheek.

"Night, mother," he says, accepting the hug she offers him.

When he sinks back down onto the sofa, the first thing he reaches for is his phone. He checks for messages, but his voicemail inbox is empty and there are no new text messages either.

He gets up stiffly, dumping his glass on the kitchen counter, and heads to the bedroom. A pitiful scene confronts him - wilted, shriveled rose petals littering the bed and staining the sheets, the candles burned down to melted, watery pools of wax surrounding blackened stumps of wick, the air thick with cloying, sandalwood-scented smoke…

He turns his back on the whole sorry mess and slowly makes his way up to the guest room.

Things will look better in the morning… They damn well better, he thinks, toeing off his shoes before falling into bed fully clothed.

A/N: Will try my hardest to keep this to a chapter a day. I know it's killing you. Me too.

P.S. Apologies if you buy your underwear at Walmart – no offense intended. ;)