Hi! Thank you so, so much for your unbelievably kind words, your ongoing support as well as interest in this AU. I'm blown away by all of you and more than grateful that following this story is entertaining to y'all despite the length, irregular update schedule and rather bleak tone so far. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I wish I could now tell you that this is the last time that I made y'all suffer until I put up another chapter but sadly, I have a life. I know, not a fan either. I can promise that it won't take another 5-6 months until chapter four, but it'll at least take a bit. I'll do what I can to quicken the whole process, but I hope you understand that writing massive chapters isn't something that I can do in a few hours (which is why I should've stuck to shorter ones but… oh well).
With that out of the way, I have no clue how to summarize this while simultaneously keeping it spoiler-free, so I'll just say: (try to) enjoy the ride and keep reading even if there are parts that make you feel like murdering me. The title belongs to FKA twigs' "Lights On".
As usual, I seriously can't thank Elena enough for everything she has done while I was working on this. That includes (but is not limited to): listening to my whining, reading unedited bullshit excerpts, talking me out of awfully dumb decisions and making fun of my weird ass phrasings. If you have an account on the Blue Hellsite, please follow her, show her some love and reblog her edits, they're fucking gorgeous. She is cavanaughstobias on Tumblr.
III.
Let me tell you all my secrets
And I'll whisper 'til the day's done
Everything Spencer has managed to gather about Dr. Tova Mizrahi-Pierce through an extensive Google search some days prior: she lives in Auburn with her partner of over twenty years and their two sons, graduated from Harvard in 1998 and has since then primarily focused on treating mood, neurodevelopmental and anxiety disorders, PTSD as well as offering sobriety, addiction and compulsion coaching through several types of psychotherapy. She is published, has taught courses on Abnormal Psychology and Autism at Emerson before and, according to her public Facebook profile, enjoys singing, spending time with her family, volunteering, horse riding and movie nights with her friends.
Things Dr. Mizrahi might have found out about Spencer through a Google research: naturally, her Facebook is the first result. Her profile picture shows her back as she gazes contemplatively at Chicago from the glass balcony in the Sears Tower. She doesn't recall who had taken it for her; it must have been one of those especially slimy guys she met off OkCupid during her first week in Illinois. What was his name again? Ryan…Robert… something boring and insignificant like that. He had called himself a 'skilled artist', that part she does remember well; he had said that he was a 'misunderstood photographer' with the 'old soul of a philosopher' but the irony in that was – and maybe that's her fault for always attracting the worst type of men – that he didn't know how to work his Leica without taking a hard glimpse into his Note App every other minute. Another thing she remembers is that it was taken shortly after she had said goodbye to Rosewood, packed her stuff and left, and afterwards, she never bothered with putting up a new one. It's just Facebook, right?
Her Instagram profile, though now set on private, is what pops up after. Her bio has remained unchanged since freshman year of college, some inspirational Anais Nin quote – the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom – that, now that she thinks about it, sort of makes her sound like an annoying showoff… which, truth be told, she knows she is, but that's certainly not the impression she had wanted to make on her therapist.
Then, her LinkedIn page, listing her various work experiences (cleverly leaving out her stint in waitressing), her education and the languages she can speak and yes, fluency acquired through the Duolingo app does count as speaking a language, thank you very much. Pieces of her exist in the Team tab on her employer's website. Spencer Hastings. MPP/MBA, it announces, next to a black and white photograph of her where she is smiling wide, but her eyes don't quite agree, Communication Manager. A bunch of old articles related to her mom, Spencer's previous job in Chicago, her internships and graduation make up most if not all of the other results on the following pages. But buried deep on pages five, six and seven, hide the ugly secrets that Spencer had tried to get rid of by making as much of her life public and accessible.
Because here lie parts of her Rosewood life, forever immortalized in awful news headings.
Shocking new revelations in alleged 'kidnapping' of Rosewood teenager (18).
Murder conviction for local teen (18) who killed girl, made it look like abduction.
Four teenage girls, charged as accessories to first-degree murder, go missing. Victim's mother left speechless: 'I don't understand how the police could let this happen.'
Missing girls finally rescued from underground bunker. Small town of Rosewood in shock: 'Are our kids still safe?'
Search for kidnapper continues as Rosewood girls are brought home to their families and loved ones, FBI says.
'The Dollhouse of Horrors': exclusive pictures from the infamous underground bunker where six Pennsylvanian girls were held prisoners. Extra: UPenn Psychologist Dr. Irwin Hunt talks about Stockholm Syndrome and Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.
And all of this, Spencer adds with an internal sigh, is not even half of it on a good day. Just the lousy tip of the equally lousy iceberg. She is lucky, in a twisted way; having been a minor for most of the bullshit that had transpired in her hometown kept both her name and face out of the public's prying eye. But still, if Dr. Mizrahi is anything like Spencer – they seem similar, don't they? Relentless overachievers in a relationship with perfectionism that some may or may not call unhealthy – she ought to know why the woman is here. So she has trouble understanding her question.
"I'm sorry – what?"
"What are your goals for therapy, Ms. Hastings," Dr. Mizrahi repeats in a patient voice as she crosses her legs and rests her black notebook against her knee. "What do you hope to achieve?"
Spencer knits her eyebrows together. "I'm sorry," she says again, proceeding to cross her legs as well. "I'm sorry, this is gonna sound terribly conceited but… uh… didn't you look me up?"
The woman tosses her an almost motherly smile, pen between her fingers coming to a stop over the notebook. "I don't google my clients. I'd hate to find out things they aren't willing to share with me."
"I mean… I mean, yeah, sure. You do have a poi—but that's normal, right? Looking up someone online is normal and there isn't anything wrong with it?"
"Do you think it's normal?"
Pursing her lips, Spencer breathes a sigh through her nose. "I know that dodging questions and talking in riddles is something they teach therapists in school but…"
"But?"
"I don't know."
The other woman hums thoughtfully and brushes her fingers through her messy, slightly grayed curls and Spencer has to admit against her will that it does manage to wrap the… whole thing between them in a comfortable blanket of casualness as though they aren't currently sat in her office and attempting to find a foolproof way to rip open itchy scars that Spencer had more or less ignored until now. As though they are merely two friendly strangers who happened to meet here of all places to make some candid small talk about literally anything but Spencer's psyche.
"If you want my honest opinion, I don't think there's anything wrong with looking up people online, no," Dr. Mizrahi eventually speaks and taps her pen against her chin. "I think I'd actually recommend googling doctors and reading reviews and such before going in unprepared. I just thought what happened here was quite interesting – you assumed I might find it abnormal and wanted reassurance that I didn't. As if you're under the impression that my opinion holds more worth than yours."
"Well, you went to Harvard. All I know about psychology is what I read on Wikipedia and the articles they reference," Spencer retorts. "So, yeah, if you say – and I'm sorry for being really politically incorrect – if you say I'm crazy, your opinion definitely holds more value than mine."
"I see. And is that of importance to you? That I don't think you're – to borrow your expression now – 'crazy'?" When Spencer gives her a small look, Dr. Mizrahi snickers and lifts her hands as if to defend herself. "I'm not taking notes. This isn't going into your file. I'm only interested in getting to know you better. As a client and as a person."
Spencer mulls it over. "I wish I could say that it used to bother me and that I'm above that now but obviously, I'm still struggling with it," she confesses and rolls her eyes at herself. "It used to be much worse though. I would build my entire sense of self around other people's perception of…" She cuts herself off before she can draw and reveal old memories she isn't ready yet to dive into headfirst, waves her hand dismissively. "Honestly, though, I wouldn't focus on that too much if I were you. I'm sure part of that is my personality. I mean, I had my first major existential crisis at four when my older sister tried to convince me that I'm adopted. Fun stuff."
The corners of Dr. Mizrahi's mouth turn upwards into a smile at the dry expression on Spencer's features. "And this fascination with 'being normal', when did that begin? After or before you were institutionalized?" Spencer raises her brows. The doctor adds, "I didn't google you, but I did read the forms you filled out and the files Dr. Sullivan was kind enough to send me."
"Before, I think. Before Ferndell, before Radley, before the drugs. Way before," Spencer says, lowering her gaze when the doctor does. Panicked, she then forces herself to stop bouncing her leg and curses internally. She can't read or make out what the other woman is scribbling into her notebook from here, of course, but she can picture it before her inner eye; something about nervous habits and fidgeting and anxiety. She clears her throat in a not-so-sneaky attempt to get the woman's attention back on her and away from her stupid notebook and babbles, "Like I said, it's not a big deal. I doubt it's connected to anything. It's just who I am. As a person. I tend to have a rather unstable sense of self, but I also think it's gotten better these past years."
"But?" Dr. Mizrahi questions as Spencer trails off.
But occasionally, I still get the urge to drink myself stupid when I feel like the world's moving too fast for me to follow.
But occasionally, I still think I deserve to be used when I feel like I've lost myself because maybe I'll find Spencer in dirty bathroom stalls or rug burns on my back.
But occasionally, I still have a tough time separating the naïve girl from the Google results on page five, six and seven from the confident woman on the first four pages.
"I don't know," Spencer lies, toying with her necklace, lost in thought. "I haven't really engaged in any of my, what do you call it again, self-destructive behaviors? I haven't done that in along time but…" She sighs. "But that doesn't mean I'm not thinking about it and I guess I'm just… I'm just kinda scared? That I'll be back to square one if some major event occurs?"
Dr. Mizrahi nods, writing in her notebook. "You're self-aware. That's good."
"Only when I'm in a good place. Not so much when I'm in a bad place, trust me," Spencer says and shoots her a self-deprecating smirk. "I know, addicts, right? Give us a trigger and we'll be back to our bullshit in a matter of seconds."
"Well, that's the very definition of trigger, Ms. Hastings."
"I guess." Exhaling another sigh, Spencer drops her hand from her necklace and into her lap where she begins smoothing down her skirt. "You can write that down as my goals for therapy."
Dr. Mizrahi hums. "Learning to cope with your triggers?"
"Uh, actually, I was thinking something along the lines of… learning to cope with myself?" she responds. "I'm aware that this is a lot to drop on you, considering we have roughly ten minutes left but I'm a basket case. I don't want you to realize that I'm a basket case but that's exactly what I am. And I'm sure, eventually, we'll conclude that it wasn't the… that it wasn't my teen years that turned me into this mess but… but probably my dad forgetting me at the grocery store that one time. I don't know. Point is, most days, I don't know who I am without everyone and everything that has happened to me. But I wanna learn who that woman is and I really, really wanna learn to love her so that I can stop ruining her life whenever I feel like it."
"Her life?"
Spencer purses her lips. "If you're trying to imply that I have multiple personalities-"
"…which is an outdated term that we don't use anymore. DID is a complicated disorder and no, I definitely wasn't trying to imply anything of that sort," Dr. Mizrahi interrupts her. "Why would you refer to yourself in third person?"
"It was a metaphor."
"For what?"
"For how disconnected I feel from myself sometimes? For how hard it is for me to accept that my past is such an integral part of my personality now that I struggle with telling apart my real thoughts and feelings from my intrusive thoughts?" She shrugs, frustrated. "I don't know. Why am I expected to do your job for you?"
Dr. Mizrahi chuckles. "Ms. Hastings," she begins softly despite Spencer's snappy tone. "You've been through this in therapy before. I can't do 'my job' if you're not willing to do yours."
"Which is…?"
Dr. Mizrahi puts her notebook on the small table between them and explains, "Putting that self-awareness and introspection of yours to good use."
Several hours later, Spencer leans against the countertop in Toby's kitchen. It's her first time at his place, a newly renovated studio in one of the quieter and greener neighborhoods away from Boston's core. As predicted, his little townhome is stunning and so very him though also smaller than she had pictured it. Sure, studio can only mean so many things and he had kind of warned her anyway – "Yeah, it's more of a big closet, really" – and she of course is aware that he is in school still, only working part-time, so money, she figures, must be tight. But having his bed in her peripheral vision no matter which way she twists, turns and goes is rather distracting to say the least and not helping with keeping this casual dinner as uncomplicated and… well, casual as possible.
At her thoughts, she feels her eyes widen.
Not that she is thinking about that, of course, and even if she was – which she isn't – it wouldn't be her fault anyway. Because being in the same room as someone you have seen naked before and having a comfortable-looking bed roughly ten feet away from you might trigger some old memories, right? And bad habits. Really, really bad habits.
She needs a fucking drink. Possibly two. To hell with Dr. Mizrahi and self-awareness.
"I had a look through the forms she wants me to fill out by next week," she rambles on, mostly to drown out her inner voice as Toby hums and bends to preheat the oven. Once again, her gaze inevitably lands on the bed in the opposite corner of the room and she grimaces, moves a little to the left, hoping that his frame will obscure the view. "They use those for a pre-diagnosis, you know, so that the doctor can adjust therapy sessions accordingly? Anyway, I looked through them and I don't know what I was expecting but most of the questions are invasive as hell."
"Isn't that the whole point of therapy though?" Toby wonders and begins spraying the baking dish with cooking spray. "Being 'invasive as hell'?"
She tosses the back of his head a pointed look that he seems to notice since his reply consists of a little chuckle. "I guess," she answers, equal parts mumble and defeat. "But I still don't feel comfortable with telling a stranger about my libido in the past six months or, or telling her that I was the 'victim' of a 'traumatic event' or… I can't remember the other annoying question right now."
"So you're not gonna fill out the questionnaire?"
"No. No, I will," she says, watching him spread tablespoons of pesto sauce onto the flattened chicken breasts. "All I'm saying that it's invasive and I don't see how most of these questions are in any way relevant or related to my mental health."
Rolling up one chicken breast tightly, Toby turns his head in Spencer's direction to raise one eyebrow at her in puzzlement. "You… you don't see how being the victim of a traumatic event could be connected to mental health? Really? Spencer, you work in health care."
"Okay, you realize you're supposed to be on my side, right?" She walks closer to him and hands him the toothpick before he can reach for it. "I know I'm being difficult and defensive for no reason but complaining is literally my thing and I'd appreciate your support."
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him smile to himself as though amused – and yes, the bed is in the background and she can easily see that from here too – while he proceeds to secure one chicken breast with the toothpick and then swiftly moves onto the next. She frowns, noting how effortlessly they have once more slipped into working as a team; he holds the second rolled up chicken breast in place so that she can poke through it with another toothpick, probably a bit more aggressive than she had meant to. What an odd pair we make, she muses, stuck somewhere between quiet longing, burning desire and perhaps some sadness too; for what could have been under different circumstances, under different and much, much wiser choices. She heaves a sigh that is barely audible, barely noticeable even, and yet he picks up on it and mistakes it for something that it is not.
"I am on 'your' side… whatever that means," he assures her and pulls up his shoulder to rub it against the side of his face. That causes her to momentarily wonder whether she should scratch it for him. With the bed in plain sight though, reminding her of her own itchy feelings, she has no choice but to discard the idea – an awkward flush threatening to crawl up her neck, to drown her cheeks in an embarrassing red – and focus on preparing the food. "I just think you should give it a try first. Even if it forces you out of your comfort zone."
"Well, I'm 'giving it a try'. I already went twice. I have an appointment for next week. This is me giving it a try," she replies, unceremoniously dipping her finger into the small bowl of pesto sauce. She licks it off her thumb and exclaims, leisurely and rather suddenly too, "Oh my god."
Unsurprisingly, Toby catches her anyway even though she had tried her best to be sneaky about it. He is putting the baking dish in the oven and she is about to help herself to another taste from the sauce when he whips his head her way, a genuine smile forming on his mouth at her widened eyes of surprise. "That bad?"
"No," Spencer says. "No. Really good, actually."
The smile on his lips grows bigger. "Hopefully the chicken is just as good. I had it at this little restaurant back in Maine and I always wanted to try it at home but…"
But… but nothing. Toby trails off, a nearly invisible wince accompanying his movements as he leans against the counter next to her. Spencer takes that in for a second – his posture, his reaction to memories and a life he would rather leave behind – and remarks, looking away politely so as to grant him some space to sort through his thoughts and feelings should he need it, "You never really talk about Maine."
"Mhm," he agrees or perhaps deflects, crossing his arms. "You never really talk about Chicago."
She laughs as she glances at him and finds him there with a deliberate twinkle of amusement in his gaze. It's sincere, her laughter; he is right after all. She doesn't talk about Chicago much. She doesn't particularly like talking about Chicago much. What is there to speak about anyway? One of the many stories about her tiny office and her old job that had felt like a cage, especially on days where her jealousy of people who were somehow bigger, who were somehow much better – gratuitously sponsored by Mona's Instagram feed that is still plastered with updates from all over the world – tasted like bitter and never-ending disappointment in herself? Stories about being so goddamn lonely, so starved, so desperate for warmth and a fleeting illusion of intimacy, an actual human connection, that she would regularly agree to meet with strange men online after a mere one or two hours of boring, emoji-ridden conversations? Stories about first drinking and then crying on her floor; stories about first crying and then smoking in a bar's restroom more expensive than she could afford; maybe stories about both smoking and drinking in front of the seventh, eighth, ninth episode in a row of some Netflix production? Or perhaps it's the fifteen or so books about his absence he is after, he is secretly waiting to read in its entirety; chapter over long-winded chapter about missing him at night when the sun was fast asleep, and the moon tortured her with thoughts she didn't want to consciously think about but didn't really stop from engulfing her either?
No, she interrupts herself with an internal snort. If anything, it's probably the fucking light post that deserves to receive another comeback, isn't it? His not-a-wedding to Yvonne, Aria's lecture in her car, Oscar's sonogram, the quinoa salad… everything about that cursed day is a perfect summary of her brief albeit horrible time in Chicago.
But theirs – their relationship, their friendship, their something or other – is built entirely upon compromise now. Upon respect and the awareness that some things need to be left unsaid in order for the new world as it is to continue spinning uninterrupted. She can't possibly tell him how miserable she was in Chicago (even though she has the sinking feeling that he knows) and he can't possibly tell her how miserable he was in Maine (even though she can tell whenever she looks at him, catches him off-guard, catches that sad frown on his features too). They can't do these things because it would break apart everything they are. She can almost see it: heartfelt conversations on his sofa, maybe a bottle of cheap sparkling wine like at Aria's Christmas party although that had ended quite disastrously for them both, hadn't it; two hangovers from hell and pissed off Pizza Hut employees. She can see it though, vividly, if she focuses hard enough, see them sitting side by side on the sofa, a couple of salty tears spilled eventually at memories dead, a few quips frivolously throwing the world's lamest pity party, several sarcastic remarks drunk on chuckles and shared laughter, and then, and then hungry kisses out of nowhere, only it wouldn't be out of nowhere, of course, because they have been doing this dizzy dance non-stop for months now but it would feel like it happened suddenly, like they have lost control over themselves and their trembling bodies that are all but aching with the overwhelming desire to become one again as clothes are torn on their way to his bed in the corner because that's what she wants… no, that's what she does when she feels bad. That's when she does when she is confronted with feelings she doesn't look forward to facing – and that's the very definition of trigger, Ms. Hastings, Dr. Mizrahi says inside her head – and she… she can't do that to him. They can't do that to each other, can't risk throwing everything they have managed to raise up from the ground, from next to nothing.
Honestly, though, she muses, twisting her pursed lips to the side. Apart from all that, she mostly wishes he wouldn't smell so good because she suspects that it would probably help a lot with figuring out whether this is genuine sexual tension they are dealing with (she wonders if he has been with anyone else after Yvonne and she knows, of course she does, that it's not her place, not anymore, and yet she wonders and wonders and expertly keeps her social media stalking to herself) or a genuine rush of lost feelings overclouding her senses (in her mind, memories of his fingertips running over her body like her skin is made of porcelain and before her eyes, Toby running his fingers through his hair that is slightly longer than normal and god) or her genuinely screwed up personality craving intimacy to deal with letting her therapist poke stubborn holes into her façade (she is staring, she know she is staring, and it's creepy, right, a complete violation of boundaries, it's disrespectful, and – and it's desire on a fucking quantum level, it's something primal, and it's her body slowly eating itself from the inside up with how much she wishes they would just give in, indulge, only for a minute or thirty, get it out of their systems and then return to this foreign place where they can continue to play pretend and act like they are fine with it).
Toby cocks his eyebrow at her sudden silence and she hastily fakes an overzealous smile.
Once upon a time, she would have asked herself if there was a chance, no matter how small and unlikely, that he felt the same but these days, it all but appears as though he is utterly terrified of her; terrified of accidentally drowning in what they were, terrified of accidentally allowing her to get lost in him. What was it that he had said? This friendship thing just sounds like it has the potential to become really, really complicated. And maybe he was right. This definitely feels more than complicated. And confusing.
"There was this little restaurant on the mainland," Toby speaks up then, inevitably distracting Spencer from her thoughts. She lifts her gaze to look at him. "I used to go there sometimes, you know, after school or between classes. It was nice and a lot better than the island. All you could get there was fish and as delicious as that was the first few weeks, I got so sick of it eventually."
She nods while holding in her chuckle for the most part, but he interrupts her once more, giving her the eyebrow like he had done before. "Oh, is it my turn…?" As a response to her question, there follows another nod, his pretty eyes twinkling, sparkling in the light, and she kind of really wishes he would quit confusing her further all while remaining so damn oblivious or perhaps ignorant to the extent of her inner conflict. She sorts through the broad range of Chicago stories available inside her head and memory, struggling to find one that she can share without going down that incredibly risky road that she is trying her best to avoid.
As expected, the light post flashes inside her mind again. Spencer sighs and with his eyes fixated on her, pulling her deeper into a stagnant state of puzzlement – or maybe blind desire and… and… a little bit of infatuation too? No, she cuts herself off, that's not it – she halts and says, the words tumbling from her mouth, "Well, uh, have I told you that I was a waitress for a couple of months?"
He seems taken aback by that. Finally, she thinks. Finally, something Emily hadn't let him in on behind Spencer's back. Toby raises not one but two eyebrows this time. "Waitress?"
"Yeah. Waitressing, asking my parents for money, eating ramen noodles every day for weeks, forgetting what off-season vegetables taste like because they're too expensive… I did the whole college experience way after college but better late than never, right?"
Toby frowns. "I thought you worked in sales?"
"I did. And then I… quit?" she replies nonchalantly, shrugs. "Which, don't get me wrong, felt awesome for about ten minutes until I realized that I was unemployed, hadn't sent out any job applications, and didn't have a single clue as to what I was supposed to be doing with my life."
He hums, weighing his words or thinking back to similar experiences, she doesn't know, as he turns to inspect the bottle of sparkling wine on the counter behind him, holds it up for Spencer to see and proceeds to pull a disgusted face. She would have found it adorable too if she wasn't instantly reminded of Aria's Christmas party – or at least those parts during which her brain was sober and managed to store away a few saccharine memories. Against her will, she mimics his expression and shakes her head.
