A/N: I apologize so much for how long it took me to get this chapter to you. My only excuse is that this was my first week of school, and, consequently, I was extraordinarily busy. And then Document Uploader acted up and then…anyways. I will make every effort to get the next chapter to you by tomorrow night. Thank you for your patience!
Thank you again for your lovely reviews, and thank you for reading! Enjoy :)
Chapter 3
If Only We Were Happy
And we know it's never simple, never easy
- Breathe (feat. Colbie Cailat) by Taylor Swift
Peyton gnaws at her fingers nervously, which is rare for her (she likes to keep her nails clean and pristine), waiting, wondering. She can't quite tell if Brooke's string of expletives and complete shock is a bad thing or a good thing.
Or that kind of gray area that Peyton has so much experience with.
The brunette fashion designer (Peyton is proud to be able to say her best friend has her own line) doesn't even pause for breath; she launches into a nonsensical jumble of protests and exclamations. Peyton has no idea what she's saying.
And that scares her.
"Brooke?" she asks tentatively, after a moment. Her voice is small, and she hugs herself tightly, securely. She's standing outside of that stupid skyscraper, waiting for a cab, the chilly November air biting her bare shoulders. She remembers she left her fur stole (yes, fur; don't ask) in the coat check at the party, but going back up there will mean potentially running into him. (And that's a risk she's not willing to take).
"Yes?" The other girl's voice is soft, as if she can tell that Peyton is falling apart (she probably can). "P. Sawyer –" Peyton's heart convulses pleasantly at the familiar nickname – "Are you okay?"
And suddenly, the former adulterer (it's a strong word, but Peyton is nothing if not self-deprecating) wants to cry. She doesn't understand why Brooke sounds so kind. If she were in this situation – if Lucas had kissed Brooke – Peyton would be furious. But Peyton figures that Brooke is just more gracious than she could ever be. And, thankfully, it's not a character trait she particularly envies.
It's mean to think that, she knows. But when it comes to Lucas, Peyton is single-minded to the point of recklessness, as Bridget would say. (Yes, Peyton reads The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books. Don't judge her; it's a guilty pleasure).
"I…don't know." She finally answers, somewhat truthfully. She feels confused, definitely, but there's also a sort of…satisfaction, too. Lucas wants her back, and that's really all that matters. (Right?)
But she can't let him have her. She can't, and that's because of the person she's talking to right now.
"What happened?" Brooke asks gently, and Peyton can almost feel the sympathy emanating from her best friend, even over thousands of miles of underground phone lines (Brooke is in Milan on business).
She's not sure how to answer that. Lucas suddenly, randomly, forcefully (and sexily, if she's honest) kissed her, yes, but she didn't push him away. She should have slapped him, she knows, should have yelled at him for assuming they would just pick up where they left off (not that she knows where that was anyway). But she didn't, and, somehow, she doesn't regret that. That kiss – cosmic, glorious, crashing lips and searching hands – was wonderful (more than wonderful), and she refuses to even consider taking it back. But she doesn't know how to explain it to the only other person who might understand.
"Well, I was at a party," she begins, and it feels very familiar, the same old story. It's tiring, this constant cycle of partying and finding guys and sleeping with them and then seeing them at yet another party. With another girl. (A girl who's usually skinnier and taller and blonder). Peyton doesn't want Lucas to be just another conquest, but right now that's where he stands.
Peyton knows, though, that Lucas Eugene Scott (she resists the urge to laugh inwardly at his middle name) will never be just another conquest to her. He will always be, they will always have, more than that.
Brooke doesn't probe. She just waits, dutifully listening like the best friend she is. And Peyton loves her for that. (She doesn't deserve it).
So she tells the story, a story she almost wishes she couldn't tell. She wishes it all never happened, wishes she went to that party and got crazily drunk like she had planned, wishes she didn't discover that Lucas was here in New York looking damn hot and irresistible, as usual. But she did. She did, and now she has to deal with it.
