AN: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews and support! I'm so glad you're enjoying it, and it's especially nice to read that some of you like Tom's mixtape (or "playlist," for those of you BORN in the '90s. ha). I'm definitely planning on coming up with more for this story.

June 1993

For once, the Rough Riders are having a good rehearsal. Sybil hates to spoil it.

During their first break, however, Gwen puts their loosely pre-arranged plan into action by remarking, "I wish practice could always be like this."

"Yeah, we're on fire tonight," Ethel enthuses. Does she truly not realize it's her? Sybil wonders.

Gwen tosses a lock of ginger hair out of her eyes and delivers the line for which she's been screwing up her courage. "Seems we've been falling off lately, though. You've been arsed a lot. It's affecting your playing."

Ethel sighs and does what Sybil has come to think of as "her Ethel thing": deflecting uncomfortable statements by dramatically waving her hands around and speaking in a sing-song voice. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I've been dealing with a lot of shit."

"Why didn't you say?" Sybil breaks in as gently as she can. "We're here, you know. You can talk to us."

"Ethel, we're your friends. We both love you," Gwen says soothingly. "We don't like to see you hurting yourself." Her voice hardens. "But if you want to be in a band with me and Sybil, you'll have to pull your weight. And you haven't been."

Ethel gets to her feet. "What is this?" she asks plaintively. "You've been talking about me? Is this an intervention or something?"

Sybil snorts. "Nothing that cheesy."

"No," Ethel retorts. "No. That's what this is. The both of you, you've been...plotting." her voice breaks.

"Ethel!" Gwen stands up, reaches out to her.

"Don't fucking touch me!" She waves Gwen's hands away and stalks out the door of the practice room, a garagelike space in a block of storage units. Gwen and Sybil hear her steps crunching away on the gravel outside.

Sybil heaves a sigh. "That went well."

-ooo-

There are plenty of long stretches of road in England. When it's Tom's turn to drive, or when he should be napping in the back seat of the van, he lets his eyes roam over the sheep-fields and thinks about Sybil.

Over several days, his thoughts coalesce around a simple truth: he's in love with her. Deeply. Irretrievably. His heart is hers. He hopes that she is willing to take care of it, and that some part of hers might belong to him.

What he most wants is to get back.

-ooo-

Meanwhile, Sybil is busy. At first she's horny and busy, and then she's just busy. For her sex is like sugar: after a period of abstinence, she doesn't crave it as much. Not to say that she doesn't think about it, or about Tom. In fact, the more Sybil's carnal desires subside, the more she contemplates their relationship, if that's truly what it is. She's been so careful to keep it free of labels and expectations. He's not her boyfriend. Or more to the point: she's not his girlfriend. But increasingly she's wondering whether her attitude reflects the current reality.

She remembers most of the things she said on the night before he left. Her words hung about the next morning, once she and Tom got up to start their day. They were unwelcome guests at breakfast; they butted in at the muted farewells early in the afternoon, creating a reserve that wasn't there before. The E was a mistake, she decides. It made things seem so simple: if you felt like saying something, why not say it? What was there to be afraid of? But it wore off, and life is still complicated: even more so, she fears, now that she's made declarations she can't take back. She's learning that words are seldom without consequence.

However, she's got too much to do to spend much time ruminating. Her volunteer schedule is as full as ever; at her mother's insistence, she's researching career paths and graduate schools; and she's decided that the Rough Riders will record a proper demo, just as soon as she and Gwen can convince Ethel to a) forgive them and b) stop getting pissed every night. She's swamped.

-ooo-

The distance erodes Tom's confidence. During his stints as passenger he writes her ardent letters, all of which end up in the bin. What he actually sends are postcards. He buys the most touristy ones he can find, scrawling them with brief, wry missives.

A view of the Dales, with a picturesque village in the middleground: Went fellwalking after drinking 16 lagers last night. Fun!

A photograph of Newcastle Cathedral: Gorgeous place. We would've gone inside, but we were afraid we'd burst into flames.

When a gig goes well, he mentions that. The kids loved us last night. I think Hinksy may have finally realised his dream of having a threesome after the show.

When it goes poorly, he complains good-naturedly. Played to a grand total of two and a half people: the bartender, the sound man, and a drunk passed out with his head on the bar.