"Yeah. Thought so," Toby states. "Are you okay with soda? I think I have beer… somewhere…"
Spencer wrinkles her nose slightly. Beer makes her think of Caleb and she really doesn't want to be thinking of Caleb right no—she doesn't want to think of Caleb, ever. Period.
"Soda's fine."
To her great horror and maybe equal parts sickly sweet amusement, Toby picks up the bottle of Coke and makes his way to the sofa. Noting that she has no choice but to follow, Spencer sinks her teeth into her lower lip and walks behind him, sitting down moments after he does. On the opposite end, of course, leaving more than enough space between their bodies to reduce the tension that is apparently lost on him.
"So?" she prompts as she takes off her shoes, then neatly folds her legs underneath her.
"So?" he echoes.
"So what about Maine?"
"You went from politics to sales to waitressing and now health care," Toby responds easily, once more deflecting, avoiding, changing the topic, and leans back. "That's way more interesting."
"Well, I disagree." She leans over to put her drink on the small coffee table, somehow succeeds in ignoring the bed that is right behind them. "Come on, Toby. You lived on an island for a year. There has to be at least one interesting story you can share." Something that preferably doesn't involve Yvonne but I'm not gonna say that aloud because it'll make me look like the crazy ex.
She is a horrible human being, but he doesn't notice. He never does. He doesn't answer straight away and instead hums into his glass for a second, pensive, maybe, and hastily sorting through his library of memories like she had to. Eventually, he snorts in a dry manner and asks, without it being a question, "You wanna know about Maine?" He takes a sip as well, gazing off to the right, away from her eyes. "It sucked. Out of all places we could've moved to, we chose a small town where everyone and their parents know each other. People didn't like us. I couldn't get a job for months because we were outsiders from – quote, unquote – some town in Pennsylvania no one has ever heard of before. I mean, getting groceries was already an experience in itself – frozen pizza again? Didn't you guys already have frozen pizza twice this month? Don't you know how to cook?"
Spencer laughs in disbelief. "You're kidding."
"I wish I was," Toby mumbles wearily. "Yvonne's friends were mostly nice and all but the rest of them? Sometimes I felt like people were judging me for just… taking a walk after dinner. It was Rosewood all over, only this time I wasn't accused of killing a girl that wasn't dead. At least people back then had a pretty good reason to hate me."
"They didn't," she states in a sharp voice, shooting the side of his face a confused frown. "You were innocent. Both times. Not just Ali's alleged 'murder' but-"
"I know," he interrupts her gently, lifting his gaze to glance at her. "But they didn't know that. So, honestly, who can blame them for repeating what they were told by the police?"
She feels weirdly guilty and thinks that she probably deserves it.
"It's the small-town curse, I suppose," Spencer speaks up after a couple of beats, emits a sigh and hugs the throw pillow beside her. "I heard it can even turn the smartest people into a bunch of headless chickens that will eat up whatever someone with slight authority claims is the truth. And, you know, gossip. People love gossip."
He returns her hesitant attempt at a well-meaning smile effortlessly. She feels warm or hot or perhaps both and then some. "I guess that wasn't too much of a problem for you? In Chicago?"
"Yeah," she retorts but doesn't quite know if she agrees. "Yeah, no, it was a nice change at first but the, uh, anonymity? It did get a little isolating sometimes… it's also kinda weird to have no idea what your neighbors look like even though you can hear them have sex all the time."
Toby pulls a sympathetic face. "Well, maybe it's for the best that you never found out what they look like and got a picture to go with the, um, audio."
She mulls that over, laughs. "Yeah, no, you're right. But sometimes, I kind of miss it." On his mock-baffled look and pulled up brows, she rolls her eyes and hits his arm with the pillow in her grasp. "I miss Chicago. Not that. Ultimately, it wasn't right for me and I'm aware that I'm romanticizing it in my head 'cuz I also remember being fucking miserable most of the time but god… sometimes, I miss my apartment. And my fire escape. Well, actually, I think it's the fire escape that I miss the most."
Regarding her, something unidentifiable in his gaze, his fingers begin toying with the pillow absently, and she averts her eyes, takes another sip from her Coke to avoid him. Then he says, and she inwardly groans though part of her had been expecting it, "Miserable how?"
Great. Another step closer to the abyss, the scenario she had painted on a canvas earlier and can clearly reconstruct now; they are heading down a path which they won't be able to recover from, right, because she will spill her misery, spill her heart, spill her love or lust or whatever this is, and everything and nothing in-between.
She clears her throat, decides to dismiss his question and counters with an inquiry of her own. "Is there anything about Maine that you miss?"
Lucky for her, Toby is too polite to call her out.
"No," he answers almost immediately, like he doesn't even have to think about it. "I did in the beginning. But I don't think I was missing Maine. I was just craving stability." She frowns, and he adds, sounding casual despite his words, "I had to stay in a motel for a while after I came to Boston. And then I lived on this old woman's couch for about… I wanna say, two and a half months? While working three different jobs and figuring out school."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Yeah, believe me, it wasn't fun. But it could've been worse."
Silence settles then, occupies the negative space which their bodies have created, and she idly notes that it's probably her turn to talk again, to write another grand big tale about her year and some in Chicago and she has no clue what there is to say. She is cautiously tiptoeing along an invisible line that she suspects she already has crossed before by bringing her misery into it and suggesting topics they had mutually chosen to stay away from – at least when sober, she adds, thinking back to Aria and Ezra's porch. With her soda in her hands, she risks a glance at him, catches his face ridden by guilt, hesitancy and then fear, as if he is about to throw up a sentence he fully knows he will regret once he allows it to flow freely from his lips and she – she wants to stop him. She wants to say, don't. Please don't make it worse now. Whatever you want to say, just hold it in and don't say it. Remember keeping things simple? Keeping things only platonic?
But Toby, stubborn as hell, doesn't listen.
He says, looking virtually anywhere but at her, "I, um… I lied to you…"
Spencer freezes up. "Okay," she replies. "About what?"
"Back in…" He breaks off, clears his throat, stares into his lap, a frown appearing on his pained features. "Back in Maine, you texted me when you got the invitation and-"
Oh.
Huh.
Well, that's weird, she thinks, positively numb. There he is, the boy that had crushed on her and crushed her heart, the boy that is now a grown man, and he is talking about the wedding invite and a lie he had told so many months ago, but her body – her body is reacting the way it had on the day he left her dorm room for the last time. It's not tears that fill her eyes, not anger or a wave of agonizing sadness that proceed to dig a pitch-black hole in her guts. Not even confusion embracing her like a concerned mother would. Only – only nothing with a lot of something that tastes like… that tastes like… she doesn't know.
"And I… acted like I didn't know it was you…"
"Toby," she interrupts him, slightly loud, slightly panicked. She laughs it off like it doesn't mean anything. "You lied. So what? It's been over a year. Don't beat yourself up about it. It's fine."
Is it though? Before her inner eye, she recognizes traces of the invitation that had been a harsh wake-up call to everything wrong in her life; to his message that had somehow further broken what was already beyond repair; to meaningless dates and hookups while clinging to the hope that they would, could, might fill the gaps inside her; to empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays; to the light post looking so pretty and so weirdly peaceful for a second… just for a few beats…
"I'm not trying to… I swear I'm not trying to make this unnecessarily complicated."
"Well, see, you are making it 'unnecessarily complicated' though," she responds, shaking her head. "It's really not that big of a deal. You acted like you didn't know it was me… so? People literally do that all the time when they don't feel like talking to someone. Besides, if you recall, you already let me know that you initially didn't want to keep in touch anyway. Let's just drop it. It was painful enough the first time you said it. I don't wanna have to do this all over again."
"I swear that's not why I brought it up," he explains gently. "I… I just wanted to apologize. You don't have to accept it or anything but I'm really sorry. That was a fucked-up thing to do."
"It's fine."
For a moment, he goes quiet against the meekness of her voice and she in turn goes quiet against the blur of memories happily dancing around inside her head, quiet against the inexplicable but all-consuming, violent urge to push and push and push – push more, push him away or perhaps push him back so that he can hurt as badly as she had when she received that stupid text, then push him against the couch too and effortlessly push herself into his lap and… Spencer exhales deeply, squeezing her eyes shut. God, what the fuck is wrong with her today?
"Is it really or are you just saying that?" he asks. Furrowing her brow, she musters all her courage to look up. He isn't looking back and directs the rest of his question at his lap. "I don't wanna make it worse and you don't have to say anything if you don't want to but… um, you don't seem very 'fine' right now."
She proceeds to smile at him – a little tiny, a little weak, but it is a smile, right, so it does count – and answers, "No. No, don't worry. I swear I'm better now. Generally speaking, I mean. I just don't like talking about the time period right before and after the invitation. Like I said, Chicago wasn't always a happy place for me. Even though I miss it."
He tries again. "What happened?"
She decides to let him. "Yeah, I have no idea," she says, sighs and gives a slight shrug. "A stupid job that made me unhappy. Loneliness. The wedding invitation and your text were just the icing on the metaphorical cake. It's not your fault – well, I guess it kind of is, but you couldn't have known that I wasn't doing well and that it would… you know, make things worse for a while."
Again, he takes that in and clears his throat. "I'm… I thought a lot about you. In Maine."
"Toby…" she begins as softly as she can. Meanwhile, her heart stops beating in anticipation for what he might or might not say next, but she doesn't want to hear it. "Look, you don't have to explain yourself. These are things we probably should learn to leave behind."
"Probably," he half-agrees as he pulls a grimace that he sends the throw pillow in his hold. "But I want you to know – I want you to understand that I wasn't trying to hurt you or… or rub my happiness in your face or something. I just – I thought about you a lot, Spencer. I thought about you more than I'm willing to admit right now and I felt horrible doing that to Yvonne. I felt like I owed it to her and myself to let go. I felt like I owed it to you."
She sniffles a little. Nods.
"So I, um, deleted your number. It didn't help though. I'd still… I'd still think about you. And I still recognized it was you when you wrote me. I read that text so many times, I still… I still know what it said – hey. Congratulations. I finally got the invitation the other day. I don't think I'll be able to make it though. Do you guys have an Amazon wishlist or something?"
She sniffles more. Nods again.
"I couldn't buy anything from Amazon for months without having to fight the urge to call you."
She sniffles. Chuckles. Nods once more.
"And I… it wasn't my idea to invite you," he goes on. "Yvonne wanted you there and no, I didn't understand her reasoning behind it either."
"Wait, Yvonne invited me?" she echoes, raising her eyebrows. "Wow. Talk about power move."
"I doubt it," Toby says, a certain defeat to his tone as he pulls up his shoulders. "She isn't a bad person, you know. I don't think that was her intention."
It takes Spencer ten whole seconds to figure out that this time, it's not bitterness roaring its three heads somewhere inside her, but good, old jealousy gifting Yvonne's name with the taste of spoiled milk. She brushes her hair out of her face, fiddles with her bangs, to craft and put on a mask of nonchalance and escape his look long enough to swallow all of the emotions she isn't supposed to be feeling.
"I'm really sorry, Spencer," he continues quietly, and she asks herself whether they were sitting this dangerously close all along or whether they keep moving towards each other like two stars mere moments before colliding.
"You couldn't have known."
"I should have."
"Well, you couldn't," she insists, unwillingly slipping into the same soft tone. "We both thought the other one was happy and having the time of their fucking life. You couldn't have known. I mean, I didn't even realize how much Chicago wrecked me until I came here. And I didn't know how miserable you were in Maine either. I probably shouldn't have texted you in the first place."
"To be honest, I'm glad you did." Huh. His eyelashes, she thinks and tilts her head to the side, are awfully long for a guy. How had she never noticed until now? "It was almost like… like a wake-up call? I don't wanna say that it's what triggered the, um… it's not what made me leave the island and come here but… it kind of made me stop and revaluate my life choices a little."
Spencer raises her eyebrows and can't help it – she laughs and yes, it's a goddamn giggle. It's a girlish giggle that Aria would relentlessly tease her for. Giving an inward groan at herself, she recovers as fast as she can, turns her laughter into a smirk. "That's what your text did for me."
"Weird," he whispers. His gaze, though, just as expected, inevitably drops when she crosses her legs, thigh brushing against his. Now that is a power move, she gleefully adds and produces another smile out of nowhere, doe eyes and all. Then: oh my god, stop it. What the hell are you doing? Who even gets turned on by honesty and opening up about feelings?
"Hm… I don't think it's that weird, actually." If he has realized by now that her voice has gone into a rasp, that it is so low that it's practically crawling around on his floor, somewhere beneath their feet, he is really good at hiding his reaction to it. "I don't know about you, but you always made me wanna strive to be a better person. The best version of myself that I can be, you know? And Chicago Spencer definitely wasn't the best version of me. Not even in the top ten."
Toby snorts, amused. "Well, the feeling's mutual."
He scratches at his stubbly cheek nervously, anxiously, and for second or two, she forgets how to breathe. And it indeed is weird but not what he had commented on: earlier, her pain and anger at the world and the unfairness of it had awoken insatiable rage inside her, the urge to destroy him, herself, and everyone standing in her way. But right now? Right now, with his eyes focused on her – with his eyes looking into hers, and his warmth so close and not close enough, all it does is make her want to… heal. Be better. Be complete. Be happy.
(All it does is make her want to undress herself wholly, let him see her, and what she means is see all of her, including the ugly parts, the light post, the broken heart, the people that have left their marks on her. All it does is make her wish he would stare at her, then, and love her anyway, love those part of her too. Love her still? Love her again? Love her enough for them both until she is finally ready to do the same?)
We'll never be friends, will we, she thinks. This was a stupid idea.
"Uh… well, we wanna eat dinner at some point, right?" Toby states then, gives a short but very strange-sounding laugh, like he is on edge. "Heh. I should probably check the chicken."
"Yeah, you should," Spencer answers and nods. "It smells delicious."
What he doesn't do: he doesn't lean in suddenly, he doesn't catch her totally off-guard, doesn't kiss her puzzlement, doesn't kiss her despite her not knowing what it is that she wants from him right now. He doesn't decide to take advantage of their shared fragility, this weirdness that has gotten up to let sexual tension sit down instead; tension that they are both obviously more than overwhelmed by. He doesn't attempt to explore her over her shirt with rough hands, doesn't try and push up her skirt with urgency and impatience. He doesn't pick her up without a word and carry her to the bed like part of her thought – like part of her almost wished he would. He doesn't look at her with joyous greed, as though she is only a short-term distraction until someone better comes along. Or, in some cases, someone better comes back. Doesn't make bittersweet promises that they are both aware he won't keep the second he rolls off her.
What he does instead: it seems as though he is fighting with himself, a wave of emotions passing over his features slowly, one by one. Most prominently: confusion, and something that vaguely resembles obvious, heart-wrenching dilemma. And then, then he appears to win the battle that is raging on within him, because eventually, he does lean in, bit by bit though, inch by fucking inch, as if he wants to make sure to give her time to lean away, and when she doesn't, when she just gazes at him, eyes big and hopeful, slightly dazzled and drunk, he brushes his mouth against her forehead, so tender, so careful, she nearly doesn't feel it at all.
He is so soft. Everything about him is always so fucking soft.
(And sometimes, she kind of hates how he effortlessly manages to soften her too.)
In January, after months of legal battles, numerous trips to the bank, and tons of anxious thumb twiddling, Emily's friend Cody gets to fulfill one of her biggest dreams from her college days: buying her own establishment. Cody's choice, though, isn't a bakery nor a café on the corner like Emily had once half-drunkenly confessed she would love to run while her and Toby were binge-watching Food Network together – Cody's choice is an old, rundown bar near the Village that hasn't seen an ounce of sunlight in years. In February, then, a few weeks and some later, and likely in-between, groans, sighs and growls of exhaustion, off-brand beer, broken glass all over and an ever-growing pile of bills, Emily wipes her forehead on the back of her hand, turns to Cody and suggests that they could call up her carpenter friend who lives in Boston, but he'd totally drive down here and help us for free.
At least that's what Toby assumes must have happened. So Emily calls him up for another super tiny favor like she had last Christmas and yes, Toby is aware that him giving into Emily's pleas over the phone has started to form a weird pattern of some sorts. Nevertheless, he loyally arrives in New York the following Friday and is all but saddened by the graying picture that is awaiting him there. What once had to have been a cozy, comfortable, lively bar is now a skeleton of it; rich history told through dust sitting in the corners, through white-turned-yellowish wallpaper coming off, through dirty windows glaring at passers-by. Trash everywhere, creative graffiti, several doors with suspicious holes in them that Toby's cop side is too wise to point out to Cody if she hasn't already figured it out herself. Counters stolen, a broken sink – actually, make that two, Toby adds – toilets missing lids and lids missing toilets.
"It's bad, isn't it?" Emily asks through clenched teeth, a happy but entirely fake grin stretching her cheeks beyond recognition and subsequently keeping her worried scowl from being born.
"Uh… well, do you want my honest opinion? Yeah. It's… it's pretty bad. Nothing that can't be fixed though, don't worry," Toby answers as he kneels on the floor to inspect the cabinet under the kitchen sink. "Sorry for asking but Cody knew what she was getting into when she decided on this place, right?"
"No idea," Emily responds. "She's almost 41, Tobes, and this has been a dream of hers for over two decades. Part of me thinks she's really stupid and another part of me can't blame her for signing the contract and hoping it'll be fine in the end. I mean, it's basically impossible to find anything affordable near the Village these days. No wonder she just went with the first one she saw before someone else could."
"It will be fine in the end," Toby assures her and grabs his wrench from his toolbelt before going to work. "I can't get her the customers she needs to keep this place running long-term, but I can fix what's still fixable. She'll eventually have to invest in some professionals though. There's no way around it."
Emily furrows her eyebrows at him. "You are a professional."
"I'm a carpenter, Em. Not an electrician. Not a plumber," he explains as he turns his head in an attempt to actually see something. "There's plenty of stuff I don't know how to do."
"You built a house on your own."
His facial expression partially hidden by the moldy darkness under the sink, Toby pulls a slight grimace. He would rather not think of the house. Or Rosewood. Or Yvonne, for that matter.
"Yeah," he mumbles, refusing to come back up and meet her gaze fully. "But building a house and renovating a bar? Not the same."
She goes silent, apparently taking in his obvious discomfort. "There's a first time for everything. Seriously, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you dinner."
Once more, and sort of unwillingly too, Toby wrinkles his nose into the dark. Emily isn't what anyone would call a talented or even halfway decent cook. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, however, so he just replies, "Dinner sounds great. Who are we trying to impress though?"
"What do you mean?"
"You called me here to help your 'friend' and I just assumed that, y'know, your 'friend' might be… more than a friend?"
"Ha, ha," she retorts in a dry manner and nudges his side with her foot, earning a quiet oomph sound from him. "I'm not trying to 'impress' anyone. I know Cody's wife. We volunteer at the same center in Harlem. I'm helping a friend, that's all." Following his non-reaction, she adds, undoubtedly accompanied by an eye-roll, "Besides I'm… sort of talking to someone. And no, she isn't here right now, so you can feel free to drop it."
"Hmmm…"
"Hmmm…" Emily mimics dramatically. "By the way, you have no right to tease me 'cuz I think you're doing the same, considering your phone hasn't shut up once since we drove here from my place."
That does manage to squeeze a response out of him. He promptly hits the top of his head against the sink when, after her remark, eagerness overpowers him, and he straightens up right away. With a laugh, Emily reaches out her hand to stroke his hair like she is petting a dog.
"Seriously?" she wonders aloud, rolls her eyes again. "I guess it must be someone important."
He wisely chooses to remain quiet and shoots her a shy grin that she, of course, retorts with one of her own easily and then, not in the mood to waste another beat, he grabs his phone from the counter – from one of the three counters left in Cody's new bar. Emily's observation was a slight exaggeration though, he finds quickly; he has a couple of unread mails from some mailing list he had forgotten to unsubscribe from and four new texts from Spencer which hardly translates to 'not shutting up once since we drove here from my place' but perhaps that is just Toby and his childish disappointment speaking. It really is kind of silly, almost, the pure joy and warmth that instantly fills him when he spots her name on his screen. She is currently on a business trip in Quebec and they haven't been talking as much as they normally do – as much as they have been doing since the Fritz' Christmas party, anyway. And again, it's the small things that make his heart flutter in excitement, jump about his chest like a toddler high on sugar; the texts she never forgets to send him throughout the day despite being busy and overworked as hell, funny memes and rants, the way she sporadically and utterly loses herself in yet another caffeinated ramble that might sound kind of overwhelming and incoherent to the untrained ear, but Toby is a pro, fluent in Spencer even – still is, is again, who the fuck knows. Certainly not him.
The first text, received a little over three hours ago, reads: Quebec is gorgeous. I'd really love to come back one day. You know, when I have enough time to actually see more of it instead of having to watch people from my hotel window like a creep.
Toby smiles.
The second text she had apparently sent two hours ago: Yeah, forgot what I said. I just walked through the fucking rain without an umbrella and now I have ten minutes left to fix my hair and makeup before the meeting. Fuck Quebec.
This time, Toby chuckles.
Then, the third and fourth texts, each sent about ten minutes prior: Meeting was okay. How are things in NY? and When are you coming back Sunday, BTW? Wanna grab lunch?
Aware of Emily's eyes burning questions marks into the back of his head as he reads through Spencer's messages one by one, Toby tries to overlook his friend's teasing grin and inquiry, and writes: Sorry, didn't mean to ignore you. It's kinda crazy around here. Glad the meeting went fine even though your morning wasn't. He stops and scrolls through the emoji tab, wonders why every single one looks disturbing before settling on an umbrella and a smiley face that he hopes won't make his reply sound like something it isn't, and continues: Don't think I'll be home for lunch. Wanna make it Netflix and dinner?
But as soon as his thumb hits send, and he helplessly watches his question go up in a perfectly blue bubble, too late to take back and erase, he regrets it. He regrets it big time. Way to fucking go. Instead of focusing on finding an emoji that would keep their texting grounded on a purely platonic level, that would keep their innocent back-and-forth polite, Toby probably should have paid more attention to his words because that, that was definitely weird, wasn't it? Inappropriate too. Netflix and dinner. Like he is asking her out on an actual date. Like he is trying to get her to come to his apartment with the sole intention of… what was he thinking? He groans.
Her answer, surprisingly, comes in moments after: Netflix and dinner sounds good. My place or yours?
And then: smirking emoji.
Toby stares at his phone, drawing his eyebrows together in puzzlement. A smirking emoji? What is that supposed to mean? Did he ever mention that texting is confusing, and he would deeply appreciate if someone wrote a functional manual? Is she… he cuts himself off and tilts his head to the side, then to the other, as though convinced that a slight change in perspective might also offer a slight change of interpretation. But, as expected, it doesn't work, and the same question lingers on, only louder now: is she flirting with him? Is that what's going… that can't be right. He cuts himself off again. Friends don't flirt and that's all they are, right? Even if Toby still has some issues categorizing the various emotions that hit him like a truck whenever she lifts her eyes, catches him staring, smiles at him in that beautiful way—
Ignore the smirk. I just thought it was funny because I asked 'my place or yours'.