She's still a teenage girl at heart (she thinks she always will be), and when teenage girls have boy problems, they call their best friends. So she reveals almost everything (she leaves out the details about how that kiss feels, because Brooke really doesn't need to hear that), because she needs advice and she needs comfort. And Brooke's raspy, soothing voice is sure to provide that.
When Peyton is finished – still waiting for that elusive cab, still shivering, still guiltily hoping that Lucas will come out and find her – Brooke sighs. It's a heavy sound, and Peyton is suddenly suspicious.
"Go for it," Brooke rasps shortly, suddenly, and Peyton can almost hear the nonchalant shrug that accompanies the words.
Peyton lets out an involuntary gasp. She's not all that surprised – Brooke has always been impossibly selfless, almost to a fault – but she's a little…bewildered. All these new developments are still so new. Lucas here and Brooke giving her the okay…this is not something she planned for.
"Wha-Whatt?" She stutters, almost choking on the word. She holds her cell phone closer to her ear, as if that will help her understand what's happening (Can you hear me now?).
"You heard me." The words are gruff, hard. Peyton wonders if Brooke is forcing herself to say all this. (Her heart clenches with long-suppressed guilt).
"You and Lucas…" Brooke's voice trails off, as if she doesn't quite know how to explain (she doesn't), and there's a note of pain lurking in those dulcet tones that surprises and gratifies Peyton. The blond hates herself again. It doesn't matter what Brooke says next; Peyton's not going to go after Lucas when her best friend so clearly still harbors feelings for that brooding Scott brother.
But she doesn't say anything. She wants Brooke to admit that she would mind - i.e. would cry and scream and be really fucking pissed off - if Peyton made a move.
But Brooke is still Brooke – still completely oblivious to her own feelings, still pushing for her friends' happy ending while ignoring her own life – and so she only says softly, "You guys are a fairytale." She pauses, as if she's trying to summon the courage to speak again. "You deserve your happily ever after, Peyton." (Peyton knows that isn't true, but she appreciates it nonetheless).
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Peyton quietly admits, her voice shaking. She ignores Brooke's declarations that her best friend and her ex-boyfriend are meant to be together; it seems slightly convoluted to her. (By now, this love triangle is too tangled to navigate). "He probably never wants to see me again."
"Not true," Brooke blurts shortly, breezily, as if it's just a fact that can't be argued against. Peyton marvels at her composure. (She's a mess).
"I walked away from him," the blonde finally whines. She hates the way she sounds: pathetic and helpless.
But then again, Lucas has always reduced her to this lesser version of herself.
Brooke sighs again, even heavier this time, and a hint of impatience seeps into her voice. (Peyton doesn't blame her). "Go find him. Tell him you love him."
It sounds so suspiciously easy, and Peyton reflexively, instinctively protests, "But I don't know if –"
"You love him," Brooke affirms, the words hard and sure and definitive. The sentence hits Peyton hard, holding her to the ground with the same kind of power only Lucas himself wields. Brooke lets out a gruff sound and continues, "Don't try to pretend you haven't been waiting for him all this time."
Peyton's not completely convinced – it's been ten years, after all – but she knows better than to argue with Brooke. Brooke's abilities as a matchmaker are fine-tuned after more than a decade of practice, and besides, Peyton can tell that this conversation is straining her best friend. Brooke doesn't want to hear about Peyton's indecisiveness, about whether the blonde should go back to Lucas.
It's a choice the brunette will never have – finding Lucas, having Lucas, loving Lucas – and Peyton falls silent. She shouldn't have called Brooke; this isn't fair to her. This is something she has to deal with on her own.
"You're right," she whispers, but it's more for Brooke's benefit than her own. (She's finally learning the finer points of friendship). "You're right."
"Of course I am!" Brooke snaps, and Peyton recoils on the other side of the line. She didn't mean to hurt the girl she's been giving pedicures to since she was in fourth grade. There's something like satisfaction in Brooke's voice, though, and Peyton wonders – not for the first time – if Brooke is as masochistic as she sounds. (She is).