He signs off on each one: Miss you. Tom.

-ooo-

She wasn't expecting to feel so insecure in him. Whenever they were together he was fully present, very much with her. But if she starting to have trouble calling to mind the timbre of his voice, the way his jaw sets when he reads the paper, it stands to reason that he's having similar lapses of memory. And it seems to her that he's communicating very little about what he's actually up to, which naturally leads her to wonder what he's leaving out of his cheeky little postcards.

He rings her up a few nights after leaving, but their conversation is short and unsatisfying. He's in a pay phone in a loud pub. Between the music and some drunk cow screeching in the background, they can scarcely hear each other. After the fourth round of "What?!" and "Say that again?" He tells her (she thinks) that he'll try again tomorrow, hopefully from somewhere quieter, and rings off. She doesn't get another call from him that fortnight.

She listens to his tape over and over, rereads the label written out in forward-leaning black-inked block letters, attempting to parse song titles and what lyrics she can make out. Exactly what depth of feeling do the words "feed me with your kiss" imply? Is "you are not what you own" a subtle dig at her family, or merely an expression of Tom's life philosophy? Maybe he just thought she'd like the beat. She starts to feel like she's going a little barmy.

She has a list of the more important stops on the tour, and develops the rather sentimental notion of posting him a letter at one of them. She can't imagine what she'd write to him, though. A postcard from Leeds: Things are the same as ever here, Miss you, Sybil? She's too unsure to put her real feelings into words, but it never occurs to her that Tom could be experiencing the same doubts. There's really only one thing she can send him. Not a postcard, but an oblique message in song.

-ooo-

June 1993: Second week of tour

They arrive in Bristol late and in foul moods. It's pissing down rain and they missed a turn earlier, driving for an hour in the wrong direction. Now they've barely got time to load in and get set up.

Tom goes to the bar just before they're to start playing and orders a Carlsberg and a shot of Bushmills. He's watching his pennies, but it's been a shit day and he's soaked to the skin from loading equipment in the rain. He needs a bit of warmth in his belly.

"You want to start a tab, mate?" The bartender asks, in an accent that sounds like he's swallowing his tongue.

He's forgotten his wallet on the stage. "Sure. Name's Tom."

This seems to trigger something in the bloke's memory. "Tom. It's not Tom Branson, is it?" Tom assents with a nod. "And your band's called Sack Thatcher?"

"Right," Tom says wearily. Just give me my sodding drink already.

"Got something in the post for you a few days ago." The bartender gives him a quizzical look, turns and fiddles around in a pile of papers and debris below the rows of bottles. He comes back with a small padded parcel.

It's addressed to Tom Branson (Sack Thatcher), care of the Red Gryphon in Sybil's neat round printing. A little jolt of adrenaline shoots through Tom. "Cheers, mate!" he exclaims.

The bartender looks taken aback at Tom's sudden sunniness. "Don't mention it," he mutters, and turns to attend to his next customer.

Just then Hinksy bellows from the stage. "Tommy! Down the hatch and get the fuck up here!"

Tom bolts his whiskey and carries his lager - and his parcel - to the stage, stowing the package safely in his backpack.

They play a decent enough set - good crowd. As soon as they've finished loading out he climbs into the van's front seat and slits the parcel open with his Swiss army knife.

It's a cassette, wrapped for protection in a green silk scarf.

The label is closely written in the same hand as the address on the package. Tom grins and slots the tape into the van's player. He holds the scarf to his face and inhales, fancying that he can smell her scent.

-To Be Continued-

Appendix B

Track List: Soundtrack for (the first 100 miles of) a 1,000 mile drive
(Sybil's mixtape for Tom)

Beat Happening: "Me Untamed"
Sonic Youth: "Kool Thing"
Unwound: "Valentine Card"
Slowdive: "40 Days"
X: "You"
Siouxsie and the Banshees: "Love in a Void
My Bloody Valentine: "Only Shallow"
The Pixies: "Bone Machine"
Blondie: "Call Me"
The Breeders: "Glorious"
PJ Harvey: "50 Ft. Queenie"
The Vaselines: "Dying for It"
Huggy Bear: "Fuck Yr. Heart"
The Modern Lovers: "I Wanna Sleep in Your Arms"