You know… because it's so fucking cheesy?
And, you know, to my defense, your 'Netflix and dinner' sounded hilarious too.
'Netflix and dinner' 'Netflix and chill'
I didn't mean to be weird.
Sorry.
Judging by the rapid onslaught of messages – which, to be fair, are nothing out of the ordinary for Spencer though she normally becomes more of a notorious double texter when she has had way too much coffee while watching her favorite true crime shows – that keep popping up, only for another gray bubble to appear in their place a split second later, no doubt signaling several more profoundly apologetic texts, she has caught onto the awkwardness sitting up in its bed and stretching its arms sleepily. Toby pulls a tiny grimace. He doesn't want her to feel bad for hitting send on a silly emoticon she hadn't put much thought into. Sure, they are still inhabiting an odd place without a name and all, dangerously close to sidestepping barriers and summoning even odder thoughts he is able to categorize despite not yet having found the right terms to slap onto his feelings – thoughts best called pining, longing and desiring, love's long-lost cousins. But it doesn't have to be a big deal if they don't want to make it into one.
For a couple of beats, Toby keeps looking at his phone, keeps sipping on his miserable cocktail of uncertainty and insecurity, and then, with a prolonged eye-roll, concludes: to hell with it. He grabs the awkwardness and shoves it out of the building. To hell with it, indeed. If they are both a little weird, a little inappropriate for two friends-turned-exes-turned-friends-again, it will sort of cancel each other out, right, and she will finally stop feeling bad over a stupid text message.
He types: wellll… my place is more comfortable. And: smirking emoji.
Actually… He carefully adds three. There. Send.
Spencer replies with a laughing emoji. A sure-to-be goofy smile forms on his mouth that Toby doesn't bother stifling despite Emily sending him another highly inquisitive look from beside the window as she picks up the dirty rag from the bucket by her feet. Then: Your place it is then. LMK when you're back.
They treat themselves to a lunch break a few hours of hard work later. Soledad, one of the women helping with the renovations, returns with Chinese from her takeout run and the group breaks into the same snicker when Yamille, who had left an hour prior to drop off her car keys at her wife's workplace, comes back with Chinese takeout as well. Unsurprisingly, it's… a lot of food. Way too much food, even for six adults – Toby and Emily, Cody and her wife Jaz, Soledad and Yamille – so Toby and Cody end up in the back of the bar where they put the leftovers into several Tupperware containers, sponsored by Emily's inner Pam Fields.
An unspoken agreement happens after the last container meets its lid – they both choose to stick around, trying to buy themselves and each other some more time before they inevitably have to get back to work. Meanwhile, in the front of the bar, the four women are singing along to some Reggaetón track that Toby doesn't recognize. It lifts the mood considerably though; the pair in the back exchanges a smile as Cody sits down on an abandoned chair by the table, digs into her chest pocket before producing a pack of Pall Mall. She proceeds to stick it out in his direction.
When he declines, Cody hums her approval, one lazy hand rubbing at the back of her head and running through her short hair. "Good boy. It's kind of a nasty habit, anyways."
"Not to mention expensive," Toby responds as she lights her cigarette without further ado and he wouldn't say that he particularly likes the smell of cigarette smoke or anything but in a way, it's comforting, like recognizing a scent from childhood. It makes him think of Spencer. "Have you tried quitting?"
"Eh. Bunch of times. Never worked. I'm just happy I don't smoke as much like I used to when I was your age." She shrugs. "Sure this don't bother you?"
"No." He shakes his head. "It's fine. My, uh, my friend's a smoker too. I'm kinda used to it."
Cody furrows her eyebrows. "Em?"
He laughs. "No. Uh, a different friend. In Boston."
"A boyfriend?" She pauses briefly to give him the once-over. "Or, I guess it's a girlfriend?"
Once more, he laughs. "No. It's, uh, it's just a friend. Really," he clarifies, trying and miserably failing to ignore the familiar, warm and sickeningly sweet tug at his heart as he breathes in the woman's secondhand smoke filling the air.
"You started your internship yet?" On his pulled-up eyebrow, she adds, blowing out the smoke from her cigarette but still mindful to exhale it away from his face, "Em said you're an architect in the making. When are you starting your internship?"
That is definitely not one of his favorite subjects to discuss. He grimaces which prompts a slight, empathetic laugh from the older woman that he can't help but reciprocate. "Uh… next year? Hopefully. I don't know. I haven't really… applied to anything yet, to be honest."
"Well, don't be a fool when you do start working for real," Cody says in a gentle tone and Toby wisely refrains from pointing out to a fortysomething woman that he has indeed been working for real since he was a teenager and that working part-time is an actual job. "My brother – same as you. Didn't smoke. Wouldn't even touch coffee or energy drinks. Then he starts his internship and to fit in with his coworkers, he picks up smoking. He's much worse than me now."
Toby smiles. "I'll be careful."
"You better be," she responds and throws him a smile as well. "Do you know if you wanna stay in Boston for your internship? How long is it again – two years or something?"
"No, it's, it's three years. Well, approximately three years before I'm allowed to officially call myself an architect." He slips both of his hands into his pockets, sort of wishing one of the women in the front would rush in and change the topic to something way less anxiety-inducing than his future. "As for Boston… I have a life over there, so I'd prefer staying but, uh, moving isn't out of the question. I mean, as long as it is somewhere nearby, you know?"
He is about to continue his nervous ramblings, but Cody interrupts him. "New York's close to Boston."
"Yeah…?" He frowns at her. "Last time I checked, it was."
Again, a little laugh escapes her at the – most likely – stupid as hell expression on his face. "I'm gonna be real with you," she begins as she cautiously pours the remains of Soledad's Coke into a cup and then throws her cigarette butt in it. "I didn't know how to bring it up to you 'cuz we barely know each other but you seem like an all right guy and if New York's fine with you, my brother would love to have a new architect intern to go fetch coffee for him."
The confused frown between his eyebrows doesn't fade. "Are you offering me a job?"
"Hell no. I wish I could, butI can't offer you a job. I work at a school and this…" She gestures around her. "…is what I'm planning on doing after I quit, and I doubt you wanna pay off your college loans by working as a barkeeper for the rest of your life. What I'm saying is, connections are important, and I can talk to my brother. Make sure he sees your application. Put in in a good word for you. Give him your number so you can talk."
Before he can formulate a response, she goes on, apparently sensing his uncertainty, "You don't have to make a decision right now, but you're ambitious and hard-working, and you're quick on your feet. You'll find an internship anywhere and Boston's great and all but… New York's New York, y'know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean," he echoes with a smile playing at his lips that he hopes verbalizes his gratitude better than he currently can against his hesitancy. "But you're also kinda biased."
"Course I'm biased. I literally don't get why anyone would pick Boston over New York but you gotta admit that I have a point," she counters as she rises from her chair. "Just think about it. Look up my brother's firm. Look up others too. You got time. But the offer still stands." She pats his arm. "And, y'know, this bar could use a carpenter who doesn't live four hours away."
The rest of the day passes by quickly and it's getting late when they finally decide to head back to Em's apartment. His friend's face has long turned a deep dark shade of what Toby can only describe as grumpy from hunger and bone-deep exhaustion. Two feelings Toby can more than relate to, so the car ride home is mostly silent, save for a few comments directed at the drivers behind them who aren't too pleased with Emily deliberately skipping the turn signal. He looks up the firm of Cody's brother, the older woman's smile and warm words of encouragement still fresh on his mind and emits a sigh. Then, turning down the brightness of his screen and further tilting his phone from Emily's eyes fixated on the road, as though afraid of being caught by her, his fingers all but instinctively go into the Maps App, all but instinctively check the directions from New York, NY to Worcester, MA. Google Maps informs him that there are about 180 miles separating both cities from one another and he thinks, pursing his lips to the side, okay, that's not too bad, before emitting another sigh – annoyed this time.
February is vicious and the heating in Emily's Brooklyn apartment, just like the brunette had voiced before leaving Cody's bar, isn't on. They inevitably have to layer up after their respective showers; Emily, without lifting her eyes from her laptop she is balancing on her legs, throws a pair of socks at him and remarks, "Aria forced me to buy these when she had her Etsy store for two months. They're really comfy."
Toby puts them on, a grin pulling at his mouth when he sits down next to her and spots the same socks on her outstretched feet. It feels homey and domestic and he briefly allows himself to get lost in daydreams where weekends and evenings such as this one – with Greek takeout, HGTV, Food Network, and Jeopardy and The Price Is Right and… god, we are fucking senior citizens, aren't we, he comments – become a regular occurrence. Days where he drives home from his internship and picks up Emily from the AIDS center she volunteers at in her spare time and they go on a hike while eating bagels and talking about nothing in particular.
But, like almost every single one of his dreams and fantasies about his dreaded future, all roads lead back to Rome. One second, he is thinking about a Chopped marathon, kale chips and beer on Emily's sofa, and the next, the Toby in his fantasy is driving back to his place where he runs into Spencer by the front door and they both giggle because it's the second time this week alone that fate or whatever the fuck has made them come home at the exact same moment. Spencer stands on her tiptoes to kiss him hello and as he brushes her hair behind her ear, regarding her face with an overjoyed smile and his stomach clenching with bliss, she asks how Em is doing – maybe she also adds, next time you are having your Food Network thing, I'm definitely coming too, or perhaps she tells him, Kathlyn from Finances wants to have drinks this weekend, do you wanna go or do you wanna stay in, pretend we're busy and finally catch up on Stranger Things? or something like that. In his fantasy they nearly miss their floor because they are too busy making out while simultaneously making up for time lost on the elevator and they stumble out before the doors can close on them, laughing like teenagers though, of course, they are far from that now. Back home, she sheds her dress and elegantly slips into his shirt and boxers, and he throws his clothes somewhere and slips into a pair of abandoned sweatpants he finds on the back of the dining chair, and they curl up on their couch together, all lazy, lithe and utterly cat-like, his mouth pressed against the back of her neck and his nose pressed against her waves as she tells him about dinner with her friends from work. His hand is resting on her hip, somewhat possessively, sort of not, and eventually, after comfortable silence settles, he hums and proceeds to stroke up under her shirt, fingertip carefully tracing her navel, and she hums too, turning her head to look at him, eyes darkening with arousal as his hand strokes down, down, down and her voice does the same. It's all but scratching the living room floor when she whispers, a flirtatious smirk on her features, hey. And he bumps his nose against hers and says, hi, with the very same smirk, and one heated kiss turns into two, and two sloppy kisses turn into three, and three hungry kisses turn into… turn into…
Scrunching up his face into a remorseful, guilty grimace, Toby cuts himself off.
Yeah, he is longing, all right. Longing, pining, craving, the whole package. This is insanity and if he has to be honest, he isn't certain whether this level of… of fucking obsession is healthy in any shape or form, for either party involved. Nevertheless, it's something akin to earsplitting disappointment that knocks at his door when he checks his stupid phone for the sixth time in what feels like ten minutes. No new messages. Well, fine, that's not true – his advisor has finally responded to the email he had sent the other day, and his boss is asking when Toby is coming in next week, but there are zero new texts from Spencer and… he puts his phone on the sofa.
But Emily, on the opposite end of the couch and with her legs resting half on top of her friend's, raises her eyebrows at him. "What?"
"Hm?"
She imitates his groan, eyebrows refusing to sit back down. "What's wrong?"
"Oh. Yeah, no, it's nothing," Toby says, slipping on his words. "Just… just tired, really. And hungry. When did you say the food would be here again?"
Luckily – well, lucky for him, Emily seems to buy into it anyway or perhaps she merely decides to let him have that one, just this once, considering he isn't very willing to share. "I don't know," she answers, stretching her arms over her head before she busies herself with her phone. "They said 40 minutes to an hour. I honestly don't even know if I can stay up for another 40 minutes."
She doesn't, no, but to be fair, neither does Toby. Roughly ten minutes or so later, they are both fast asleep; Toby has his temple against the back of the sofa in what has to be the world's most uncomfortable position and Emily is curled up like a baby. In fact, he is so exhausted, he probably would have slept until the food arrived if his phone hadn't started buzzing right by his hand. Toby pries his eyes open against the irritating sound and sensation, a pinch of annoyance grouchily snarling in the back of his head but that too falls silent once he takes in the name on his screen and his lips – seemingly on their own – curl up into a happy… into a delighted grin.
Somehow, it's not clear to him either, he manages to untangle himself from Emily's legs without waking her, picks up the blanket, covers her with it, and searches for shelter in the bathroom.
Closing the door behind him as softly as he can, he stares at himself in the mirror above the sink, clears his throat once, twice, three times and – "Hey."
"Hi," Spencer greets him, smile evident in her voice. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
"No. No, you didn't, don't worry," he tells her, combing a nervous hand through his hair to fix what she can't see. "We're still waiting for dinner – yeah, I know, at 11:30 – and I… kinda fell asleep on the couch but it was only for a minute or two. How are you?"
"Honestly? I've never been this tired in my whole life," she responds after a moment where he can hear her struggle with her charger. "I'm actually in bed right now and I can't wait to sleep. How's the bar project going? Have you made any progress yet?"
He sits down on the edge of the bathtub, tells the birds inside his stomach to calm down. "I have no idea. I'm doing what I can, and it looks better than it did this morning but…"
"I'm sure it'll look amazing when you're done, Toby. Don't be so hard on yourself."
"Heh. Well… thanks." He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, dropping his gaze as though she is there, as though she is around to stare at him, catch the emotions flitting across his eyes and he has to react and hide them quick. "Why are you still up though? Go to sleep. It's late."
"I don't know. Just wanted to…" Spencer trails off for a mere second – a second he nevertheless becomes aware of because his stupid brain seizes that opportunity to try and fill the blanks with utter nonsense: just wanted to hear your voice, I guess; just wanted to talk to you before I sleep; just wanted to tell you that I miss you and that I can't wait until we're both back – before she concludes, "Just wanted to check in. See how you're doing in New York." He bites his bottom lip. His cheeks feel oddly warm. His insides, he notes, do too. She begins rambling in an attempt to change the topic, "Hey, did I ever tell you that Canadian French is fucking horrible?"
"Really? I never had any issues with it."
This time, the smirk in her tone isn't subtle when she remarks, in a fake French accent, "That's because… uh… how do you say… t'es un frimeur?" You're a showoff.
He snickers. "Toi tu peux parler." You're one to talk.
Spencer instantly gasps in mock-offense. "Je comprends pas. Ça veut dire quoi, ça, Monsieur Cavanaugh?" I don't understand. What is that supposed to mean, Mr. Cavanaugh?
"Ça veut dire… you were my tutor, Mademoiselle Hastings," he reminds her, running his hand through his hair again. "If I'm a 'showoff', I probably had to get that from somewhere… right?"
"Ugh. Well, you know, whatever, because this ex-tutor here is mostly glad you still remember French as well as you do, seeing as we didn't do a lot of conjugating later on."
"Not true. We still conjugated. It was just… more creative than before. I mean, I learned a bunch of pretty useful and important verbs. Like couvrir un meurtre." To cover up a murder. "Aller en prison." To go to prison. "Or mentir à la police." To lie to the police.
"Mhm," she makes. "And don't forget about embrasser." To kiss. "Or baiser." To fuck.
Toby's oh-so-clever response pathetically dies inside his throat before it can make its way to his lips because her words – spoken in a low, almost seductive rasp, of course – coil themselves around his neck with ease, sharply cutting off his air supply. He stares at the wall opposite from where he is sat on the edge of Emily's bathtub and breaks into a tense laugh. "Are you drunk?"
"Drunk? No," she retorts playfully, like it doesn't mean anything. Oh. Right. His worried laughter then effortlessly transitions into one that is more casual, nonchalant, collected. Doesn't mean anything. "I'm just continuing what you started this morning, 'smirk emoji'."
"No, don't put that on me. You started it. You're the one that said, 'my place or yours'. Not me."
"Yeah? But only because you asked me to come over for 'Netflix and chill'. Like I don't know what that means," she says, and proceeds to add in a quiet, sing-song voice, "You're so busted."
Again, Toby laughs or maybe he hasn't stopped laughing or maybe he is just trying to cover up the fact that he feels pretty damn awkward right now – it's up for debate and a question he will have to find an answer to later. "I didn't say that. What I suggested was Netflix and dinner. That's completely different."
"Mhm." He has a hard time deciding whether the disbelief in her tone is genuine or not. He also has a hard time figuring out whether the slight disappointment he almost thinks he can grasp in his hands is real or whether he is merely hearing things that aren't there. "Honestly, I was kinda scared when you picked up. After everything that went down this morning, I thought you'd ask me what I'm wearing or something after I told you I'm in bed already."
He groans. At first.
Then, he thinks, you know what? Two can play this game.
…and asks, before he can change his mind, "Hmm, well, what are you wearing?"
Yup, he still knows which buttons to push and which buttons to leave alone to entice a reaction out of her when she is least expecting it. She apparently hadn't anticipated for him to answer to her merciless teasing at all, hadn't thought he would willingly participate in her game, because the only thing that follows first is semi-shocked silence and then a faint, almost anxious giggle, oddly similar to the one that came from Toby a couple of minutes and a half ago.
"Oh. Okay. Um… what am I wearing…" She trails off. "Nothing special. Just my pajamas, actually." She clears her throat before mumbling in a reproachful tone, "Fine. You win. Look, I know I was really mean just now but seriously… don't do that."
He quirks an eyebrow. "Do what?"
"That," she clarifies without clarifying at all, sounding noticeably flustered despite the hissing accusation. "It's annoying. Moving on."
"Moving on," Toby echoes with a grin that lures a snort out of her. "Let's move on then. How's the health care business? Should we be worried?"
Spencer sighs. "Well, some of my coworkers should. Apparently, we're laying off over thirty people in the next month and since I'm responsible for external and internal communication processes, I'm the one who has to make sure that nobody finds out until it's time," she explains warily. "Which is, y'know, pretty awesome. Doesn't make me feel guilty or anything."
"Um," he begins and furrows his brow. "You just blatantly told me that HR is planning on firing over thirty people. How's that 'overseeing external communication processes' again?"
"I trust you," she simply says. "And besides, you have to be, like, a grade A sociopath to work in HR, anyway. Seriously. Forget lawyers and politicians. The real evil is a woman called Linda, works in Human Resources and has a 'Live, Laugh, Love' tattoo on her right wrist. They can handle some of their dirty secrets getting out."
"Hm. Does that mean you changed your mind about going into HR?"
"For now, yeah. Maybe I just need to toughen up. You know, like Linda informed me," Spencer replies, and Toby can picture her eye-roll. "What about you? Are they paying you for helping with the bar?" When he remains unresponsive against her question, merely dropping his eyes to stare at his colorful socks, she promptly huffs into the phone so loudly that he winces by pure instinct. "Are you kidding? You're joking, right? You're in school. This isn't a hobby for you, Toby. It's literally your life. The least they could do is—I mean, you work as a carpenter and-"
"Spence, hey, whoa. Calm down," he interrupts her gently, a minor fraction of him nevertheless flattered. "I work as a carpenter, yeah, but it did start out as a hobby. I genuinely like building things and I genuinely like fixing things too. And I genuinely enjoy helping people. Plus, I get free food and Em's friends are funny. It's really not that bad."
Spencer lets that sit for a few beats, then makes a rather unimpressed and unamused sound in the back of her throat. "I still think you shouldn't be doing it for free."
Apparently, or perhaps conveniently, he doesn't know, she has forgotten about three weeks ago where she had called him over after work to please have a look at her window, and her kitchen counter, and her 'stupid IKEA desk', and then, sorry, but since you're here, do you know why my closet door keeps doing this weird thing, so he decides to forget about it as well.
"Well, maybe." He shrugs one shoulder. "Cody did try to help me out a little though."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know." Toby hesitates and has no idea why. Well – yes, that is a lie again, but he isn't in the mood to own up to his bullshit, so he shoves it away. "She told me about her brother who has his own architect firm and she said she could help me get an internship there? That was nice of her."
"I'll say," Spencer remarks. "You're gonna do it, right?"
He frowns. "Uh… no? There's plenty of architect firms in Boston."
"What's so great about Boston?"
"Uh – what's so great about New York?"
"What's so great about New—" Her answer gives way to a groan. "It's fucking New York."
"Why the hell does everyone keep saying that," Toby mumbles tiredly. "Honestly, I didn't really expect that kind of reaction from a Chicago-"
"Obviously, Chicago is superior to New York in virtually every single way," she cuts in sharply, not letting him finish his observation. Toby smirks. "But New York's better than Boston. Why didn't you tell me? We can work on your resume together when you're back."
He kicks at the floor with an eye-roll, and wonders, half-joking and yet half-not, "Why exactly do you wanna get rid of me so badly?"
That quiets her for a solid ten seconds. "I don't wanna 'get rid of you'," she assures him. "Come on, we could still see each other. It's not that far."
"Yeah, you're right. It's 'only' 180 miles."
She sounds taken aback when she asks, "You looked it up?"
"I looked it up."
Judging by Spencer immediately falling silent once more, that was seemingly not only complete bad timing, but also the wrong thing to confess to her in passing because she merely clears her throat soundly, ignores his answer, and proceeds to continue her gentle persuasion in the same cheerful voice from right before. Toby squeezes his eyes shut.
"It's New York, Toby. Great economy and, uh… great… design… culture?"
"Lots of great competition too," he comments dryly. "Plus, did you know that Massachusetts pays a higher mean salary to architects than New York?"
"Okay… but nobody's saying that you have to stay there after you're done with your three years of internship. It's just gonna look good on your resume. You can move to… what's the highest? Texas?"
"Houston has no zoning code so that's cool as an architect but no, highest is Georgia."
"See. You can still move to Georgia after."
He blinks. "Okay, now I'm definitely convinced that you're trying to get rid of me."
"Ugh." On the other end of the line, he can hear her mattress squeak in exhaustion as if she just sat up in bed, frustrated with him for not seeing and understanding the point she has been trying to make. "I swear I'm not. I just want you to keep your options open instead of refusing an opportunity that was handed to you on a silver platter. This is your future we're talking about, Toby. My resume was pathetic after I left Rosewood. I still don't know how I even got this job besides a lot of luck."
"Options," he repeats blankly as he rubs the fatigue out of his eyes. "Fine, but I don't care about 'keeping my options' open and I don't care about New York either. It's not like there aren't any internships left in Boston or… or… or literally anywhere nearby."
Spencer groans, then inhales and exhales greedily after there is a weak 'click' sound of what he presumes is her lighter. "Why do you keep doing this, Toby? Why do you keep… accepting the bare minimum of comfort and happiness for yourself? First Rosewood and then – then the cop thing and… and… and Yvonne… and now renovating an entire fucking bar for free." Her voice grows increasingly louder by the second, becomes increasingly more exasperated, and he feels increasingly more like eighteen or perhaps nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, again. "I don't wanna be an asshole. I realize that I sound like one right now, but I really don't. I just… you deserve so much more. Please do me a favor and think about it before rejecting Cody's offer. It sounds amazing."