"I'm sorry," Peyton whispers, clutching her phone to her ear, hiding herself from the rest of the world. She's not just apologizing for being blind to what she should do; she's apologizing for everything: for sleeping with Lucas in the first place, for putting Brooke through unnecessary agony by not getting together with him and just getting it over with. And she knows Brooke will understand that.
"S'fine," Brooke murmurs, and her voice is soft, forgiving. She understands.
There's a long silence, and Peyton knows the conversation is over. Maybe it always has been; it feels like they're just rehashing old problems.
"Thank you," she murmurs absentmindedly, sweeping her hair back with one quivering hand. She can hear Brooke's nod.
"Bye, B. Davis," the blonde whispers (somewhat sorrowfully), and there are tears leaking from her eyes. She doesn't know how it got this bad between them, all these things left unspoken, all these little arguments they never quite resolved. She wants to make it all better.
But she can't.
"Bye, P. Sawyer," Brooke mumbles, and Peyton can tell she's crying, too. She feels unreasonably, suddenly sad.
And then she realizes something (it's shocking, but everything about this day has been shocking): it really doesn't matter what Brooke says. They've been best friends since kindergarten, or even further back; they'll survive whatever obstacles Lucas throws their way. Peyton doesn't need Brooke's approval, because whether she tells Lucas she loves him (or whatever it is she does with him) or not, they'll get through it.
And despite Brooke's own misgivings, the brunette graciously – and somewhat amusedly, if Peyton read her right – gave permission.
The question is whether Peyton will do something with that permission.
--
It's eleven fifteen by the time she's safely in her apartment. It's early for her (usually she's out until two at least, getting drunk at random bars and making out with strangers), and she feels helpless. She doesn't know what to do with herself.
It's more like who she wants to do something with. She wants to call Lucas, wants to explain to him all the reasons why it won't work between them, wants to yell at him for all sorts of things.
But she doesn't. (It takes a concentrated effort not to pick up the phone).
--
She lies awake that night, listening to a soulful, soaring Billy Holiday record. It's soothing, somehow, but also incredibly depressing. And she was already sad to begin with.
She's been thinking about her...encounter with Lucas tonight. Or rather, she's reliving it. The touch of his hands on her waist, the press of his tongue in her mouth, the lust in those probing eyes of his. He felt just like she remembered - remembers, she reminds herself; she hasn't forgotten what it feels like to kiss Lucas Scott. He felt like home.
She shakes her head vehemently, squeezing her eyes shut against the torrent of pain that threatens to undo her (she's not strong enough). She sighs heavily and gives up after a moment.
She glances over at the glaring, red numbers of her alarm clock. The time reads two'o'clock. She wonders what Lucas is doing right now, wonders if he's thinking of her the way she's thinking of him (i.e. with regret and desperation and desire). She wonders if he was happy to see her tonight, or if he wishes she had never made a reappearance in his life.
She wouldn't blame him if he never talked to her again. She walked away from him ten years ago (almost to the day, if she's been keeping track correctly), and she walked away from him tonight. He must be tired of the sight of her back (but he loves her ass, she reminds herself devilishly).
Unfortunately, though, she doesn't feel the same way. She could never be tired of him, no matter how hard she tried. He's entwined with every aspect of her life; she draws paintings that remind her of him (she drew a lone raven when she felt nostalgic one day), she listens to music she imagines he must like (she knows his tastes almost as well as her own), she wears clothes she knows he would appreciate. (There are traces of him everywhere).
She'll never forget him. It's actually impossible to imagine a life where Lucas Scott doesn't matter.
And she's afraid to push him away this time. This is her second chance, she guesses. This is God's – not that she even believes in the so-called "man upstairs" to begin with – way of ordering her to tell Lucas everything she's ever held inside. All the feelings she's repressed, all the things she's never said.
All the reasons she left him.