"And I appreciate that. I appreciate you. But I also wish you would, just once, accept what I-"
"You're right. You're so right. I'm doing it again. I'm so sorry-"
"No," Toby protests weakly, dropping his eyes, dropping his voice, dropping his pretenses, and nonchalantly dropping every single promise he had first made to himself and then made to her too. "Do you know what I want? I want stability after the last few years. And I – I wanna grow up and figure out what I actually want from my life and… I wanna stay. For the first time in my life, I wanna stay. In Boston. I'm not sure about a lot of things right now, okay, but there's one thing I do know. One thing I am sure of. And that's you. I don't wanna be away from you again."
And that's all there is to it, isn't it? All roads lead to Rome. It's not New York that would make him happiest. It's not Boston. It's – it's her. It's all her. It's finding bobby pins and hair ties all over his apartment after she is long gone and picking them up with a smile he can't control. It's being violently pulled out of his sleep in the middle of the night because he has yet again made the mistake of not putting his phone on silent and it's blatantly lying to her when she asks if she woke him up because he doesn't want her to feel guilty. It's intently listening to her ramble on and on about a parking ticket she allegedly didn't deserve and then watching her dig her spoon into his food without preamble. It's his shirt and pants and socks smelling like cigarette smoke and it's him suspecting that her stuff doesn't break nearly as often as she claims and not calling her out on it because he enjoys having a good enough excuse to drive to Worcester. It's missing her when she is out of town and counting down the days until she is back. It's hugging her hello and hugging her goodbye and feeling like… feeling like the world only makes sense inside the sanctuary of her arms.
The seconds feel like hours, feel like days, feel like weeks, but before he can attempt to rewind and take back what he doesn't regret, there is a gentle knock at the door. "Tobes? Food's there."
"Yeah. I'll be there in a second," he tells Emily, then adds, to Spencer this time, "Well, uh, the food's here now."
"Oh. Okay."
Oh. Okay, and that's it. Again, Toby squeezes his eyes shut, feeling like a fucking idiot. "Well… uh… I'm – I'm really sorry for saying that."
"No. Please. Don't be. I'm sorry for-"
"You don't have to apologize for anything. Heh." He gets up from the edge of the bathtub and blinks at his reflection in the mirror. "I'm… I really didn't mean it in a weird way. I meant it…"
"As friends?" she proposes when he trails off. She sounds strange and completely un-Spencer-like, but he figures that he doesn't sound like himself either, so he gives a shrug and ignores it.
"Yeah. Yeah, as friends," he lies and forces himself to a laugh. Relief spreads in his bones when she starts laughing as well.
"Okay," she replies. Once more, it's that strange tone, complete with an even stranger noise that sounds like a mixture between nervous chuckle and hum. "Well, uh… enjoy your food?"
"Thanks. Goodnight."
"You too."
With a snort, Toby puts his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and exists the bathroom.
In late February, Spencer has no choice but to reluctantly accept her first diagnosis as an adult – it's 'moderate to severe depression' and she furrows her brow somewhat and wonders, which one is it? Moderate or severe? – and is consequently prescribed Celexa in addition to her weekly psychotherapy sessions. Dr. Mizrahi promises that her irregular sleeping patterns will improve now, normalize even, if she is willing to give it some time, but the only thing stupid Celexa does in the first two weeks or so is keep her up pretty much all night instead of rightfully knock her out. In other words: no change here, nothing to see, same business as usual. Her lost appetite, though, returns during the third week with her new roommate and return it does in full fucking force. She doesn't recall ever eating this much her whole life. Poking at the skin of her stomach, she asks herself whether that's a good thing. Then she shrugs, deciding that it doesn't matter, lies down on her sofa, opens a bag of chips and begins browsing Hulu.
Another not-so-pleasant side effect?
"Nope, I was never prescribed Celexa," Aria says on the phone one Sunday morning as Spencer goes on her hourly march to her fridge. This, her inner voice tells her in a grim tone, this is the true walk of shame. Wiping her hand on her shirt, she peeks inside to check for leftovers. "I think Hanna took Celexa for a while and she claimed it gave her a dry mouth? And she had to pee all the time. I'm not sure if I'm remembering right though. Maybe she was on Zoloft…?"
"Mhm," Spencer responds, already blushing a touch. "Was there anything else? Something… worth mentioning?"
Aria pauses. "What do you mean?"
"Um…" Chewing the inside of her cheek with vigor, the other brunette grabs a somewhat clean fork from the sink and struggles with the Tupperware container on her counter. "You know, like, uh… sex-wise?"
"Ohh." Aria immediately emits a barking laugh; Spencer can't say she feels the same. Not even in the slightest. "Yeah. Sorry to tell you but that's a common side effect of pretty much every single antidepressant on the market. It happens. It should get better eventually."
Here's the ugly truth, though, if Spencer has to be honest: for a while, nothing gets better. For a while, it just gets worse.
But that too is apparently a part of recovery nobody bothered to warn Spencer about. Therapy, sadly, isn't some magical space that will get rid of her demons under her bed in exchange for a few lousy memories of Melissa threatening to choke her for touching her stuff. Instead, it's an excruciatingly slow and painful process that mostly consists of digging, digging, and digging some more into the past, only to breathe in some relief, only to collect a couple of loose-fitting band-aids to help her survive the week until the next session, and then retraumatize her all over again. She stops mid-bite and chuckles. Trauma, she muses quietly as she sinks her teeth into her thumbnail. Greek word for wound. How fitting. That's what it feels like too; wounds every-fucking-where. Old ones that have all but healed. Those she had forgotten about because one day, they simply stopped hurting unless she touched them first and Spencer, though always the fool and always the impulsive, self-destructive idiot, knows better than to pick at scars and send herself spiraling for no good reason. And then, of course, new ones inflicted through much too belated realizations that some of the things done to her were maybe, sort of, kind of fucked up.
She wants to drink sometimes, finally drink her thoughts into both submission and silence; drive home after therapy, take some NyQuil and sleep until next month. God, she really misses sleep more than anything else. And every now and then, typically after yet another sessions drifts into manic ramblings about Charlotte and the dollhouse and Mona and the dollhouse and her parents and the dollhouse and Melissa and the dollhouse and finding Toby's body in the woods and the dollhouse, Spencer comes home and stares at the stranger wearing her face in the mirror, can't help but exhale a miserable groan, because here she is, right, with a bunch of prescription drugs at hand and theoretically speaking, it's a dream come true. Though she later finds that she had clearly underestimated Dr. Mizrahi's skills in that regard; the doctor was seemingly smart and attentive enough not to readily grant her client access to pills that would get her high. But again, it's just theoretically speaking, anyway – not that Spencer would ever try it (needless to say, she totally does, and instead of getting high, she ends up feeling so nauseous that she doesn't make it to the bathroom. Once a pathetic addict, always a pathetic addict, she thinks and snorts and cries and wallows in some more self-pity). On other occasions, when there is no apparent trigger in sight, but the world still becomes too heavy to bear, she has to tell her brain to shut up and resist the urge to sign back up on Tinder, upload some pictures that leave next to no room for questions and make it crystal clear what it is that she is looking for. And if she has to be honest again, the only reason she is able to tackle that need from behind and suffocate it gently after a solid ten minutes of internally debating herself, is because even the mere thought of sex sounds kind of appalling right now. Thank god for Celexa, huh?
To put it another way: she is a goddamn mess. On those days though – those days she eloquently dubs bad days; those days where therapy feels like running a marathon without a finishing line anywhere close; those days where all that Dr. Mizrahi succeeds in is making Spencer bawl her eyes out over her youth lost to a woman's sick games; those days where she regrets listening to her friend's advice; those days where she desperately wishes she could take back her decision to start therapy in the first place because she was doing great before she had come here, wasn't she, she was happy and relatively stable and not like… not like this. On those days, more often than not, she ends up on Toby's doorstep in Boston, temple resting against the frame and tossing him a weak smile when he takes in her equally weak appearance and then steps aside to let her in.
This must be some form of therapy too, Spencer comments as she plops down on his sofa one Tuesday in March. Because it's comfort, it's relief, it's freedom, the knowledge that he won't push her into opening up, that he won't ask invasive questions like Aria would unless Spencer announces that she wants to talk about it after all. It's safety, she adds, then, eyes following him as he walks to the kitchen after he drapes his quilt over her shoulders carefully.
"How was therapy?" Toby wonders. Always so noncommitted, too, as though he wants to sound as casual as humanly possible, as though he has to make sure she is aware that she doesn't have to say anything at all if she doesn't feel like it. He swiftly returns to the sofa with two mugs and an ashtray she knows he only owns because of her – a frankly irrelevant detail that, for whatever reason, instantaneously fills her with a burst of warmth and gratitude. As nice and selfless of a gesture it is, however, she doesn't particularly enjoy tainting non-smoker apartments with her vices, so she leaves her Lucky's undisturbed right where they are, inside her brown bag, though she does take out her notebook and sort of chucks it onto the coffee table with a sarcastic snort.
"She gave me homework."
"Homework?"
"Homework," Spencer confirms dryly and takes a small sip from her tea. "Dr. Mizrahi's under the impression that I 'don't think very highly of myself'. Which isn't exactly a secret that I've been trying to keep from her. I could've told her that ages ago. In fact, I'm pretty sure I did tell her that during our first or second session. You don't need a Harvard degree to figure out that I tend to have immense self-esteem issues. You just need to spend about five minutes with me."
Undeniably curious, his eyes land on the notebook resting on the coffee table before them. Then he hums and gazes back at Spencer with a blank expression. She quickly nods and as he reaches for it, she adds, sipping at her mug again, "I mean, I got fucking cheated on and then practically begged him to love me back, anyway. Because that's how much self-worth I have left. Zero."
With the notebook in his lap now, Toby abruptly halts in his movements. Spencer winces, lowers the mug and does the same. "Sorry. Terrible joke. I really need to stop bringing that up."
"It's not that. I'm just genuinely sorry that happened to you," he says, and the worst part is that she believes every word. "I don't want you to feel like you have to silence yourself around me or like you can't… like you can't talk about Caleb with me. I talk about Yvonne sometimes."
Something inside her twitches at the unexpected mention of Yvonne's name. She pulls another grimace, guilty this time, and takes another sip to torture it back into quiet with burning hot tea.
"So," he cautiously speaks up after she remains unresponsive to his offer. She looks back up in time to catch the soft, hesitant smile he is sending her way. "What's for homework?"
"Well, she wants me to write down stuff that I 'like about myself'," Spencer explains and rolls her eyes, though also eternally thankful for the change of topic. "I don't remember if I ever told you, but we attempted to do this exercise in group therapy while I was stuck in rehab. And I'm calling it an 'attempt' because the doctor wasn't too happy with me when the only thing I came up with was, 'I'm good at tricking my GP into giving me an ADHD diagnosis so that I can score more prescription pills'."
She can tell that he is trying his hardest not to, but an amused chuckle at her story escapes his lips anyhow. "See, that's what you should write down. Unique sense of humor," he comments and flips the notebook open. "Wait. That's… that's all you got so far?"
Spencer shrugs. "I told you, it's not that easy. I bet you couldn't come up with anything either."
"It just says 'I'm smart'."
"I am smart."
"You are," he agrees and checks the second, third, fourth pages, like he is convinced that there has to be more. "That's not exactly your whole personality though."
"Yeah… I couldn't really write down the rest without sounding like a huge egomaniac."
"She's your therapist, Spence. She isn't allowed to judge."
"Not professionally, no. But I would definitely judge myself if I were her and someone came to my office and claimed that they're extremely competitive and the best at everything they do-"
"Except Scrabble," he mumbles under his breath, returning to the first page again.
Immediately, she shoots him a look that first turns into a scoff and then, at last, a furious scowl when she realizes that he is holding a pencil. "What are you doing? Are seriously writing down what I just said?"
"I like challenge. I'm a fast learner," he reads. "There. Does that sound better?"
Pensive for a few, she puts her mug on the table and proceeds to stretch before half-lying down on the sofa, her legs behind him. "It sounds like you're transcribing a shitty job interview."
"Hmm…" Gaze glued to the notebook still, Toby rubs at his chin, semi-contemplative. "Maybe I should add 'I'm very nitpicky for no reason' to the list. What do you think?"
Seemingly having expected a reaction to that, he leans out of reach when she unceremoniously attempts to lightly shove at the back of his head with her foot. "Add 'I must be a fucking saint because I've been patiently dealing with Toby Cavanaugh's bullshit for close to ten years'."
Turning his head to glance at her, the corners of his mouth twitching into a blink-and-you'll-miss it kind of grin, he pats her ankle. "It's your homework. What do you like about yourself?"
"I don't know," she confesses. "I guess I, uh… I…"
4.) I don't give up easily.
Weeks and weeks fly by like nothing and Celexa, too, gets over her bashfulness and instead lets Spencer in on her apparent magic powers. A fraction of Spencer, however, is immensely plagued by unfounded paranoia nevertheless. This has to be the placebo effect, she reasons. There is no way in hell that her mood would improve so suddenly and so damn rapidly. But during their Skype conversation, her mom furrows her brow as though she doesn't recognize the woman posing as her youngest daughter, and Melissa walks over from the kitchen with a bottle of Evian water and remarks, sounding all but reproachful, "What's going on? You're awfully chipper for a Monday," and that's when she realizes: she is. She actually is.
5.) I fall often but I always come back again.
A couple of days later, Mona uploads a picture of herself at the beach in Egypt or it's possibly Tunisia or maybe Morocco, Spencer has no idea, as she sips on a colorful cocktail with her beau of the week, a grinning, brown-eyed beauty who looks like Mona somehow managed to cut him straight out of an underwear catalogue. Spencer is on lunch break and in the middle of devouring her food while catching up on her Instagram feed when she sees the other woman's update. She shrugs, sincerely unaffected, likes her post and comments a simple 'Looking good!' underneath Hanna's eight consecutive heart emojis, all in different shades.
6.) I can be awfully optimistic for a cynical asshole.
She visits Aria and Ezra at least twice a week after work and it's one Thursday evening that she is left by herself with the smallest Fitz. Ezra is folding laundry upstairs, Aria is talking with her publisher, and Spencer is engrossed in her phone. Oscar's half-yell is what causes her to glance up and, realizing that Aria has wandered off to the kitchen, Spencer's veins abruptly get flooded by a surge of uneasiness. She pulls a face as she eyes the baby, jumping, falling headfirst into a soundless mantra of 'Please don't kill yourself while I'm watching you, please don't kill yourself while I'm watching you' but Oscar is having none of that. He just gurgles, begins half-crawling, half-dragging his tiny body over to his aunt with stubborn conviction – and then, having finally reached his journey's end, goes on to release a chuckle in the back of his throat.
Spencer stares at him and blinks. "Did you seriously just-"
Oscar blows a spit bubble.
"Oh my god." Carefully, she strokes over his chubby hand on her outstretched legs, a dramatic gasp involuntarily escaping her when he grabs at her thumb.
She is his godmother, but she is a fucking miserable one too. Never before had she managed to make him laugh. Or smile. Or do anything but frown at her in distress, really. He is quite in love with Emily, sends her an adorable grin that is mostly drool when she is close; gets quiet, snuggly and extraordinarily peaceful when Alison picks him up to rock him gently in her arms; doesn't complain much whenever Hanna buys him clothes and changes his outfit for the sixth or seventh time in a row so that she can take pictures of him for her Instagram. But Spencer? Spencer, he only begrudgingly tolerates as an impromptu babysitter. She had missed most of his milestones so far – literally by seconds. It's like he could smell her irrational fear of babies off her.
"Oh my god."
Aria peeks into the living room. "What's going on?"
Spencer looks at her friend, still flabbergasted. "He just… he just crawled to me."
That earns her the eyebrow. "Sure he did," Aria replies, ignoring Spencer's mumble of protest. "He doesn't know how to crawl, Spence. I bet he somehow… rolled closer to you. He does that sometimes."
"No, he literally-"
Holding up her index finger to shush her friend, Aria shakes her head, directs her attention back to the phone call, says, "James? Yeah, hi, it's Aria Fitz," and disappears in the kitchen.
Spencer stares at Oscar.
Oscar stares back at her.
"So… you do realize you have to do that again when your parents are back, right?" she informs him in a serious voice. "They're gonna think I made it up if you don't."
Oscar giggles.
Unwillingly, her lips pull into a smile of their own. "You think that's funny, huh? Well, tell you what—oh." Spencer trails off when he hits her thigh with both of his hands, all while producing a little happy sound that is somewhere between excited squeak and ear-piercing yell. "Oh, you wanna be picked up? Okay, we can do that just—be patient with me. You know that I don't pick you up a lot and, by the way, I hate when you start fussing and I feel like I'm going to drop you. So I'd appreciate if you didn't do that for once."
Cautiously, and a lot more slowly than Aria does, with her heart beating inside her throat, inside her ears, inside her head, Spencer gets up from the floor with baby Oscar in her arms, sits down in the armchair instead, hugs him to her chest, sniffs at his hair, kisses the top of his head… and for one second, just for one fleeting second that she knows she will passionately deny later on, she thinks, well… maybe one day. Maybe one day.
[crossed out multiple times] 7.) I'm really not as judgmental as people make me out to be.
Over the first April weekend, she is sent on another business trip. Fortunately, it's Philadelphia this time and unfortunately, Melissa is in town and insists they fetch brunch together. Anything involving food sounds like a promising idea to Spencer, Celexa still mercilessly stimulating her endless appetite, so she foolishly agrees to her sister's invitation. It goes well enough until, six mimosas and twenty minutes of painfully polite small talk in, Melissa abruptly breaks down in bitter and quite drunken tears over Wren and an ER doctor she describes as 'blonde bimbo' with the 'IQ of boiled cabbage'. Raising her eyebrows slightly, Spencer lets that sink in as she nurses her drink, tries hard to keep her disgusted reaction at bay (and, naturally, fails) before she clears her throat and wonders whether they are back together again. The older woman wipes her nose dramatically and then waves her hand, claims that 'it's complicated' and that Spencer 'wouldn't understand anyway' (and Spencer thinks of Toby, thinks of Toby, thinks of Toby).
Upon somehow learning that she is visiting – come to think about it, however, it's her Instagram post showing Independence Hall in its glory that gave her away, with Hanna, as usual, helpfully supplying ten additional hashtags in the comments – Alison asks if she wants to hang out later that same day and Spencer – Spencer feels an all-consuming pang of loneliness and maybe foul-tasting envy that she can't just swallow without also choking on her gloom when she spots the second toothbrush resting against Ali's in the upstairs bathroom. She is too wise to probe further so she keeps mute at her discovery, deals with her thoughts of resentment on her own.
"Honestly," she begins after dinner, loading their plates into the dishwasher. "I'm still waiting for you to pick a fight with me."
Alison isn't amused. She gives her a look. "And why the hell would I do that, Spencer?"
"Well, I don't know," Spencer responds in an offhand tone, not willing to meet her eyes. "Last year, Aria basically bitched at me in my car for allegedly ghosting on her. Hanna… sort of the did the same a few months ago. And knowing Emily, she's so close to exploding and when she finally does, she's going to start yelling too. Logical conclusion tells me you're next in line."
"Oh, sweetie," Alison chides in that irritating voice and giggles as if infamous Ali D had come out of hibernation the moment the brunette was stupid enough to set foot in Rosewood again. Spencer instinctively rolls her eyes as the blonde touches the bag of popcorn in her microwave to check its temperature before she takes it out and empties its contents into a bowl. "Is that what this is about? I literally invented ghosting on people, Spencer. I don't care. Do what you have to do for self-preservation."
Huh.
[crossed out multiple times] 7.) Despite everything, I still love.
It's mid-April and on the morning of her 26th birthday, like on cue and exactly like the previous year (and the year before that and the year before that), with no change in tone, text, or time of the day, Emily cheerfully writes, Happy Birthday, Spence! I hope it's a good one! but this time, Spencer decides that things are going to be a little different from now on. This time, she simply reads through Emily's message (again and again and again), blinking away her rushed tears of surprise, inhales a sharp breath to regain her calm, and types, Thank you, Em. Let me know when you're in town. We should have coffee sometime. As expected, though, Emily is thrown straight off-balance; it takes her two hours and then some to react at all, and Spencer can't help but think of her, picture her sitting there, overcome by confusion, raising an eyebrow at the phone in her grasp, but when she finally responds, it's two heart emojis, accompanied by, Yeah, I'd like that, and Spencer thinks, with a bittersweet smile, that she would definitely like that too.
And then… well, and then there is Hanna who calls her at midnight, texts her again at eight in the morning as Spencer is downing her first coffee of the day and posts a quite beautiful collage with numerous pictures of them on her Instagram, a 600-word caption summarizing the entirety of their friendship – without the ugly details, of course – and her gratitude for the other woman right underneath. In other words: she is vigorously overcompensating. Spencer knows full well that she is overcompensating for everything that had happened between them when it shouldn't and everything both women had chosen not to do when they could have. Seemingly, she is not entirely alone in her suspicions either. The collage has been up for all but twenty minutes or so when Aria takes a screenshot of Hanna's post and proceeds to send it to Spencer with four very confused question marks while Alison calls her to wish her a happy birthday and then asks, as though it's a mere afterthought and yet Spencer can tell from her tone that she is dying to know, whether Hanna is okay.
But once again, Spencer just inhales, shrugs it off, tells herself to move on, tells herself that it doesn't matter – tells herself to ignore the fact that Caleb had the fucking audacity to like his fiancée's post for his ex-girlfriend – tells herself to grow, grow, grow, leave the past behind and learn to let go. She allows herself to feel touched then, to feel beyond moved, because honestly, all those pesky feelings of old hurt and grudges aside, she is. A happy smile forms on her mouth as she gazes at the photographs in Hanna's collage, as she remembers, gets lost in how life used to be, and while there indeed had been a time where all that she ever wanted was a do-over, a second chance, a rewrite, it's in these quiet moments where Past Hanna and Past Spencer are giggling away on a selfie before the word selfie existed, that she reaches an overdue epiphany: she doesn't want that anymore. This is the world, this is her life now – a scary observation when spoken out loud, when thought about, yes, but it doesn't terrify her anymore like it used to last year or the year before that or the year before that.
But speaking of moving on and embracing life as the horrible stand-up comedian it oftentimes tends to be, her heart, a world-class hypocrite if she may add, doesn't at all think it's necessary to extend the same notion to certain other topics.
Toby calls her while she is inspecting a strand of gray hair with a look of horror gradually taking over her features – "We should do something special tonight. You don't turn twenty-six every day," he half-yawns on the other line. She emits an amused laugh against her will and responds, "It's just twenty-six, Toby. Every birthday after you survive early adulthood becomes more or less pointless, anyway." – she scrunches up her face in sheer disgust, rips it out without further ado and makes a mental note to call her hairdresser as soon as possible while he soundly clears his throat and tells her that he wants to go out for dinner – "Uh, well, if semantics are important here, it's actually… taking you out? I mean, I'm paying. It's your birthday," he says, confident despite most of his sentence flowing, running and then taking refuge in a tired mutter; way more confident than Spencer too who is merely standing there, mouth agape, gray hair slipping from her grasp and into the sink, clever retort slipping from her lips and back down her throat.
Yeah… it's a date, right? Getting drinks together, having dinner at a fancy restaurant, spending time dressed up like they are kids playing house – it's totally a date, only it totally isn't. Because they aren't calling it a date (aren't ready to call it one), and, like Toby had eloquently put when Spencer's voice failed and betrayed her, semantics can be important in the grand scheme of things, and if they refuse to call it a date, then it can't be one either. If they don't call it flirting, then their constant back-and-forth banter is anything but. And if they don't call it lov—if they don't call it desire or lust or affection, something, then it's an innocent friendship in spite of old feelings, memories, dreams, hopes, fantasies lingering on and on and…
Groaning, growling, she buries her face in her hands. "God… get over it."
Much later, he arrives to pick her up for their non-date. He had insisted, stubborn as he is, even though she told him, numerous times too, that she could easily drive to the restaurant. Problem is: she isn't even halfway done. Her nail polish isn't dry, her dress unzipped, her jewelry waiting for her on the kitchen counter, and Aria hadn't been very helpful when Spencer snapped pictures of her shoe choices and sent them to her friend. She startles at the unexpected knock at the door and peeks at her watch in panic.
"Shit." She puts out her cigarette and hastily finishes the rest of her wine before picking up the now empty glass, scurrying off to the kitchen and yelling, over her shoulder, "I'll be right there!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Reaching behind her, panic close to reaching a bittersweet crescendo, Spencer zips up her black dress in a hurry. This is what I get, she thinks, makes an irritated face, and spins around in front of the mirror to check for nail polish residue on her back, for refusing to date for over an entire year. This is what she gets even for most of her so-called dates before Elias, man-child of the century, and the marvelous – read: idiotic – decision to abstain, typically consisting of 'hanging out' in some guy's stuffy bedroom, tragic hipster beard and bun tickling the skin of her cheek in the most repulsive way, and watching Game of Thrones on his 11-inch MacBook before bony hands inevitably went on a pilgrimage to the Holy City he claimed to have found between her legs. She isn't good at this anymore. She purses her lips, stares down her own nervous-looking reflection. God, she has never been particularly good at this, has she? Good at attracting men? Maybe. Good at attracting the worst of the worst who would somehow manage to come up with new ways to interpret her obvious discomfort as attraction and burning chemistry? Probably. Good at going on actual dates? Again, she makes an irritated, little face.
And again, Toby knocks. "Spence…? Is everything okay?"
"Uh-huh," she calls, earrings in one hand, pair of shoes in the other as she kicks the rest of them back into the closet and then kicks the door shut as well. "Just… give me a few minutes."
Still cursing, Spencer dashes across the apartment to her bedroom in order to take her bag from the chair by her vanity, applies her favorite perfume – on her pulse points; behind ears and knees, throat, wrists, and, feeling especially daring and then especially stupid, only to go back to feeling daring enough, her inner thighs as well – gets her coat from her bed and makes a run for the bathroom to have one last scrutinizing look at both her hair and make-up, to rummage through the medicine cabinet for a solid twenty seconds before, at last, finding her birth control she had thrown there yesterday. Inspecting the pill, Spencer raises an eyebrow, wonders quietly, "What the hell am I even still taking this for," and swallows it swiftly with tap water anyhow.
Finally, she opens the door, out of breath and slightly sweaty, and can't help but giggle, although she is aware that she probably shouldn't, once she spots Toby there with his arms resting on the wooden railing as he gazes out at her neighborhood, his boredom palpable even in the shadows.
"I'm sorry. I completely lost track of time. My parents sent me this… this toy as a birthday gift? And I played with it pretty much all afternoon," she says, tumbling over her rushed words, and smiles at him instantly drawing her into a big, crushing hug – at the feel of him inhaling at her neck softly, taking in her scent. Her stomach reacts by going fuzzy. "Honestly, I didn't think I'd have much use for it at first but look at this, it's awesome. This is everything I was promised by 90s movies about the future – Alexa, turn off the music."
"Okay. I'll turn off the music."
The playlist she had put on earlier falls silent.
They break apart somewhat and she stares up at him, grinning wide and hands still holding onto his arms in a maybe-appropriate-but-probably-not type of gesture, as childish excitement grows in her voice and she is certain on her face as well when she adds, "It's a kid's toy. I love it."
"Welcome to the future," Toby teases, looking down at her – checking her out, she remarks and tries to keep her giddiness tranquil and far, far away. "Happy birthday. You look amazing."
"Thank you." She rises on her tiptoes to brush her mouth against his cheek in a little kiss, gently wipes her lipstick off of him after and pats his chest. "You look pretty handsome yourself."
He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Pretty?"
She chuckles. He looks pleased with himself. "Very handsome," she states, nodding and playing with his jacket. "Where are we going? You didn't tell me."
"Uh, well, I don't know any restaurants in Worcester, but you mentioned this Lebanese place a while ago? So I ended up making reservations there. I hope that's okay with you?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure, that's more than okay. The food's great. You'll like it," she replies, throwing an 'Alexa, turn off all lights' over her shoulder and then throwing a happy grin Toby's way too who shakes his head, amused. As she is closing and locking the apartment door behind her, she adds, "Wow. I can't believe you remembered. I mentioned it maybe once in passing."
He shrugs, nonchalant. "I tend to listen to you when you talk, you know. That's nothing special."
He is wrong, though; it is special. At least it is special to her. They drive to the restaurant in his car, talking about this and that on their way; work, naturally, and school, the upcoming elections in November, a couple of very mean jokes and shared laughs at Siri's expense because she keeps forcing them to take unnecessary detours instead of the many shortcuts Spencer helpfully points out to her. As they stop at another red light downtown and Toby lowers his eyes from the road to fiddle with the car radio, Spencer risks a sideway glance at this profile, with a soft smile and an even softer kind of happiness scattering inside her, and she thinks, it's crazy, how much life can change within one year. On her 25th birthday, right around this time in fact, she had been in Chicago, drunk on wine, stuffing her face with laddus and persistently stewing over Hanna and Caleb and Emily and silly, trivial things that, in the end, didn't matter much. And now, one year later, she is here, and frankly, nothing has remained the same – but that doesn't mean everything changed for the worse either.
Toby parks the car and inside, the waiter politely informs them at their table isn't ready yet. He suggests they go have some drinks at the bar while they wait, then turns abruptly to tend to the other guests that have arrived before Toby can speak what his face is already saying. Toby sighs in defeat and pulls a grimace, stumbling over one, two, three apologies, but Spencer squeezes his arm affectionately and mumbles, "Don't apologize. We'll wait. Besides, wouldn't be my birthday if everything went like it's supposed to."
One cocktail quickly becomes two and the fuzziness inside her stomach quickly becomes a low, familiar tug that twists and twitches inside her like a sharp knife. Granted, it is a quiet and rather subsided version of what she is typically used to, but still more – much more vibrant and much more overwhelming – than anything Celexa has allowed her to experience in months. Clearing her throat and then biting her tongue, Spencer feels brave… enough to sneak in another sideway glance at Toby when he pushes the small bowl of peanuts in her direction, commenting it with a simple yet incredibly tender, "Here. Eat something."
"I am," she assures him and proceeds to take a handful.
Apparently, though, she isn't even remotely subtle about her staring habits anymore, the wine and the cocktails certainly not helping, because he notices and frowns. "What? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she responds, shaking her head and directing her attention to her drink. She uses her straw to stir it casually. "I like this evening so far. Thank you."
Once again, he wrinkles his nose, seemingly mistaken her semi-nervous tone for sarcasm. "I'm really sorry they messed up our reservation. I called days ago. I didn't think this would happen."
"No, don't be. I meant it. I really, really like my birthday so far."
With a small, thoughtful hum, he drops his gaze into his lap and smiles to himself, then glimpses back up at her as she takes another tentative sip from her cocktail. "I like your birthday too. I'm really glad you were born."
Truthfully, the cheesiness of his admission be damned, that does touch her, softens her expression, softens her heart too, but truthfully, she has no idea how to respond. Whether to open herself to his prying eyes further, make herself even more vulnerable and exposed than she is by lov—craving him so deeply and so irrationally from afar. So, instead, she throws back her head and emits a throaty laugh. "Okay. Okay, I'll admit, that was very sweet but, uh, maybe deciding to drink while we're both hungry as hell wasn't… the best idea we've had."
He pulls up his mouth into a half-smirk and echoes in an earnest voice, "I meant it though."
She rests her head against his shoulder, enjoys his proximity, his cologne, his warmth. "I know."
Like she had made sure to remark, however, her birthday wouldn't be her birthday if something hilariously wrong didn't happen along the way. After thirty minutes, two cocktails and eighteen shared eye-rolls, they finally receive a table, but their table isn't really the table either of them had been expecting. Corny rose petals, a few sweet-scented candles, dark red placement made of silk that seem quite pleasing to the eye against the white tablecloth underneath and yet don't look anything like the other tables to their left and right. Confused, Spencer momentarily draws her eyebrows together, then shrugs it off, assuming that it must be a well-meant attempt to make up for the endless delay. She briefly gazes over her shoulder to exchange a small look with Toby who is taking this worse than her. He mumbles, sounding all but worried, "This wasn't my idea."
Wordlessly, they get seated and watch the smiling, perky waitress light the candles on the table one by one. Spencer, meanwhile, having realized that this may be kind of odd, is trying hard to swallow her laughter at the entire situation, at her entire day, and lifts her head to throw another glance at Toby, entertained this time, but his comically widened blues don't notice her because they are entirely fixated on the waitress struggling with her lighter, as if he is anxiously waiting for her to maybe tell them that there has been a mistake and that this isn't their table after all.
"I'm so fucking sorry," Toby hisses when the waitress disappears. He hastily begins picking up the rose petals and collecting them in a small bundle by his placemat. "I don't know why they-"
Spencer interrupts him by giving in and breaking into laughter. She is surprised when he doesn't join her and puts her hand over his to stop him from ruining the table decoration. "Come on, Toby. This is hilarious."
The corners of his mouth twitch once, twice into a barely-there grin that he swiftly suppresses again before it can form fully. She feels victorious and continues snickering in amusement, not a single care in the world, even when he dryly questions, "Really? You think this is hilarious?"
"Yeah. Really," she retorts in a playful tone, exhales a breath to calm down, and carefully wipes under her eyes with her napkin so as to not mess with her make-up. "This is the most hilarious thing that has happened to me in… I don't know how long. I've been wanting to come back to this restaurant for ages and then we do – on my birthday – and this happens. It's hilarious. I haven't laughed this hard since we got thrown out of Pizza Hut on Christmas."
He visibly relaxes at her words and creates and shoots her a grin that, combined with the two Caipirinhas from before, make her feel lightheaded and then, a split second later, embarrassed at herself too. God, how old are you? Thirteen? she muses, annoyed, pursing her lips, all while Toby inspects the table decoration between them and eventually pulls her out of her thoughts gently by commenting in a low whisper, "These candles smell terrible."
Spencer leans forward in her seat and – "Oh god."
"Told you."
"Maybe they were just looking out for us though," she remarks and picks up the menu. "Because I'm so trying everything with garlic in it. The ride home's going to be so much fun for you."
He gives a laugh as he picks up the menu as well. "I'd like to see that. I always out-garlic you."
"Mhm," she makes, disgruntled, while trying to accurately pronounce balila in her head. "Not this time, you won't."
"Just so you know, I'm having flashbacks to Rosewood right now," he responds casually. Still unsure if she feels like having cold or hot meze first, she knits her eyebrows together and looks at him from across the table. "Don't you remember? You used to say the same thing whenever we grabbed takeout from Bucali's… and then you'd still pick the tamest dish available. Every single time."
"Uh, to my defense, I was a teenager and trying to impress my boyfriend. Lucky for me, though, I don't have to impress you anymore," she deadpans and shrugs when he chuckles. She reckons that her consequent attempt to tease him falls flat, however, because when she goes on, her tone doesn't sound nearly as confident and mischievous as she had intended it to. "Unless you were planning on making a move later, of course."
Tilting his head, he curves his eyebrows at her.
She responds by doing the same.
"Anyway," he says, stopping their unofficial staring contest and instead focusing his astonished gaze back on the menu, and then the words flow from his mouth in an uninterrupted, fast-paced sort of frenzy. "Do you wanna order a me-zay platter and share? They come with bread, right? Pita, I guess? Hmm… y'know, baba ghanoush sounds good. And maybe some feta cheese and labnah?"
And, smiling to herself as she hums in acknowledgement, her shoe accidentally or perhaps even intentionally touching his under the table, Spencer thinks that she is really enjoying twenty-six so far.
7.) I hate this exercise.
Back in her neighborhood, they stay in his car for what feels like hours with the same childlike smiles pulling at their lips and the same tiny giggles filling the air. The radio is quietly playing some catchy tunes as they talk – talk through innocent touch, mostly, and talk through all those stolen glances and looks too – and it's late, but a selfish part of Spencer doesn't want this night to end just yet. It's perfectly irrational; they talk and text plenty, don't they, and after spinning in countless, exhaustive circles for months now, she is certain that one of them will relent and drive over sometime during the next week and they will have dinner again or opt for watching a really awful movie on Netflix or perhaps viciously yell at one another during a round of Mario Party. All that, of course, while skillfully denying and ignoring what is gradually growing more obvious with each passing day.
And yeah, nearly ten years of knowing him, nearly ten years of goodbyes, she doesn't want him to leave. She doesn't want him to go. She never does.
"I did buy it, actually, but I haven't started reading it yet-"
"Hey," she interrupts him. "We've, uh, we've been hanging out here at least an hour. Do you want to take this upstairs, maybe?"
Toby drops the rest of his sentence – a comment about her comment about some book they had both expressed interest in – and suddenly averts his eyes, like there is something in her browns that has caught him unaware and unguarded. "I would love to. I really would," he tells the wheel he is now staring at, and he sounds genuinely apologetic and remorseful and Spencer genuinely wishes she could somehow pick up and shove the words she has murmured back into her mouth and make them disappear in the dark hole that everything else she was never courageous enough to share with him calls its home. "But I, uh, I have to be at work at six tomorrow and I still have to drive back to Boston, so…"
"Oh. Okay." She nods. "Yeah. Of course."
The disappointment in her voice, though she had tried to keep it down, must have been palpable after all, she thinks; maybe the regret steadily washing over her came to life on her features and shaped itself into a frown, she has no idea, but he regards her with intensity for a beat, his eyes melting, and then hurriedly adds, "I guess I can stay for an hour though."
So they make their way to her building in silence. Comfortable silence but silence nevertheless and as they walk past the mailboxes, Spencer eventually has no choice but to accept her elevated heartbeat, like drums inside her ears, and from the corner of her eye, she catches a tiny glimpse, then two, of Toby's body language tensing up behind her, hands buried deep in his pocket, head lowered to watch his feet instead of her.
And still, when Ms. Li on the first floor glances at them from her kitchen window, Spencer can't help but feel caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing, can't help but feel judged for coming home at nearly 11:20 p.m. on a Saturday night with a seemingly stranger in tow. With a sigh, she thinks back to Chicago, to running into numerous faceless, nameless neighbors on the elevator who would usually be too engrossed in their phones to notice the poorly covered hickeys where her shoulder meets her neck. She returns the woman's persistent stare and mock-confidently holds her eyes, challenging her to conclude something that isn't true, but Ms. Li merely looks away after another second or so, and Spencer's teeth sink into her bottom lip and she asks herself whether there is a possibility that she is overacting and needlessly slipping into paranoia again because, maybe, in reality, it's her who is wishing for stupid things that have no chance of happening. Maybe, in reality, it's her whose thighs are firmly pressed together, whose thoughts are spiraling, whose body is craving his so badly, it feels like she might combust. That period of self-awareness comes and goes, like it does every time, and she buries it before it can manifest in another nervous frown on her face, in another uneasy pit inside her stomach, and instead reaches behind her to take his hand, ignoring a whole different pit opening up at the feel of his sweaty palm beneath hers.
Mr. Wilkinson on the second floor is smoking just outside his apartment, clad only in a checked fleece dressing grown, his exposed legs all but glowing in the dark. He gives the pair passing him a nod in greeting and carries on with his nightly ritual of coughing and wheezing, wheezing and coughing, and Spencer wryly thinks, well, this is certainly romantic, and it's like Toby can read her thoughts, because he squeezes her hand in his, shooting her an entertained smile when she turns her head to look at him.
Stephanie from the third floor has left her door open and Spencer, who by now is more than used to this, closes it without another word, throwing a confused Toby a, "This always happens. She's 19. I have no idea how nobody's tried robbing her yet," over her shoulder as he chuckles.
And then… the fourth floor. The dreaded fourth floor.
It's on her doormat – a gift from Aria and Ezra; Go away unless you brought wine, it proclaims boldly and yeah, it's dorky as hell, exactly the type of joke those married couples on Facebook would laugh about before hopping into their SUV to pick up the kids from soccer practice but then again, perhaps that's what marriage and motherhood at an early age has effectively turned her friend into, she doesn't quite know – that the anxiety Spencer had stifled and burned begins running back and catches up with her in dead earnest. She cautiously peeks at Toby yet again as she unlocks the door, attempts to find any signs in his eyes, in his expression, in his slumped shoulders and the half-smile pushing and pulling at his lips; any signs, really, that would indicate as to where he thinks this is going, where he wishes this was going, but she comes up empty-handed. He has closed off entirely for some reason, is shutting her out, keeping his distance and she can't read him any longer and, to be honest, her own emotions going crazy like a goddamn tornado, her own nauseating desire blinding her senses aren't much of a help either.
Luckily, language returns to her once they are inside.
"No, you can keep those on," she remarks in a light tone when he crouches to take off his shoes like he always does. Meanwhile, she has to bite the inside of her cheek hard to somehow keep herself from emitting an insanely loud and insanely grateful moan after carelessly kicking off her own heels. As he shrugs off his coat, Spencer whirrs around the place, turning on the lights and closing curtains to block out unwelcome looks – an effort to create distraction, to normalize the entire evening, the entire situation, to herself, yes, she is painfully aware and seriously hopes that Toby isn't. "Can I get you anything to drink? Tea, Coke, coffee…?"
"Since when do you have tea at home?" Toby wonders, the question mark in his tone housing more puzzlement that it normally would; a reaction to Spencer disappearing in the kitchen the second he had stepped into the living area to join her.
"I don't, actually," she admits with ease, grabbing two glasses and an open bottle of water from the fridge. "But I figured that it would make me sound more health-conscious."
She hears him laugh; a pleasant, rumbling, warm sound that inevitably makes her beam as well.
When Spencer comes back to the living room, forming tiny grimaces with each aching step she takes due to her swollen feet, she doesn't register right away that he isn't sat on his typical spot on her couch; always so comfortable, nonchalant and familiar. Instead, he is standing on the rug with his shoes off despite her earlier comment; white socks, at least a week's worth of stubble, a self-assured glimmer in his eyes.
Making a bemused noise in her throat, she pours water into their glasses on the table. "You can sit down, you know."
"Oh, I know," he replies, shrugging his shoulders. "But I'm not."
"Okay?" she responds with a slight laugh, thoroughly confused. "Should I be standing too?"
"Hm… yeah, probably," he retorts and nods, his expression, voice and posture all serious. Still more than baffled, she knits her eyebrows together but decides to comply to his request anyhow and moves to stand in front of him. He sends her a smirk and adds, "'cuz, y'know, I was gonna 'make a move' now. That's what you called it, right? Make a move?"
"You're doing what now?"
"C'mere." He is incredibly gentle when he starts drawing her closer to him; to her great surprise, though, it's not by her waist like she had assumed after that fucking cocky remark, but by her exposed arms, his fingers brushing against her skin in the softest way imaginable.
"Toby, honestly, what is happen…" His tender hold on her arms stop her as he slowly, carefully brings them around his neck and then proceeds to rest his hands on her hips. She had expected a great deal of things – expected a crushing hug, hoped for a kiss to quieten her insatiable hunger for more – but this definitely wasn't on her list. She looks at him. "Are we… are we dancing?"
It appears as though he has issues keeping up the mask of ice-cold self-confidence and cockiness because he suddenly lets go of it and breaks into delightful laughter, his eyes all crinkly in the edges. Before she can stop herself, she grins up at him. "Yeah," he says. "We're dancing."
"Oh, come on. Without music? Amateur." Spencer tightens her grip around his neck somewhat, scared of losing body contact and reassured at him immediately returning the favor around her middle, and then tilts her head in the direction of her new birthday present. "Alexa, play Jazz."
"Okay. I'm playing Jazz now."
"Alexa," Toby speaks up, his voice vibrating right by her ear. "Play Smooth Jazz."
"Okay. I'm playing Smooth Jazz now."
"Hmmm," she makes and leans back slightly so as to gaze at him better. She continues, nodding her head, a faux air of nonchalance accompanying her words, "Smooth Jazz. Excellent choice. I'm impressed. Now watch this though: Alexa, dim the living room lights."
"Okay. I'm dimming the living room lights."
With the music and the lights and his breath tickling her skin and her fingers absently combing through the hair at the back of his neck as though she does it every day and his hands resting on her hips a little lower than would perhaps be appropriate for people under their circumstances and her heart growing wings and excitedly fluttering about her chest and his scent and his body and his warmth completely overwhelming her, driving her fucking insane, the atmosphere then changes too. What had she called it? Desire on a quantum level.
So they dance to no particular rhythm. The song her Amazon Echo has picked isn't all that slow but they are swaying anyway, swaying back and forth gently, and every now and then, she finds his eyes dropping, helplessly gazing at her mouth, and part of her wishes he would go for it and yet he doesn't; another part of her wishes she would just go for it, get on her tiptoes or roughly pull at his hair to get him closer, closer, closer, and yet she doesn't move an inch either.
"See, I told you I'd get better at this eventually," Toby points out after a bit, his voice a murmur, as though mindful not to scare the moment off by being too loud.
She smiles. "You were never terrible," she tells him, automatically adapting his tone.
"Well, I disagree," he retorts, wrinkling his nose. "But I'm much better now. I practiced a lot."
"With whom? Yvonne?" Spencer tilts her head, brows raised, and it's for the first time in a while that the other woman's name doesn't leave an unidentifiable taste in her mouth, doesn't awaken a strange mixture of insecurity, longing, and heartache within her. The first time in a while that she can speak it casually and not feel an ounce of… envy, jealousy, whatever right after. The first time in a while that she can acknowledge his past and acknowledge her own and accept both for what they are: long gone, a life lesson learned, a person loved and lost. Huh.