She wants to tell him all this, of course, and she will (she realizes now that she will). But she also wants to make it clear that they can't do this. (It's not a decision she's come to easily, and she wants him to understand that). Not just because she's afraid of whatever it is that exists between them (she is, but she'll never admit it to him), but because of Brooke, and because of the lives they all live so separately now. They're not in high school anymore. They can't pretend everything will be all right.
They're adults now, and she somehow has to make him see that she has made an adult decision. (She knows he won't, because she doesn't either).
So she sits up straight in bed, staring blankly at the wall, and swivels her head quickly to her bedside table. And without hesitation (she knows if she waits even a moment she'll chicken out), she picks up the phone.
And she dials the number she still knows by heart (he's moved from city to city like a nomad, but his cell number is always the same) and whispers breathlessly, "Will you do me a favor?"
She can hear him sigh, and she knows he's weighing the pros and cons of agreeing to do her a "favor" (he was always the logical one). She wonders if he's surprised she's calling him in the middle of the night. (She knows he isn't).
He lets out a weary sound and takes a deep breath.
"Yes."
--
She meets him at a tiny restaurant on the corner of 75th and Madison.
She frequents this particular French café – cliché artist hangout, she knows, she knows – a lot, sometimes for coffee, sometimes for a quiet lunch away from the chaos that she's never quite gotten used to. It's small and it's quaint, and the owners know her by name. It feels a little like Tree Hill. (She ignores the thought that that's exactly why she loves it so much).
The best part of the café, though, is that it's open all night.
He's standing by the entrance when her cab pulls up alongside the street, a thick gray peacoat wrapped around his broad shoulders. (She doesn't blame him; she's wearing a navy blue Burberry trench coat herself). She hesitates before opening the taxi door, but she manages to summon the courage – and idiocy, she thinks ruefully – to get out of the car and move towards him.
She has to do this. She's thought about it much more than she should, and she's made her decision. She can't go back on it.
But still, she approaches him with such unease that she sees him visibly falter, as if he doesn't know why he agreed to this so-called "meeting" (he would call it more of a booty call, considering it's just after two thirty in the morning).
But she's mostly nervous because he looks so damn beautiful standing there with his dark hair and his blue eyes and his confused squint, and she's suddenly afraid she won't be able to say everything she has to say. She has a clear purpose in mind here, but if he smiles at her just once, she might fucking fall for him (if she hasn't already).
And she just can't do that again.
She swallows her fear (swallows the tears and the pain), and draws up beside him, tucking her straightened hair behind her ears. (Lucas frowns; he already misses her curls). "Hello," she murmurs, curtly, formally. She doesn't meet his gaze, even though his eyes are sharp and inquisitive. (Or maybe because his eyes are sharp and inquisitive).
"Hi," he mumbles casually, averting his gaze. He stares at her feet for a moment, because she's wearing these black opaque tights that highlight the curve of her legs and bright blue stilettos that he knows she picked on purpose. He can't take his eyes off her golden skin, and it takes some effort to choke out, "Shall we go inside?"
She nods, and he shakes his head as she steps in front of him. He hates how awkward this is. They loved each other once. Why is this so hard?
Maybe because they love each other still.
They step into the foyer, warm air hitting them like a wave of lust. And that's exactly what it is, because Peyton is suddenly incredibly aware of the touch of cologne Lucas is wearing, of the way his hair veers off his forehead with seeming precision, of the span of his shoulders. And Lucas is distracted by the flush of red that floods Peyton's cheeks as she moves toward a table and the way she arches her back as she quietly yawns.
She's so fucking beautiful, and he can't have her. He wonders what he did to deserve this cruel fate.
"We need to talk," she murmurs wearily, oblivious to his sudden, overwhelming desire. She sweeps her hair back with one hand, the texture smooth and foreign beneath her fingers. (She only straightened her hair because she didn't want to remind him – and herself – of the past, but now it doesn't feel right).