"No," Toby says. "Her grandmother, actually."
Spencer instantly starts laughing. "Her grandmother?"
"Yeah, it's funny, 'cuz the first time I met her, she's this… she's this very serious-looking lady who dresses better than literally anyone I've ever seen, and I kept thinking, uh-oh, this woman's already staring me down even though I haven't said anything yet, I bet she hates me," he begins and she doesn't know if she is laughing at his story, his hilarious tone of voice or his obviously pained expression.
"Grandma Phillips sounds like a fellow member of the RBF club… that I'm president of," she comments and then adds, on his questioning look, "Resting bitch face. Trust me, it's a struggle. At my old workplace, they'd constantly tell me to smile more because I allegedly looked mean."
"No, she didn't look mean. She just looked like… like she'd rather be somewhere else."
"Yeah. Resting bitch face."
He chuckles. "Anyway, she's definitely one of the nicest people I know. Every time we visited her, she'd make me get up and dance with her and then tell me how she used to go dancing with her husband when they were young but now they can't because he's always complaining about his leg and back and hips and… you know, regular grandparents stuff."
"God, what is it with you immediately befriending any old person, baby and animal you meet?"
"What is it with…" Toby trails off, giving a short laugh as he regards her with confusion. "What is that even supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what that means," Spencer replies, shaking her head in mock-anger. "We've been broken up for years and I'm pretty sure my parents are still head over heels, listening-to-Sinead-O'Connor-twenty-four-seven in love with you. Sometimes I feel like they love you more than they love me."
Toby throws his head back and lets a barking laugh slip. "Yeah… slight exaggeration there."
"Well, that's what they want you to think. You should've seen my dad when I was dating Caleb. It was always Toby this and Toby that. Toby, Toby, Toby. At one point, I was so tired of his crap, I seriously considered telling him to give it a shot and ask you out if he misses you that badly."
He is still laughing and laughing, unknowingly making her heart spin and spin, when he retorts, "To be fair, they didn't have much of a choice. I didn't have a lot of worthy competition to live up to, thanks to Melissa's dating choices. I mean, they compared me to… what? Wren and Ian?"
"You're always so modest, it's annoying. Why is it so hard for you to accept that people actually like you for who you are?"
"Why is it so hard for you to accept that people like you for who you are?" he echoes and raises his eyebrow at her.
"Well, that's because they… don't?" She shrugs. "Women usually don't like me because I come off way too competitive, tactless and cold. Men, on the other hand, usually like me for different reasons entirely. And forget about babies. Yeah, I had that moment with Oscar a while ago, but it's honestly more of a friendship of convenience than anything else."
"Excuses, excuses," he tsks, and one of his thumbs is drawing circles on her hip, like he is doing it without thinking. "Is this a self-worth thing again?"
"It's not a self-worth thing. It's a truth thing," she corrects him, hesitant at first, then responding to his touch by playing with his hair again. "I mean, it doesn't bother me that much. I get along with people… mostly. It's not like I'm a complete loser. But I know that I tend to come across like… like I'm kinda mean and harsh and easy to dish out critique and walk over anyone in my way."
He stares at her as though he doesn't comprehend. "Is that seriously how you see yourself?"
"Yeah, don't give me that look. Your opinion doesn't count. You're biased." She snorts, amused, and adds, holding his eyes to check his reaction to her pathetic pun, "To-biased."
But his face remains thoughtful and he doesn't laugh. "I'm used to your self-deprecating humor, but I still can't believe that's how you think of yourself. You're literally one of the most gentle, compassionate, soft-hearted-"
"Well, you don't know a lot of people, then," she cuts him off. "And again, you don't count."
"And I don't count because…? It challenges your views and you don't like being called out on your bullshit?"
"No. You don't count because you've seen me at my worst more than once and decided to stick around anyway… well, for the most part," she shoots back in a patient voice, then smiles up at him sardonically when his face falls. "See, I can also bring up stuff you don't like to hear."
He is momentarily silent, then mumbles, "Yeah. That was mean. I'll give you that."
"I am mean."
"Mhm. You're about as mean and threatening as a puppy."
Slowly leaning into him more, she giggles in response and rests her cheek against his shoulder, her grasp on his neck gradually loosening before she lets go, lets her arms circle his lower back in comfort instead. They aren't dancing anymore, not really. It's hugging with convenient music playing in the background, a sign that they ought to break apart now to keep things from getting complicated, but it's nice, feeling his chest lightly against hers, chin on top of her head, his hand lazily ascend her back to run through her hair like he would do ages ago, and she knows that he is no doubt about to mess up, sort of ruin, what she had tried her best to make seem presentable, and she finds that she doesn't care. It's past midnight, her birthday officially over, and she has survived another year, and here is one thing, one thing that her twenty-fifth birthday didn't have, one realization she had never fully understood until now and that is…
Here is the unexpected truth, with a slight pinch of ugly and a little bit of hurt: She doesn't need him anymore. She doesn't need him to feel whole, to feel complete, and maybe that's why they had fallen apart so miserably the first time around, why they hadn't worked out and most likely never would have. Because back then, all she would ever do was try and find the missing parts to herself in him, in his kiss, in his heart, in his love and devotion, and he, in turn, had tried to fill her, to pick up all her ridiculously small pieces, collect them inside his palms, but in the end, he was just as much of a lost kid as she was, recklessly abandoned and forgotten by the world.
And she doesn't need him anymore. Not like that. Not for that. Yeah, she is still broken in ways she knows will never entirely heal, messy in ways she knows will never entirely disappear, and a little bruised by life, then love, then life and love all over again, but she – she is a person and she is good on her own, right? Even with the numerous, missing fragments she seriously needs to quit searching for in other people. Even with the, at times, crushing darkness of her mind she seriously needs to quit numbing with – with boozeanddrugsandsexanddrugs – with things that ultimately do her way more harm than good.
And she doesn't need him.
But she wants him. God, she has never wanted someone so badly.
Here is the bittersweet truth, with a slight pinch of irony and a little bit of opportunities lost: the first time, she had swallowed his love wholly, swallowed and chewed and eaten him up without a care, replaced those gaping holes with him, and when he had left, which she suspects he would have done regardless of Charlotte and Rosewood, and Rosewood and Charlotte, he took all she had with him too, ripped it out of her hands, merciless, ruthless, so endlessly cruel, and she had thought – she had genuinely thought that she would stop breathing without him by her side, was convinced she wouldn't live through it, somehow fight her way out of the hollowness and back into the light again.
Yeah… funny, how that had worked out, huh?
He had left, and she continued breathing anyway. She survived anyway. She lived anyway – for days, weeks, months, years, and she knows she would, easily could do it again. Because if there is anything his absence has managed to teach her, it's that there is life without him, and it's not a horrible one either. It's full of laughter and healing, full of happiness and joy, full of love and new chapters if only she allowed herself to another taste. She knows all that.
But it's here, in the safety of his embrace, on the evening of her 26th birthday that she realizes, that she eventually recognizes: she isn't interested in it. She isn't interested in a life that doesn't hold him.
Arms slung around his middle, she tilts her head back to look at him, look into his eyes deeply, and she thinks, amazed how easy it comes to her, how easy it is to admit now, I love him.
There is a certain beauty to it, isn't there, beauty in an innocent love that is not another cage she has built around them, imprisoning and banishing them behind walls; beauty in a wild love that roams free and does not aim to possess; beauty in actively choosing him, beauty in continuously wanting to choose him – again and again, over and over – despite not needing him any longer to heal her, to make her complete, to make her whole, to fix what is only hers to fix. She doesn't remember love ever feeling quite like this before.
Toby merely regards her, eyes bright and twinkling under the dimmed lights of her living room, eyes reflecting back at her the woman she had always wished she could be and is finally on her way to become, and Spencer merely holds his steady gaze, feeling warm and cold, the happiest she has ever been and scared to death at the very same time. She lets her gaze drop to his mouth then, without thinking, without stopping herself from doing something incredibly reckless, her shaking breath and traitorous heart both getting caught in her throat when he automatically, she almost wants to say instinctively, mimics her actions. Like he is thinking about the same thing.
Right then, in those two and a half seconds before the inevitable collision, she thinks how many years it has been – six – how many miles they had to walk to end up here again, in each other's arms – Rosewood, D.C, Maine, then Boston, Worcester, and some more in-between – how many loves they have found and decided to leave behind – two, possibly others – how long it has been since she last felt like this, so out of control, overwhelmed, anxious in the worst ways, anxious in the best ways.
And so violently out of control as she is, she raises on her tiptoes unhurriedly, delightedly aware of his warm gasp of surprise tickling the skin of her face, of his heaving chest flush against hers, the persistent tug in her abdomen creeping, sinking, dropping farther down. She is damn close to spiraling, coming undone, she knows she is, as she inhales his increasing longing for her, his nervousness too, eyes darkening with desire, with blazing want. It's fucking intoxicating. More than once had she fantasized about this in great length and detail; more than once had she dared picture him looking at her like that again, but it's absolutely nothing compared to the real thing, she muses, watches him watch her, watches him crave her, watches him wait for her next move.
That's what he does, he just waits, breathing his still unspoken words into her, breathing against her insecurities loud and clear, his soft finger skillfully caressing her spine, running up, running down, igniting flames that are threatening to burn them beyond recognition, so Spencer decides to be brave against all remaining odds, to be stupid against her brain thrashing around wildly in disapproval. So Spencer decides to – decides to love, decides to love, decides to love and break them free from this irksome curse, and gently, very gently, leans in and closes the lingering gap between them; gently, very gently, lets her eyelids flutter closed and brushes her mouth against his in invitation, yet mindful to grant him some time to decide as well, decide whether he wants to accept it, take it, whether he wants to take her, and what she means is take all of her.
His lips are warm, softer than she remembers. His surprise, too, his (she wants to say) confused hesitancy are more palpable than they had been in her imagination. Briefly, she lets herself get lost in it again, get giddy with excitement, with trembling anticipation; draws paintings of him and his hands gripping her hips while his mouth is devouring hers like she is the only thing that can truly quench his thirst, and then he breathes against her, maneuvers them in the direction of the bedroom, eventually giving up, giving into his desire on their way and just half-pushing her up against the wall, first struggling with her dress, then struggling to drag her underwear down her quivering legs as well, but he, the real Toby, pulls her back, back, back into the present, into the beautiful now. Into the reality that is them, right here, in her dark living room, so effortlessly interlocked again, for the first time in… for the first time in an eternity and a day. A reality that is somehow much prettier, much sweeter and much, much scarier than her fantasies too.
He finally moves his mouth over hers, his soft lips blossoming in her silent invitation, seemingly reveling in her kiss, and for a whole second or two, Spencer forgets what it means to exist, how to breathe or perhaps she is breathing again for the first time in years, she isn't sure. The fantasy inside her head abruptly makes way to a memory, to a memory of another time, of another life, of them at the Edgewood that fateful morning, of his lips slowly tasting from each drop of love she had to offer, of his hands holding her so delicately, so cautiously as though afraid she might vanish, and she wonders – she wonders if he is feeling it too, if he is now thinking about it too, because his tender grasp, his tender hands come to a rest on the small of her back, pulling her into him more, like he is trying his best to ensure that every inch of him is touching every inch of her, and she (melts away in his embrace, melts away against his mouth and) wraps her arms around his neck, mind going pleasantly hazy.
She is ridiculously turned on already and the worst part is that she can't even tell what is causing her blood, her desire, her breath to skyrocket past any chance at effective recovery: Toby or his obvious hunger for her, Toby or what she can (gleefully, happily, eagerly) sense she is doing to him and his beautiful body without doing much at all, Toby or what she assumes must be going through his head as his fingers dip into where he knows her dimples are patiently awaiting him, hidden under the dress she wishes he would rip off her with gusto. But she – she wants more. She wants more, more, more. She wants all of him, she wants him to want all of her; she wants his heart bare inside her palms, she wants him to hold hers inside his and intently inspect it (and then meet her eyes and nod like he understands all the mistakes and failures she first had to live and learn before she came back, ready to give, ready to take, ready to love, ready to be loved.)
Feeling almost but not quite drunk, almost but not quite crazy with yearning, she slowly traces his bottom lip with her tongue, and he, he welcomes her in at once, not hesitating, welcomes in her kiss, her winged love, everything she is trying to wordlessly express, everything she is trying to tell him, and god, his tongue meets hers sloppily (and she pictures that same tongue leaving a wet trail on her neck, over her chest, gliding further down, down, down, all the way down), and she sinks her fingernails into his arms, breathes a moan into his hot, willing mouth that he reciprocates with a muffled whimper of his own and god – it took them six years to get here but it only takes them five seconds to combust.
The playlist from before is still on, quietly playing in the background and yet unheard; they are engaging in an entirely new type of dance now, becoming an orchestra of delightful music and sounds, tongues finding an easy rhythm, hands and fingers endlessly stroking and caressing like plucking strings and enticing melodies, and Spencer has trouble telling which hands belongs to her, which hands belong to him, and what the difference is anyway. She (pictures him hovering over her as he throws her dress somewhere behind him, his breath quickening in anticipation at her newly exposed skin, and back in reality, she) slowly combs her fingers through his soft hair, gradually sinking down to her feet and half-tugging to make him lean down with her, afraid to break their searing kiss, afraid to lose skin contact (and then she pictures him vigorously kissing and sucking at her neck in order to leave a dark-purple bruise, pictures herself burying her nose in his neck, burying her teeth right there too). He gently holds the back of her neck, squeezes it affectionately while his expert mouth relentlessly dances with hers in hunger (and she pictures him holding onto it, squeezing way harder than this, while she has her face in her pillow and he is fucking her without an ounce of mercy) and he strokes his free hand down her waist (and she pictures him sneaking it between her legs like she wants, no, needs him to) as she emits another approving sigh into his mouth, half-mumbling his name.
Caught between reality, the present, the now that is causing the restless birds inside her chest to helplessly flutter about in an erratic frenzy, and a myriad of fantasies and fantasies spurring her on more; caught between sweet lust and sweeter love as they hug each other so tightly, become one, produce an overwhelming cocktail she hasn't quite experienced in… in… she has no idea how long, Spencer feels incredibly dizzy. Her silly heart is going a mile a minute, still singing and writhing under his knowing touch, still dancing and spinning too, as if it is more than intent to break her chest and jump him like she has been dreaming them, and she pictures him laying his palm over it, simultaneously calming it down and digging into the bottomless pit eating up her stomach, and she pictures him, pictures him – her legs are warning her to keep it steady, to go slow, because they feel weak under her weight when his tongue yet again collides with hers, his low, guttural groan making goosebumps erupt on her exposed arms, and she takes his hand, takes it gently, takes it from her hip, and places it over her heart.
But Toby freezes. Just somewhat, yes, but it is noticeable, graspable, in the way his mouth slows down against hers suddenly, as if he is about to break away, stop; in the way his hand remains unresponsive on her body, unsure, as if the fog their kiss had cast over his mind is clearing up, as if he is starting to nourish second thoughts – about them? or about her? – as if he is ready to hold off, hold back, and that observation is enough to make Spencer panic but she doesn't allow herself to. Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, grunts, hums, moans her encouragement to pull him back into the present, tries to reignite the fire in her stomach that is close to pitifully fizzling out under his hesitancy; a new kind of hesitancy, a different kind of hesitancy. It's not shyness, not even nervousness, it's pure rationality on his part; it's the awareness that this, this here, right now, is not a good idea. She hastily whisks that thought away from her though, from him, from them, and pictures – pictures him beneath her, petting whatever he can reach of her legs, staring up at her from under half-closed eyelids like she is the fucking universe; pictures him leaving tiny, open-mouthed kisses on her burning hot skin, breathing out heavily when he reaches well-below her navel, eyes dark; pictures them collapsing on her bed after another round, completely out of breath, completely out of words too, as the remains of their encounter run down her inner thigh. She squeezes her eyes shut more, kisses him more (more, more, more), rests her hand on his chest too, over his heart, just like he is doing. All but claws at him, desperate, attempting to ground herself in reality, attempting to make it last although a small fraction of her knows that it won't, as she walks them away from the rug until her back meets with the nearest wall.
She exhales through her brief pain soundly, twists her tongue against his, tells herself that it will be fine, tells herself to make it true. She wraps her leg loosely around his hip, lets passing relief flood her when he steadies her despite or in spite the crushing waves of indecision she can still taste vividly in his mouth, tells herself that it will pass, tells herself to make it true. She becomes aware, then, of the moment slipping from her hold, frantically cradles his face in response, half-burying, half-digging her fingers into his messy hair, holding onto him, holding onto them, onto the feeling, tells herself that this is right, tells herself to make it true.
Where flames had licked at her navel a mere five minutes ago, though, it's now despair gnawing away at her stomach, gradually growing louder and louder, all but drowning out her determined whimpers. She wonders if maybe she has been wrong about this, about his feelings, about them, if she has been reading too much into made-up signs that had never existed in the first place – she cuts herself off, begs her thoughts to leave, fingernails scratching the back of his neck and prompting a grunt from him, pictures herself pulling his belt through the buckle before kneeling down to pray. She wonders what the hell they are doing here, frivolously jumping into the abyss with lighthearted smiles of joy plastered over their feature. She wonders how she could possibly make sense of this, how this isn't worse than anything she had feared because this, this isn't just about risking a thriving friendship, playing poker with regained trust, it's following and trapping each other in the same vicious, endless cycle from before, it's still refusing to talk and skipping straight to fucking, like they would always do whenever they stirred the pot and woke up trouble from its deep slumber, and she wonders what that says about her, what that says about the life expectancy of… wherever this is going, whatever this is going to be – she tries to suffocate her brain, turn off her rising anxiety, tries to force herself back to the mindless want she was feeling earlier, pictures him taking her right here, against the wall, shoving her panties aside, but even in her fantasies, the cocky grin on his face she constructs looks grotesque, looks unfamiliar, and even in her fantasies, his fingers are hesitant on her skin, calloused and uncertain as he cups her breasts over her bra, and even in her fantasies, Spencer can't feel a thing but panic crawling up her throat like bile.
She had called herself brave when she rose on her tiptoes, leaned up, leaned in to kiss him, but that title, she muses, was utterly undeserved, perhaps stupidity that she had somehow mistaken for courage, because it's him who is brave enough to break them apart before they can embrace the disaster they could have been, would have been (or should have been). Toby slowly releases her mouth, his breath coming in short pants that she can feel on her chin, and Spencer can't say that she is surprised. The moment, after all, is long gone; the nauseating voice demanding more, more, more sitting behind her ears is gone too, instead replaced by a strong odor of rotten shame and guilt. Toby is still holding her head as though refusing to let go of her fully, hand squeezed between her hair and the wall, and he apprehensively searches her eyes, and she, in turn, blinks and finds his darkened with sentimental yearning, pupils widened, but the only thing that startles awake inside her now is… is nothing. She is numb. Beyond numb.
"I… I should go," Toby whispers, his face open, trusting, apologetic. She feels strangely empty. God, what she really wants is a drink. "I still have a one-hour drive back home…"
Spencer nearly laughs at how ridiculous she is convinced they must look right now: intimately intertwined, propped against the wall, in-between two vintage film posters, her and her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, her dress riding up her thighs, him and his sweaty forehead, his messy hair, the pretty crescents her nails have left on him adorning his neck that she almost feels sorry for. And now, now he is standing there, like she couldn't taste the various doubts on his tongue, like she couldn't sense his fears, like she couldn't feel the uncertainties in his touch, like nothing of importance happened, and he is telling her that he has to leave, that he should ago. After what transpired, after all that, or maybe despite all that, he is telling her that he has to go. It's fucking ridiculous. Unexpected? No. But absolutely ridiculous just the same.
"Yeah. Yeah, you should. You have to be at work at six tomorrow," she reminds him regardless as she puts her stocking-clad leg back on the floor, complete with a casual nod. "And it's getting really late."
But Toby doesn't move an inch, only holds her eyes, thumb stroking her cheek tenderly as he nuzzles his nose against hers, and Spencer looks up at him, her heart, at last, giving another familiar tug, another familiar jump in her ribcage, and for a moment, she tries to (re)capture the feelings from earlier, tries to picture – pictures them waking up together in the mornings, a mess of limbs, her ear resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, as his fingers delicately run over the bare skin of her back, and for a moment, it actually works. Slightly lightheaded and stomach turning with motion sickness from the continuous up and down of the emotional rollercoaster they are still riding on, have been riding on for the past so-and-so many months, she closes her eyes again, presses her lips to his to chase away reality, to forget, grateful when he returns her kiss and yet unsure what to make of it either. Then she tries to picture a world where they don't feel like a lost cause, where she doesn't feel stupid for firmly believing that they could make it this time, where she doesn't feel childish for believing that they could survive, thrive, grow this time; a world where they refuse to let history repeat itself over and over.
Squeezing her eyes shut to the world they are living in, she pours her love into his mouth, hopes that he will be able to catch it, but their kiss, it feels different now. It's slower, gentler, devoid of the same desperate hunger from earlier, and it's almost painful when his sweet mouth moves over hers, a remorseful little ache settling inside her. It feels like goodbye for some reason and that's when she realizes it's time to let go. Let the moment go. Let her fantasies go.
Breaking away slightly, eyes closed still, Spencer rests her forehead against his. "We shouldn't."
"Yeah, you're right," Toby agrees in a low tone she has adapted as well. He momentarily traces her bottom lip with his thumb, lost in thought, before both his hands fall from her face and her hip too, leaving her all but shivering in his sudden absence. "It's probably a bad idea anyway."
"It'd be a really bad idea," Spencer says, mind finally sober, awake enough to meet his gaze as she pulls the corner of her mouth up into a smile she doesn't really mean. He mimics her facial expression and she nearly flinches at the unexpected twitch her heart gives at his eyes remaining blank, like her words have effectively sliced though him. "You should… you should go home."
(Here is the whole truth, with a slight pinch of fuck and a little bit of huh: it's a tale she has both read and written a thousand times over. He has gotten better at staying in the face of the pressing urge to run, to escape, to flee when he is hurting, but it seems as if it is still a part of him he will never completely eliminate and it seems as if aggressively numbing herself is still an unchanged part of her too because she follows him to the stairs, arms crossed over her chest, her coat inside the apartment, her dignity around her feet, and feeling painfully empty. She stands there, leaning against the railing, watches him walk to his car, watches him look – hesitantly smile but it's not real – back at her once, twice, three times, until she can't see him any longer, until he becomes the night, until she is trembling from the cold, but she loves him even then. She loves him even when he leaves.
And maybe, maybe it's foolish, maybe it's naïve, maybe it's stupid or childish like she had said, but she loves him even when he is long gone, even when she is left alone with her bitter thoughts and her countless fantasies spiraling, left alone with her nausea making her stomach churn, left alone with her pretty fears dancing where they had danced, kissing where they had kissed. She loves him even when she inhales the darkness forming clouds on her mind that are threatening to rain over her, pull her in, and loves him even or perhaps she loves him especially when she exhales them again, vehemently refusing to let them win.
She loves him even when realization hits her, even when her heart abruptly drops in response and her panic chooses that exact moment to rush back to her with vigor, wrapping her inside its arms like an old friend, even when she pauses, freezes up in light of the observation she hadn't anticipated to visit, even when her inner voice suddenly proclaims, and I think he loves me too.)
So Spencer calls them a 'really bad idea' and maybe he hasn't quite earned the right to get upset over an insignificant detail in her wording, considering that it was Toby who had described their sudden, insatiable hunger for one another as a 'bad idea' first but it stings just the same. It stings even more, twitches hideously inside his chest, when she picks radio silence the next morning, the next afternoon and the next evening, too, leaving him to his own devices and very adamant to push away unwanted feelings of both rejection and guilt he has trouble telling apart because they are all scrunched up into tiny, indistinguishable balls like socks in the drawers of his mind.
Really bad idea.
Later, then, after night falls and his mood falls further too, Toby lies wide awake in bed, unable to succumb to sleep despite sheer fatigue nonstop poking at the corners of his eyes, and watches the headlights of passing cars break through the blinds, cast shadows on his white walls and his ceiling. Really bad idea. Toby exhales a sigh. Having tasted from her again (from her lips, from her love, from everything that she is, from everything they could be), he doesn't know if he still agrees with that bold statement. Sure, perhaps they are headed for inevitable doom and disaster, regardless of age, maturity and life experience they begrudgingly had to collect over the last six years or so. And sure, perhaps the price of impulsivity is way too high to afford, now that there is so much to risk and even more to lose. And sure, perhaps he is beyond scared, scared to hurt her, scared to lose her, let her go, once he royally fucks up again which he knows he will because that's what he has always done, what he will always do. And sure, perhaps Spencer is right and perhaps it is a bad idea, a really bad idea, to work so hard to return to a place where hearts are mostly mended, where failures are mostly forgiven, where the darkness has mostly disappeared, where they can finally exist together as friends or something that vaguely looks like it, and then blindly toss it out the window for a fleeting moment of passion or something that vaguely looks like it. But still… but still… but still…
Emitting a groan into the quiet of his studio, Toby pulls a little grimace, turns to lie on his back and then proceeds to throw his arm over his eyes. But still. But still, he doesn't understand what is so wrong about believing – about wanting to believe, to hold onto hope against all hope. And Toby knows, of course he does, of course he never managed to forget, that they had fallen apart pathetically six years ago, but six years ago they aren't anymore. They are older, not particularly wiser if he has to be honest, though smarter, taller, healed (and broken again in entirely different ways than before). Really bad idea. Heaving a drawn out, frustrated sigh, he moves against the mattress until he is on his side, clutching the pillow under his head. He blinks at the dark outlines of the small dining table and chairs, remembers them giddily sitting down for lunch just a couple of weeks ago, and quietly wonders, eyebrows furrowed, who's to say we'd fail again this time?
Another voice inside him, louder than his convictions, adds, and who's to say that we wouldn't?
The following morning, he is stuck in his Health seminar, half-listening, half-dreaming what he couldn't the night before, and his mouth tingles with the ghosts of their kiss, the remainders of her soft, soft skin beneath his fingertips, and it's a different type of longing, a different sort of remembrance blowing its foul-smelling breath into Toby's ear, writing long-winded thoughts better left unthought into his brains. The memory of their dance, of them not accidentally losing but willingly giving up control, cuts him. Slices, carves his flesh, because he knows, he knows, he knows that it won't happen, knows that it can't happen again. Because he knows that they can't gamble away what they have built. Because he knows that the only thing that he could possibly offer her is heartbreak anyway and, and, and hurt and unhappiness and the very cycle from years ago and—
Interrupting himself with a deliberate internal flinch, he idly doodles into his notebook, creating first drafts and a handful of casual sketches too before an insistent need for perfectionism takes over, compels him to throw them out again, and Toby, well, Toby doesn't have much choice but to listen, does he; not much choice but to release an exasperated sigh at himself as he tears out the page he had been busy with, erases yet another stupid mistake that could have been avoided. His mind, though, his mind is on her. Again. Still. Again. Sti—Toby balls up the piece of paper in his fist.
Professor Kapoor, in the meantime, is playing his usual game of Rapid Fire Questions. "Lauren, please name two design characteristics that are typically considered to create health benefits."
Toby furrows his brow at his notebook. Well, that looks like total crap.
"Just two? Oh. All right. Well, maybe, uh, maybe views of the neighborhood and nature from the home? So, low windows sills, openable windows?" Lauren replies. "And, uh, development that encourages walking and cycling? So, uh, easier access to public transport and local services to reduce reliance on the car?"
Yeah, that definitely looks like crap. Making an annoyed face, Toby scratches out another poorly done drawing.
"Yes. Good. Very good," Professor Kapoor responds. "Now, Toby, according to Vitruvius, what are the three elements required for a well-designed building?"
Unbothered, however, Toby keeps drawing, doodling and sketching until his classmate Marquis gives a harrumph sound from beside him, causing him to raise his head in confusion. Toby then realizes, approximately half a minute too late, that he is in fact the only Toby in his class. "Um… I'm sorry, what was the question?"
Somewhere behind him, a couple of students break into laughter.
But Professor Kapoor doesn't seem too fazed. "The triad of characteristics by Vitruvius."
"The fundamental principles of architecture. That's freshman stuff. That's fucking high school stuff. I'm pretty sure I learned that in high school," Marquis states, after, when they are on their way to the cozy sofa and armchairs that the students from the Art department have sarcastically dubbed 'The Architect's Corner'. "It's firmitas…"
"Utilitas et venustas," Toby chimes in, finishes with him. "I know. I just… wasn't listening?"
"I noticed. And so did Kapoor," Marquis remarks in a dry tone as he sits. "You've been drawing in your notebook all morning. Did I forget that we had homework? What are you even doing?"
But Toby, satisfied for now, satisfied at last, merely peeks down at said notebook resting in his lap, wipes off the residual crumbs of his eraser. Gazes down at the rough design of the desk that he has been working on – firmitas, utilitas et venustas; solid, useful, beautiful – and his mind is still on her, on her, on her, as he shrugs his response to Marquis because, honestly, Toby doesn't know what he is doing either though he figures that maybe it will come to him eventually.
(It doesn't. Not for a while.)
So they kiss on Saturday and by Wednesday morning, they haven't yet mustered up the courage to exchange a single word of honesty with each other, except for an occasional notification here and there popping up on their respective Instagram feeds. Like on Monday night when Spencer uploads a photo of her outstretched legs wrapped in a fleece blanket on her couch, and the coffee table is visible in the background, holding her favorite black ashtray, one of those reusable water bottles, and, amid the most recent issues of The American Journal of Public Health, The Health Services Research Journal, Vanity Fair and Cosmopolitan, there is a familiar copy of L'Attrape-cœurs too. His poor heart spots the book long before he finally does, aching pitifully in his left, and Toby can't really tell whether he is supposed to make mean something out of that, whether she is reading a well-known classic because she enjoys reading (and rereading and rerereading well-known classics), but his thumb won't listen when it halts over the post for a second, terribly unsure, until Toby shoves his hopes and misplaced optimism away – really bad idea – rolls his eyes at himself and simply likes the post like he would do with any other.
Or on Tuesday afternoon where Toby is first fighting boredom and then fighting himself as he waits in line at his favorite lumber distributor. With a hum, he snaps a picture of the contents of his shopping cart – lots of heavy red oak for the table top, aprons, double pedestals, the corners and the drawers… running his hand over the material, he feels almost upset at the thought of staining it with black cherry later – puts it online, boldly captioning it, kind of hoping that she will see and understand, kind of hoping that she will manage to decode his inner turmoil and soothe it with her heart, 'Starting a new project'. Not even ten minutes later, he does receive a notification from her; a wordless like that probably shouldn't have this instant, calming effect on him, considering the silence still going on, embracing them, but that bitter comment doesn't really stop his stupid grin from stretching his equally stupid mouth anyhow.
His boss, though not as gruffly polite as Toby recalls Mr. Warren, doesn't need much persuasion to let Toby use the place afterhours, long as you clean up after yourself, and he works tirelessly under the flickering light, feeds the circles under his eyes as he sands the tabletop like nobody's fucking business, making sure to spend an equal amount of time, an equal amount of unyielding effort on both sides, even or especially the one with far too many imperfections to save and any man capable of rational thinking would have given up on hours ago but he can't. He refuses to.
His hands are blistering, buzzing after each sanding session and his mind is blistering, buzzing with thoughts of Spencer, and the blatant irony of their situation isn't lost on Toby; here he is, building and crafting after yet again destroying and wrecking, and he doesn't know what he is even trying, hoping to achieve. (Maybe, just maybe, he wants to say: Look. I build things. I fix things. That's what I do. And if we somehow break each other again, if we struggle and fail, I'll do what I'm good at. I'll patch us back together. I'll build us a new world where we don't have to be a what if, but a certainty. I'll work and work every day, every night, for the rest of our lives to make sure we're good this time. Better. Like I know we can be.) With a tired sigh, Toby checks the time on his phone – checks for new text messages too but of course fails to find any that he is interested in finding – and wipes his sweaty forehead on his arm. (Maybe, just maybe, he wants to say: I love you. And I'm fucking terrified to tell you because all I ever manage to do when I love is create destruction.)
It's on Thursday that Spencer breaks the silence. '#TBT,' she has written under a post containing several drunk and not to mention embarrassing photos of their trip to Pizza Hut so many months ago and while Toby is still anxious with sickening worry, with lasting indecisions and screaming uncertainty, he can't help the smile when he sees that she has tagged him in it. He types a short comment – 'I'm not completely sure how we weren't banned for life' – which earns him multiple laughing emojis from Emily in response and a quick text message from Spencer she sends him almost right after. Though the… the something resembling relief that begins stirring inside his chest is a bit surprising (overwhelming), their subsequent conversation is anything but; instead, it more or less relies entirely on the new normal that they have managed to agree on. They talk Marvel, they talk some new album by some new artist, they talk work (which results in Spencer ranting about health care reforms). Actually, they talk about everything but the past few days. In-between a couple of remarks about the weather and some lighthearted jokes about their (more than) boring plans for the weekend, Toby comes face to face with an unexpected realization: it feels like nothing happened. Not their searing kiss. Not the deafening quiet. Not their emotions wreaking havoc. And certainly not the dreadful pit in his stomach expanding further in time with the casualness of her words, the apparent nonchalance when she briefly mentions the food they had had on her birthday, ignoring what had transpired a mere few hours after. He doesn't know how to feel about all that, how he is meant to feel about all that, but Spencer seemingly settles on playing pretend, so Toby decides to wade through a long stream of consciousness that steadily starts flowing into the river of the Nile.
(And when he returns to the workshop and proudly regards his progress so far and she calls him up on the phone and her laugh is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard, he almost tells her the truth; he nearly tells her that he knows the smart thing to do would be to leave this alone, to let it pass, but his heart wants what it wants, and his heart wants to be irrationally stupid with her, for her, because of her. Only, of course, he doesn't dare say a word. He just bites his tongue and keeps his traitorous mouth shut. Instead, he reciprocates her attempts at small talk. Instead, he pushes down what he isn't allowed to muse over. Instead, he thinks that this is a goddamn disaster. He needs someone to talk to, someone who will spell out to him what he is supposed to do, but she – she is that someone and that's where his whole dilemma lies, doesn't it? She is that someone he shares everything with, that someone he calls whenever something, anything, happens in his life, that someone who understands him when he refuses to understand himself.
And when the gentle memories of last Saturday return to his head and gleefully regard his heart and the vivid pictures in his mind are the entire reason the world is spinning, he almost tells her the truth; he nearly tells her that he knows he is a fucking mess, that she is a mess of a woman too, and that he loves her in her anger, in her destruction, in her sorrow, and that he loves her in her happiness the most. He nearly tells her he knows that he doesn't deserve love, not anyone's, least of all hers, not after everything he has done, but his heart wants what it wants, and his heart wants to learn to be loved by her, for her, because of her. Only, of course, he doesn't dare say a word. He just bites his fantasies and keeps his traitorous love shut.)
On Friday, he skips class to squeeze in another shift at work before the weekend. Work, after all, is good, right; work keeps his brain occupied, his gruesome thoughts busy (for the most part anyway), and his hands from fruitless attempts at reaching within him to scrub off the numerous bloody stains his doubts (and dreams and hopes) have painted on the blank canvas of his mind. His boss sadly doesn't appear to share his newfound enthusiasm – "Yeah, no, I really don't want you near anything sharp with your eyes looking like that," he proclaims over Toby's incoherent promises and incoherent grumbles of protest – and sends him home early regardless – "Go get some sleep and don't even think about showing up like this again tomorrow morning," he says as Toby drops his response meekly and then drops his gaze just as meekly too. A couple of hours later, Toby finds himself at the grocery story down the street. He is in the middle of figuring out a list for the week (and how exactly he is going to pay for it; he hasn't checked his bank account once since his admittedly very impulsive trip to the lumber distributor and part of him is afraid to do it now) when Spencer texts him: They're sending me to Chicago next month.
She adds: Home, sweet home.
He puts come carrots in his basket with one hand and responds with the other: Chicago? Hmm… maybe whoever's living in your apartment now will allow you to use their fire escape. No, really, how do you feel about going back?
Pulling up the corner of his lips into a little non-smile, he concludes that carrots, rice, bread and eggs will (probably) manage to get him through the next few weeks just fine (although, perhaps 'manage to get him through the next few weeks somehow' would be a far better choice of words here but he has yet to decide whether he is going to be optimistic about his rather bleak financial situation or not). He shrugs and continues his walk undisturbed to the frozen food aisle to briefly check out the vegetable options there. Meanwhile, Spencer carries on, not really bothering to acknowledge his previous text and well-meant question: Come with me.
Somewhat puzzled, somewhat dumbfounded, somewhat thrilled (and utterly, foolishly, terribly in love) at her offer, Toby draws his eyebrows together as he takes in her message, but she isn't done: I just looked at the calendar. I'm leaving after your finals. Come with me. It's only 5 days.
(And his hopeless heart, of course, leaps into his throat in irrational excitement, instantly recalls and remembers and wishes times gone and times that could be but Toby just gives a tiny painful, internal wince, swiftly pushes away what has to be left alone and then) he types: I'd love to and I really appreciate that you asked but I can't afford the plane tickets. Let alone the hotel.
I'll pay.
Yeah, that's not happening.
I make more money than you. I'm paying.
Rolling his eyes in amusement, he inspects a bag of frozen vegetables, puts it into his basket as well, and replies: I honestly don't feel comfortable having you pay for my shit.
Naturally, Spencer has a not-so-serious solution for that too: I'll tell Mizrahi to write an updated report on my mental health status that proves I need you with me in Chicago or I'll have another nervous breakdown. That would make you a business expense and refusing to pay for your costs a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Imagine the media outrage. Health care firm discriminates against own employees. The EEOC would eat that shit up.
Toby roars with laughter, paying no mind whatsoever to the elderly couple in the same aisle as him that tosses him a short albeit highly confused stare (and god, he knows, he knows, he knows that he is repulsive for even briefly entertaining this brand of forbidden thoughts about her, but it would be a lie if he claimed that her message doesn't make him feel at least a little… a little… flattered. Yeah. That's the word he was searching. Flattered. Not attracted. Certainly not turned on). Fortunately, his composure (and conscience) returns to him quick. Wiping his laughter from the corners of his eyes and exhaling soundly, he writes: So… like a service dog?
Spencer says: I admit that might've been a tasteless joke but we both know that you *are* about 80% of my impulse control so it wasn't a complete exaggeration. Come with me.
His mind goes fuzzy, warm, ecstatic. Nevertheless, Toby reasons: Okay, but what am I supposed to do all day while you're busy with meetings and workshops and stuff? Walk around by myself?
Well, you're an architect so… admire the beautiful architecture of Chicago?
Though smiling against his will, his response to her suggestion is particularly dry: Ha, ha.
When's the last time you went on vacation?
I don't know. A while. Several years, at least.
There you go, she remarks. And then, a few seconds later: Come. With. Me.
He doesn't have to mull it over, let it sit for long although perhaps he should be, as a small voice inside him points out; his stomach makes sure to lament its boiling anger (and hunger) at Toby as the latter groans and begins returning most of the more expensive items in his basket to their respective aisles, telling himself that ramen noodles will (likely) manage to get him through the next few weeks just fine. (Really, he would follow her anywhere if she asked him to – even now or especially now, the answer is one of those two, he just hasn't figured out which one it is yet.)
All right. I'll come with you.
His Saturday almost exclusively consists of work and Cody sending him updates on her bar and Emily challenging him to yet another round of Words with Friends and constant back-and-forth emailing with his advisor and googling architecture businesses in the Boston area (and his heart repeatedly drifting into bouts of wishful thinking whenever it gets the chance to and his thoughts repeatedly sinking into different worlds and different lives where he is courageous like he needs to be so desperately). It's around two or three in the morning that the desk finally starts looking like an actual desk and though Toby is tired (of his emotions coming in like a storm, pulling at him from every direction, attempting to tear him in two) and hungry (for Spencer, her warmth, her embrace, for her love, for her love, for her love) and should probably head home before he falls asleep in his boss' workshop (again), he allows himself a tiny second of pure satisfaction, pride, unabashed joy as he strokes over the desktop (and imagines her sitting at it, typing away on her laptop and taking sips from her coffee – no, he interrupts himself, it's herbal tea that he made her because she has had way too much coffee already, and sometimes, when he carries to the desk a plate with assorted fruits and stops to massage the lasting tension from her shoulders, and her features are all scrunched up in concentration, he feels like he has finally, finally, finally found his way back home). Toby sits down on a nearby bench, rests his aching back, heaves an exhausted sigh as he rubs his watery eyes to fight fatigue (and love, he muses, frowning slightly, love is a funny thing, yes, but the side effects are horribly confusing too; there is nothing in the world that he wants more than her happiness, nothing he wants more than for her monsters and demons to disappear, even if that means that he has to stay away as well, even if that means that they are a 'really bad idea' and he has to fence in his most treasured desires and dreams in order for her to let go of her past, of Rosewood, of him, and heal wholly, but still, but still, but still…)
And maybe, he adds, later, when he is driving back to his apartment, his body craving sleep and his body craving hers, as his mind dances circles around the memories of their kiss. Maybe she is right anyway. Nothing about their current situation – the complete nonchalance, the vehement denial, the mutual agreement to request silence, the refusal to talk it out, the everything and then the something too – grants Toby even the tiniest slice of confidence that things could be different this time either (even if he does find himself pondering what it might be like, a relationship with her, now, six years later: it looks a lot like their early days, their earliest days, the easy, humorful banter from before the chilly morning of November 6th at Edgewood but with the domesticity and almost instinctive trust from their last few years too, and the honesty they had momentarily found and used to keep themselves and each other warm with like a blanket after Mona and the pills and Alison's return, and the sparkling electricity, the sparkling fire that would always come with it, all mixed together with the comfort and the wisdom from today, all mixed together with the friendship they have started from scratch, from sweat and tears and heartbreak, and, well, it sounds perfect, doesn't it? It sounds beyond perfect. But that one time Toby had actually thought of them as perfect, he ended up breaking Spencer's heart anyhow, so he has a hard time trusting perfect, has a hard time doing perfect these days).
Toby sleeps through a good portion of his Sunday (and dreams away an even bigger one; around noon or so, while he is preparing a bowl of dry cereal for breakfast since milk, sadly, is a luxury right now, Aria puts up a picture of Spencer and Oscar watching Dumbo together. They are both seated on the floor, side by side, the baby slightly leaning into his aunt. It's a sweet photograph and Aria's caption – 'Good: He stopped the hair-pulling. Bad: He switched to drooling into her lap instead. #ProudParentingMoments #MySonIsAShittyFirstDate' – makes him emit a chuckle but his mind… his mind remains a heartless traitor because the longer he regards the Instagram post, the longer he stares and blinks and wistfully sighs, the fuzzier his stomach gets, the lighter his insides feel, clinging to visions of a future that doesn't exist anymore, not for them at least – and, yeah, he knows that this is another form of brutal escapism, of fleeing and running away, and to some extent, it feels as though he has never managed to leave Maine; after all, he is still hiding himself in ideals, fantasies and dreams because reality as it is, is too cold, too harsh, too real to face unarmed).
It's on Monday that Toby finally stumbles upon much-needed (albeit brief) distraction when he pours himself into school, pours himself into work, and then pours himself into completing the desk too; and it's on Monday evening that Spencer stumbles upon his moment of maybe sort of peace and seemingly makes the unwise decision to knock it down. Having just returned to his neighborhood and exited his car, it takes Toby a few before he sees her but there she is, waiting on the porch and gracefully raising from the steps when he walks the distance to his apartment.
"Hey Chicago buddy," she teases once he is close enough. In spite of all that the past week has brought them (brought them to their knees), Toby feels genuinely elated to see her; it makes him dizzy when he realizes that she appears to feel the same. "Or should I be calling you Clark Kent?"
Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he shoots her a bewildered look. She points at his glasses.
"Oh. Yeah. Forgot to take them off." Retorting her amused snort with one of his own, he tosses his glasses into his bag rather carelessly. With the keys in his grip, he briefly wonders whether he is supposed (or even allowed) to hug her hello, the possible awkwardness and clumsiness of it be damned, but Spencer successfully cuts short his thought process by walking to stand beside his apartment door, arms crossed neatly over her chest, like in an attempt to keep him out, keep him away. Ah. Something inside Toby flinches but he chooses to ignore it (for now) and simply unlocks the door. "Not to sound rude but did we make plans and I forgot?"
"No," she responds, shrugging her shoulders. "I was in Boston, anyway, and just wanted to drop by. I tried calling but I couldn't reach you."
"Yeah, sorry about that. My phone died literal hours ago," Toby explains as they enter the studio together. That gets him a sympathetic chuckle. Once fully inside, he pulls a grimace behind her back as she removes her jacket, foot hastily shoving out of sight yesterday's basket with fresh laundry that has yet to be folded and put away. He is a disaster of an adult. "I think my battery's done for, to be honest. I keep telling myself that I should go for an Android next time but…"
His sentence fades against her thoughtful hum so he instead turns to place their jackets over the back of the dining chair. The atmosphere, admittedly, is weirder than he had somehow assumed it would be. After all, things between them had seemed (relatively and he almost wants to say sickeningly) normal on the phone, hadn't they, but seeing her again, actually seeing her again, it's like – it's like staring at the fucking sun. He is afraid to look at her directly (but in his mind, they are dancing still on the rug in her living room, gently swaying from side to side, her brown eyes getting lost in his and his eyes trying to down in hers and…)
"Did you wait long?" Toby questions on his way to the kitchen.