She's prepared for some sort of rebuttal to her blunt "suggestion"; if she knows Lucas, he won't take this sitting down. He'll argue that they should just move past the fighting and make out already. (She almost smiles at the thought).
But his normally vibrant blue eyes are somber and tired as he appraises her, and he doesn't try to protest. He's willing to hear what she has to say, even if it means listening to her rant and rave about all the reasons they shouldn't be together (he knows there's not a single one). He's learned from years of trying – and failing – to get close to her that with Peyton, there's no push or pull. You give, she takes.
He should be annoyed about that particular…character trait of hers, but, truthfully, he finds it endearing (he wonders if that's because he's in love with her and he doesn't know it).
So he forces a smile, to put her at ease (his life goal is to make her happy), and he simply nods. There's slight surprise in those green eyes of hers, but she hides it well.
She's always been good at hiding what she feels.
"Okay," he shrugs, the muscles in his back expanding and rippling (her mouth goes dry). His voice is light, easy, like it's no big deal (it is, it really is). He pulls out her chair at the table she picks like his mother taught him to (he misses her every day), and he waits for her to sit down before relieving his own sore feet. And then he waits for her to speak, like the gentleman he used to be before she took that away from him. (She took everything from him).
She looks hesitant; she opens her mouth, closes it, opens it. He smiles encouragingly, again, flashing teeth and dimples, and she relaxes slightly. This is Lucas, she reminds herself. Just Lucas.
But that's the problem, isn't it?
"I don't, I can't…" She trails off, stuttering, leaning her head on her hands in exasperation. She doesn't know how to start. She never expected to have this conversation – of all the scenarios she dreamed up where she and Lucas met again and fell madly in love, there were never any lingering uncertainties; they just were. She wishes she were eighteen again, poised on the brink of her future, open to love, open to life. Things were easier back then.
She realizes suddenly that she feels cold and jaded. (But she's not, she's really not). She knows, though, that she just has a bad case of what she and Brooke like to call the Scott-Brothers-Blues, which consist of moping around the house (or whatever building you're currently habituating) and eating excessive amounts of ice cream. It's a condition unique to every single girl in Tree Hill.
Except that Peyton has had it for ten years, and exclusively for the blond brother. (Does that even apply anymore?)
She takes a deep breath. She might as well get this over with. (She wonders, though, who came up with the idea that it's less painful that way). She murmurs softly, bowing her head in shame, "This is hard for me." (Acceptance is the first step to recovery).
And it is hard, it's fucking hard, because as much as she once loved the man – he's a man now, she marvels – sitting across from her, he's changed, and so has she. Their love story (or lack thereof, she thinks somewhat morosely) may not have a place in their new lives, in New York City, where he's a lawyer and she's not even really an artist.
And maybe, just maybe, their love story doesn't have a happy ending.
The thought is unbearably sad, and suddenly, tears prick the back of her eyes. So she starts talking, because she has to stop herself from crying, because none of this makes sense. She has to get some closure here, even if it means lying to him, even if it means leaving him.
That's always been the difficulty with him, really; every time she thinks she's gotten over him (and there have been many, many times), he sweeps back into her life like some kind of Superman and breaks her heart all over again. (It's a vicious cycle she's not sure she's ready to escape).
She can't even really concentrate on what she's saying right now; his blue eyes are burning at her, through her, and all she wants to do is hold him close to her. She's missed him, she really has. She just wishes he had never gone out with Brooke.
It's an entirely selfish thought – he made Brooke happy for a long time – but Peyton can't control it. So she keeps on talking, to distract herself from all the mistakes they've made. (It started by that stupid lake and it ends right here).
He leans back in his chair and watches her as she speaks so fast he doesn't catch every word, a strange sensation in his heart swelling and expanding until it threatens to overwhelm him. He wonders what he's feeling, exactly; anger, sorrow confusion…love? He doesn't know, so he simply listens, hoping he'll figure out eventually. He watches her, and he waits.
He'll listen to her forever if that's what she needs.
tbc