"Uh, maybe an hour? It's fine. I went to CVS," Spencer replies, lazily trailing behind him before putting the bag that she is carrying on top of the counter. She quirks a mischievous eyebrow at him, voice dropping ridiculously low when she adds, in a little fake whisper, "I also got donuts."
He effortlessly catches and returns her smirk, all while making sure to shake his head at her in an amused manner as he grabs a donut from the box she pushes his way dramatically like it's a suitcase full of money. He bites into the donut– fully aware that it is impolite as hell but to be fair, he is close to starving and hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast – and asks her, mouth full, "So how was therapy?"
Thankfully, she doesn't seem to mind his (lack of) manners. "Yeah… I didn't go. Dr. Mizrahi's attending a seminar at Harvard on something or other."
"Hmm." Growing gradually more anxious and uneasy under her truthful, prying gaze searching his stubbornly, searching for something shiny and bright deep inside him that he knows she will not be able to locate, no matter how hard she looks, because what does he have to offer, to give her besides grief, besides pain, Toby coughs, feigns an overzealous interest in the donuts and somewhat lamely remarks, "These are good."
"Bahstin Kreme, huh? Personally, I like the Glazed Blueberry the best." Just as she reaches for it, his eyes fall on the chipped nail polish on her thumbnails as though she has been biting them over and over, incessantly worrying them between her teeth like she does when she gets lost in thought or spends her hours stewing over something yet again. Regardless, he remains quiet at the observation he likely wasn't allowed to make and politely averts his gaze. Spencer, who is leaning against her usual countertop and delightfully devouring her donut, inquires, "How was your day?"
"Uh, pretty long?"
"You look exhausted."
"Yeah, trust me. I am exhausted."
"Is it because of the project you're working on?"
Hesitant, Toby exhales a tiny breath, raises his eyes from the kitchen floor, meeting hers wholly for the first time (and in his head, they are still dancing and swaying and kissing and loving and stupidly happy and happily stupid) and as she wordlessly reciprocates his stare, a confused little frown etched between her eyebrows, he reaches into his pocket to take out his phone and hands it to her.
It doesn't really seem to appease her confusion, however; on his hasty nod, she begins swiping through the pictures on his phone, making a puzzled sound in her throat. "A desk?"
"Yeah," Toby says, hiding his suddenly very sweaty hands in his pockets. "What do you think?"
"Toby, it's… it's beautiful. Is that red oak?" Pausing for a second, she tilts his phone, using her pointer and thumb to zoom in on yesterday's accomplishments. "What happened to your desk though? How's this going to fit in your closet-turned-study?"
"Yeah, well… it's not." At that, Spencer glances up from his phone, and she is smiling, like she knows, like she knows, and like part of her refuses to grasp and believe what is right in front of them anyhow, so Toby clarifies, and luckily, he sounds more confident than he currently feels with her gorgeous eyes focused entirely on his and her face expectant (and the taste of her mouth prominent on his tongue), "It's yours. If you want it."
"It's mine?"
"I mean, I…" He has to look away. He has to (because her smile, her smile, her overjoyed smile makes him want to, makes him want to – want to be stupid and he can't afford stupid, not now). He clears his throat and shrugs, attempting an air of nonchalance. "You keep complaining about your, quote unquote, stupid IKEA desk that the previous tenant left you. So I thought… I don't know, I thought you might appreciate a new one?"
"Toby…" Not bothering to wipe off, hide away or bite down the smile that is still stretching her lips (and something inside Toby is grateful beyond measure), her sentence temporarily trails off into a hum as Spencer looks down at his phone again, inspecting the various pictures with care and an astonishing gentleness. "This is red oak. This cost as least… what? Two-hundred bucks? I really can't accept it."
Pulling up one shoulder, he lies, "I'm a carpenter, remember? I got a discount on the material."
"Still…"
He tilts his head. "Are you saying you don't want it?"
"No. No, that's not what I'm saying at all. I do want it. I love it," she quickly shoots back, toying with the phone in her hands and unknowingly toying with his heart too that is desperately trying to squirm out of her grasp somehow. "I just… I feel bad. You really didn't have to do that."
"Well, I wanted to," he mumbles.
As he, overwhelmed by the silent bliss on her features and the effect it has on him, spins to turn on the coffee machine, they involuntarily fall into synchronicity (like they would always do in bed… but that's a thought for another time, Toby cuts in, horrified, specifically never); Spencer gets the mugs and sugar from the top cabinet, stepping aside to let him throw the spoons into them. There is a plethora of things that need to be voiced, talked through, laid out, and they are apparently still making do with coffee and a handful of smiles sent one another across the room.
(He asks himself when exactly they had crossed the line, whether it was really the kiss that had severed any attempts at friendship, the kiss that had all but spiraled into more, into worse, into something bigger part of him almost wants to happen again; if there was ever an actual line to begin with, if they ever truly had the chance to keep things from 'getting complicated'. He had tried to suffocate himself in the arms of another woman for years, spent months of those wishing he could run back in time, stay with her and change what was unchangeable; why had he agreed to friendship when he was always aware, and painfully so, that his useless fucking heart never managed to forget her touch completely? And why is he standing here now, dead silent, mouth feeling as though it was sewn shut by all his fears, stealing glimpses at her breathtaking profile, pushing off the memories of last weekend, and yet pondering what it would be like to go up in flames, what it would be like to burn?)
"Okay," Spencer eventually speaks up, throwing him a sideway glance. "I don't want to sound impatient or ungrateful, but do you… already know when you'll be done?"
Toby laughs. "Uh, hopefully this weekend? I work fast but, y'know, I still have school and work to worry about."
Without warning, she stifles his lingering insecurities (for one or two beats, that is) by engulfing him in her wondrous embrace and to be frank, he is sort of taken aback by that, considering that they have refrained from hugging until now, but he responds (just as enthusiastically) a moment later, swiftly wrapping his arms around her, swiftly letting his eyelids flutter closed in her neck and inhaling, eating, devouring her affection. She feels extraordinarily small against his chest, and he feels extraordinarily small against her unforeseen display of self-confidence as she rocks them, raising on her tiptoes to reach him better. "Thank you," she mutters half into his skin (and yet half into his overflowing heart).
"You're welcome," Toby replies in the same soft tone. "Consider it a belated birthday gift."
Was that the wrong thing to bring up?
He feels her freeze somewhat, pause somewhat, stop somewhat to lift her head and break away.
Yeah, that was the wrong thing to bring up.
Granted, Spencer is smiling when she looks up at him, into his eyes, but he dully notes her arms dropping from his frame almost immediately, her legs taking a calculated step back, her chipper tone holding something he can't quite put a finger on. "You took me out for dinner," she reminds him, once more crossing her arms over her chest and once more, he winces internally. "I thought that was my present. Besides, I never got you anything for your birthday."
"Not true." In order to escape her eyes because if he had to take a wild guess, he would say that the expression on his features must be somewhere between 'confused puppy' and 'three-year-old accidentally abandoned at the local grocery store', Toby bends to grab a couple of plates for the donuts. "You bought me a really nice pen, remember?"
"Yeah, but I don't consider that a gift. It's a necessity," she remarks in a matter-of-fact voice as she takes the plates he is handing her and moves over to the dining area where she puts them as well as the donut box on the table. "All respectable architects own at least one 'really nice pen'."
Toby straightens back up in time with the red light on his (ancient) coffee machine turning off. "Sometimes I feel like you're more excited about me becoming an architect than… well, me."
Contrarily, Spencer hums and retorts, audibly amused, "Then sometimes, you'd be right."
"Yeah. I tend to be."
"Occasionally."
"Occasionally."
When she returns to his side, Toby is pouring coffee into their respective mugs. She proceeds to lean against the counter again, her eyes drilling holes into his back, fingers drumming against the drawer in an irregular (and irritating) rhythm. She is mere seconds away from slithering into that pesky chain-smoking habit she sporadically develops (and maintains) under stress, and his body is mere seconds away from slithering into pesky nausea; something inside him has without difficulty picked up on her growing anxiety, is hellbent on making his stomach perform clumsy somersaults. He hates it.
"Speaking of birthdays," she says, drifting into a cough before she continues, and although he has his back turned to her, still rather frozen in his spot, he can hear the nervous frown that he assumes is slowly but surely taking over her face. "Are we ever gonna talk about what happened on mine?"
"Hmm? Do you mean the table decoration?" Toby responds mechanically, shoveling sugar into her mug and then stirring it leisurely with the spoon. He keeps down what he would much rather say to her, keeps down his impromptu desire to flee, and adds, "Yeah, that was really corny."
"You know damn well what I mean."
"Do I?"
"We kissed," she states, and the lucid exasperation in her voice, the graspable despair, is enough to force a reaction out of him; he spins around in a half-circle to face her, brows drawn together, insides clenching, mind going empty, not knowing where this is going – really bad idea – which road she is planning on taking them on. "We kissed, and we probably would've done a lot more if… so are we ever going to talk about that?"
"I thought…" With a drawn-out sigh, he briefly lapses into silence (passionately clings to it like a lifeline as memories invade his head, memories of last Saturday and then memories of before that too, as he) looks off to the right, notices her yet again firmly crossed arms from the corner of his eye and quickly decides to follow suit. "I thought you didn't want to talk about it."
"When did I say that?" she questions, staring mostly at his cheek. "When?"
"You acted like everything was fine-"
"Only because you ignored me for days, and I thought-"
"Yeah, well, so did you-"
"I didn't," she slices into his accusation coolly, relenting only when he curves his eyebrow. "All right. Fine. I did ignore you. But now I'm not, so are we ever going to talk about it?"
"I don't… I don't know what you want me to say," he counters and rubs his forehead (as though in a stupid attempt to somehow rub unwelcome, unwanted thoughts out of it but, as he probably should have expected already, it's fruitless: first it's 'really bad idea' playing on an endless loop in his ears, and it's the feel of her skin underneath his palms that keeps returning to taunt him, and it's the sweet taste of her muffled approval blown into his willing mouth that he remembers, doesn't know how to forget and maybe never has).
"Honestly, I don't know what I want you to say either," she replies softly and frowns some more like she had hoped that he would take the lead. "I don't even know what I want me to say. I just, I want to talk about it. I feel like this is something that we should talk about."
"I, I, I don't know." He stutters, stumbles over his words like a fucking idiot and deeply breathes in to regain tranquility or at least a caricature of it. "I don't know if I'm supposed to apologize-"
"Why would you apologize?"
"Because… I don't know." Slouching against the fridge, he palms his chin and his mouth, half-concealing the truth (again? still?) but then, then he meets her honest, open gaze across the tiny kitchen. They are incredibly trusting, her beautiful eyes, way more trusting than he feels like he currently deserves, and he can't disappoint her (again? still?), can't lie to her face (again? still?) when she is standing right there, waiting for him to carry on, to give meaning. He finds calm in seemingly never-ending depths of brown, finds sudden bravery too, and suddenly finds himself admitting, "I don't regret it. I don't regret the kiss. And right now, I have no idea if you regret it. Because if you do, then I'll have to apologize. So do you want me to apologize? I mean, you, you act like nothing happened and you said it'd be a really bad idea and-"
"Because it would be. Okay?" Spencer releases a heavy, heavy breath, fingers combing through her bangs, and he feels strangely six years ago, as though they are discussing a decaying future and the fate of a nonexistent baby which turned out to be a late period and what ultimately broke for good what Charlotte, Mona and Rosewood itself hadn't achieved. "I'm sorry, but the way it all happened, it absolutely would have been a terrible idea."
Toby snorts through the ache scattering all over. "Okay. We moved from 'really bad' to 'terrible idea'. All right."
"You're not listening."
"I am listening."
"Well, you're not hearing then," she insists, shaking her head. "It's been six years, Toby. I don't regret it. I don't regret anything that happened that night even though I know I probably should, but it's been six years, okay? I just, I just feel like we deserve better than to… than to fuck it out against my living room wall. We deserve way more than that."
Regarding her – her eyes are alert though swimming in distress, and there are mere feet between them though they feel like miles – he crafts this painting where he falls down to his knees, begs the world for another chance, where they reach eventual catharsis unharmed, where things are easy and their history doesn't ache as much as it does, but despite the vibrant colors poking at his inner eye, despite the shapes and lines becoming alive in his quiet, all that will slip from his mouth is a desperate-sounding confession that would have tumbled onto the floor had she not reacted fast enough and managed to catch it inside her palms.
"I love you," he says – simple, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And her eyes, her eyes are still refusing to release the bittersweet anguish that they are holding captive, even when she takes a second to accept into her heart his first words of utter truth, gaze briefly widening in surprise, then growing soft once more. Finally, she says, all while attempting the tiniest yet weakest of smiles, "I know."
"I love you so much," he carries on, part of him quick to point out that the strange feeling within him hasn't faded, part of him quick to push that observation out of reach. "And I don't… I don't know if I ever stopped or, or if I ended up falling for you again because I have no idea what it's like to be with you and not love you, but I do. I love you, Spencer."
"I love you too," she echoes in the gentlest tone, gradually lowering her head to the floor (like she can't bear to look at him any longer when they are still separated by countless words unsaid, by distance untraveled, by endings unwritten) and though he becomes aware of the brief twinge of happiness, genuine happiness, stirring in his left, it's not quite the brilliant ecstasy, the needed resolution he had anticipated to obtain. It occurs to him, then, that he had never allowed himself to consciously ponder this very moment. He had gone through many a dramatic declaration of love in his fantasies, daydreamed about life together once the storm settles, constructed various potential futures they could have, but never had he hesitated and sat down to wonder how they would get there. It had always seemed like an afterthought, like something that would happen on its own, just like they had so naturally the first time: kisses and a heartfelt confession or perhaps confessions first, followed by heartfelt kisses. The stark contrast between the fantasy world, the ideal he has built (a happy-go-lucky version of what could be) and reality (the way it is, the way it was born out of mutual and individual hurt over the years) is sobering.
"I'm scared," Toby tells the kitchen floor.
"I'm fucking terrified," Spencer tells the stain on the wall over his head and emits a dry chuckle which, he has to admit, sounds real enough. "And the fact that this isn't going the way I thought it would, doesn't exactly help."
"I loved you more than anything. Six years ago," he begins meekly, scratching his chin. "Even when… even when I fucked up. Even after we broke up."
"I never doubted that." Disbelieving, he just – he just stares until she squares her shoulders and lifts the corner of her mouth into a sarcastic half-smirk (in surrender). "Okay. There were times where I might have doubted that, but retrospectively-"
"No, not 'retrospectively'. What if it happens again?" She picks up her mug, blows a tired sigh into her coffee, and he speaks into the kitchen, brows furrowed, tone quiet, as though convinced he will unintentionally tear through the vulnerable, open space between their bodies should he proclaim it too boldly or too loudly, "What if my love isn't enough? What if love isn't enough, period? I mean, it obviously wasn't enough last time." After holding back his words for so long, they are seemingly impossible to stop now; they flow from his mouth and he doesn't even know whether exorcising his fears is going to do them any good. "What if I hurt you again, Spencer? What if end up breaking your heart, again, by being incredibly stupid?"
"Why do you always act like you were the only reason we didn't work out?"
"Because if we don't work out this time, I just know it'll be my fault," he says, holding her stare and ignoring the dull ache in his guts. "I've hurt you more times than I can possibly count."
Spencer snorts. "Yeah, no, this is still a two-way street. I've made a fair share of mistakes. From 'screwing up everything' to 'making stuff infinitely worse' to 'lying' and 'cheating'."
Wordlessly, he watches her with a pained expression and a pained heart as she wipes at her eyes and wordlessly, he raises his arms a bit, offering sanctuary, and wordlessly yet again, he smooths his surprise when she decides to take it, promptly marches over to him, leans into his side, her head finding comfort against his shoulder. He coils his arms around her frame.
"Are we horrible people? Is that why this is happening?" she wonders, her tone weary. "Because when I thought about this moment, we were actually happy, and I, I don't feel very happy right now. Where do we go from here, Toby?"
"I don't know," he mumbles sincerely. The utter absurdity of their situation, however, is nearly enough to make him slide into laughter. She is right (and come to think about it, she always is, isn't she); it wasn't supposed to go down this way. He muses, with a little frown, that there must be another version of them somewhere that has most likely skipped this throbbing part of the conversation, hurriedly moved onto taking off clothes and climbing into sheets, and a different version of them has perhaps jogged through this talk while sporting smiles of total confidence, and yet they are this version right here, and it's this version that is still being circled by doubts and worries, paralyzed by what might go wrong instead of celebrating what wouldn't. Internally scowling, he firmly tells himself to stop continuously fleeing reality and repeats, "I don't know, Spence. What… what do you wanna do?"
Again, she snorts. "Well, depends. Do you want me to be honest or do you want me to lie?"
"Honest."
"I want to be with you," she admits in a whisper several tense beats later, and his hand, stroking her arm, comes to an abrupt, startling halt. He had tried bracing himself for a different kind of answer, a different kind of sensation jumping him at her words, and so, for a second and a half, he finds himself defenseless in her truth. He proceeds to stare at her profile with his reply stuck inside his throat like it is more than intent on staying there for good, ridiculously in love with a woman who is braver than he could ever be, and Spencer isn't returning his gaze but then again, he hadn't expected her to. It's too vulnerable a moment, the intimacy and their closeness too raw. Too real.
"I want a future together and figure out what that's going to entail." Sighing, she breaks off for a second, two seconds, three seconds to rest her palm on his chest, calming his trembling heart (like she had done last Saturday, but it feels different now; they feel different now). "This is the first time in years that I'm actually, actively trying to get my shit together and be happy instead of surviving another miserable month and I want to share that. I want to share that with you."
"For what it's worth, I do want the same thing, you know? I want a life with you and everything that comes with it." Gently, Toby falls quiet as he twirls a strand of brown hair around his finger and then adds, although he is aware that he perhaps shouldn't be saying aloud what he can tell from her scrunched-up features she is also relentlessly stewing over, "But that's what we wanted last time too… and look where we ended up."
As if on cue, she begins chewing on her thumbnail. Against his will, and horribly inappropriate too, a little smile creeps into Toby's face. "I just…I'm sorry but I really wanna laugh right now."
"Hm?"
Spencer shrugs. "I was convinced that saying 'I love you' again would be the only hard part but now I realize that I spent weeks freaking out over practically nothing when I should have been preparing myself for this conversation instead. It'd be hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic."
"Yeah, we have a thing for the dramatics, huh?" he responds warmly, tossing her the same smile that is still plastered over his face when she raises her head somewhat to look at him.
Though she reciprocates it, returns it easily, her eyes and lowered voice turn somber with what she asks next. "Do you think we're a lost cause?"
Toby shakes his head. "No."
"No?" Making a sound that is halfway between sarcastic chuckle and snort, she knits her brows together accusatorily. "You're supposed to say things the way they are," she remarks as she then untangles herself from Toby, unbothered when her absence noticeably fills him with a slight yet crushing shiver. She wraps her arms around her torso. "Not what you think I want to hear."
"When have I ever told you something just because it was what you wanted to hear?"
"I don't know." She pulls up her shoulders. "It's probably happened before."
"Well, maybe it has, but that's not what's happening now. I don't think we're a lost cause." Only after the sentence has succeeded in wiggling out of his mouth, Toby understands how true it is; there aren't many things, he recognizes, that he could speak openly with the same conviction currently awakening. "I'm… I mean, we're actually talking right now. And we actually stopped before we could do anything reckless last Saturday. Which is more than you can say for us, six years ago."
He has this fantasy where their galaxies clash and stars are reborn; and he has this fantasy where they get caught in another whirlwind romance, another set of unstable theatrics with dramatic speeches given (in the middle of town, a rundown diner, the Hastings' living room) and dramatic gestures made (in front of her house, intertwined into false promises of loyalty to Mona, left on her kitchen counter) in an attempt to erase the endless pain he has caused, in an attempt to prove his endless love and dedication; and he has this fantasy where they left her dorm that day, hand in hand, heart in heart, and somehow survived.
With a low groan rumbling in the back of his throat, Toby pushes them away, squeezes his eyes shut for a beat or so and luckily, it works (for a beat or so). "I don't wanna be friends," he admits to her quietly, sinking his gaze (in shame) to inspect his shoelaces. Curiously, she glances at his cheek. "Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather, I'd much rather pretend that none of this happened and continue being your friend than lose you for good but I'm, this entire friends thing? I don't think that was a good idea, to be honest."
"I know." Spencer produces a slight laugh that transforms into a faint sniffle. "You were right. I should've listened to you."
Hesitantly, he puts his hand on her shoulder. She lets him. "I'm glad you didn't."
"Me too." She turns to look at him from under her lashes in silent wonder. Once more hesitant but mostly bold (enough) under her scrutiny, under the affection, devotion, the softness rising in her glance like the sun, he takes the hand on her shoulder and goes to cup her cheek. Warmth flows through his veins, melts away his fears, when she all but intuitively leans into his palm.
"Look at us, we're a mess," he tells her, half-smirking rather self-deprecatingly. "We didn't only complicate our friendship. We even managed to somehow complicate… this."
"Let me unravel it then," she responds, copying his smirk, one hand over his hand (and yet one invisible hand over his heart). "You love me. I love you. We both want a life together and we're both fucking terrified. How's that? Did I get everything?"
"I think that's about it. That's where we're at right now."
"Mhm." Tilting her head to the side, she looks at him like she isn't sure whether she is supposed to laugh or cry and oddly enough, Toby feels the same. "So what do we do now?"
What do we do now?
He has this fantasy where they find a map to their own happily ever after and sadness becomes a distant faraway memory whose distinct taste they learn to forget; and he has this fantasy where they leave Massachusetts and move onto unknown worlds that their demons can't follow them to; and he has this fantasy where they build a house on clouds and grow love like pretty flowers and prettier trees in their garden… but when Spencer tenderly pulls him down to her level, rests her forehead against his, her eyelids fluttering shut as she exhales a shaky breath he feels on his skin, they disappear, fade into oblivion. Lightly, he frames her face with his hands, his fingertips digging into the back of her neck desperately, and releases his breath too, releases his dread into the void of yesterday.
What do we do now?
Suddenly stripped bare, with their doubts, their dreams, their countless fantasy worlds removed, hastily shrugged off, like items of clothing bunched around their feet, it's reality that they have to confront now, it's reality that they have to call home now, and it's in reality, Toby adds, that they are just that: two people terribly in love who want to be terribly happy.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"We'll make it work this time."
"Okay."
"It'll be different this time."
Six years of hopeless yearning start crumbling, and six years of hopeless dreams find their death when Toby leans in, brushes his mouth against hers; and a future, a new future, a different future that is yet to be woven, yet to be fully constructed together, is what replaces them when Spencer breathes through her tears or his tears or their tears and kisses him back.
"We'll be happier this time."
A slow, certain, trusting nod. "We'll be happier this time."
And somehow, somehow that's enough.
