July 4, 2000

What a bust of a Fourth of July party this is. No, not a bust, it's not like anything's actually happened . . . well, that's sort of the point. It's just so blah. Lifeless. . . old.

Let's see. First, she was hoping Rachel would be back for the Fourth. She's coming back to LA for a job at LACMA. Juliet is thrilled. THRILLED. She's trying not to make too big a deal of it, but it's always made her uneasy having Rachel so far away. She's done the "separation from Rachel" bit before, even if it was a different Rachel, and she does not like it. No. The job doesn't start until August, though, and Rachel's decided to spend the rest of the summer at her internship in New York City.

She called this morning, all excited about some big party she's going to, a barge in the river, watching the fireworks with the city in the background. It sounds very fun, very exciting, and Juliet reminds herself not to be jealous.

Jimmy was here with three friends earlier. That actually livened things up for a bit. They ate burgers, wolfed down chips, snickered a lot, pounded each other on the back some, laughed at inside jokes. Then they were off to some beach bonfire party where, apparently, there were going to be girls. Lots of talk among the boys (men? Is Jimmy technically a "man" now?) about various girls (women?) who were rumored to be attending the party, what they'd be wearing (bikini tops were hoped for - especially a Mandy who . . . "Man, that chick is stacked." And the guys guffawed and slapped fives). There's talk about some "Sophie," who's apparently really hoping Jimmy comes to the bonfire, and this is the first Juliet's ever heard about this Sophie person.

Their last bites of pie probably hadn't reached their stomachs when they pounded out.

"Thanks, Ma," said Jimmy, holding her head, kissing her on the temple.

"Yeah, thanks Mrs. L!" shouted the other boys (sorry, they aren't men yet, not yet), and zoomed off in Jimmy's Jeep (used to be Rachel's – a gift from Miles, and she can't believe he's still on this kick all these years later).

Juliet's no dummy. She just got used. A bunch of college boys just used her for free meals. That left the old folks for their lame, boring snooze of a party. AARP sponsored. And here they sit. Snoozefest.

Miles and his awful girlfriend. OK, not fair, not fair. As far as Miles Girlfriends go, this one's not too bad. Age appropriate. No bizarre piercings (as far as Juliet can see). She didn't put the moves on Jimmy like that woman Miles brought over on New Year's. No, this one is just . . .boring. She's an agrarian. Right? No, not that. Wrong word. An agronomist? Something. She analyzes crop yields. Apparently, in addition to analyzing them, she talks about them. And nothing else. Soybeans. Apparently that's her big thing now.

Then Miles starts complaining about his financial manager. Here we go . . . yep. In addition to being old, they're also rich. Old rich white (Miles excluded) people. What a snooze. Miles is going on and on about getting soaked by this guy, this accountant, and Juliet appreciates that James is holding up the conversation. Asking how Miles hooked up with the guy in the first place. How much did he take. Where is he now. Blah blah blah blah. Maybe they can finish this up and move on to the exciting topic of James' sciatica flare up.

She rarely wishes they were back on the Island. Doesn't wish that now, but, well . . . couldn't they be young again for one night? It's 2000, for crying out loud, she's supposed to be 29. Instead, she's listening to Miles, with his fringe of hair, and when's he just going to give up the ghost and shave it all off, "ala John Locke," as James calls it. She shouldn't judge; she held on to the blonde long past its natural expiration date. Her colorist convinced her she should go natural gray. "I think you'd have gorgeous gray hair." She supposes she does – she gets compliments all the time. It's a pretty silver, not dingy or yellowish, and, OK, she's maybe a little vain about it, but the bottom line is, it's gray. James's "silver fox" comments aside, it's gray gray gray. Just like this "party."

Miles pauses from his money manager complaints, James is just staring at him, so that gives . . . (should Juliet even bother learning this one's name?). . . the crop lady a chance to slip in a word about cabbage futures. Moving on from soybeans.

Juliet checks out mentally. Imagines a Dharma party. Miles with some girl (some things never change, she guesses). Jin. Everyone just a little bit tipsy. Maybe after everyone left, she and James would have sex right there on the kitchen table (OK, that was only the one time, but still . . .). She glances his direction now, lets her imagination run wild, but since there's that sciatica flare up... God, so damn old.

Miles and crop girl don't even stay long enough to watch the fireworks. They're pretty great from the roof. But, since everyone's gone, James doesn't see the point in climbing up there. He's out on the deck, smoking a cigar. She's all ready for bed now, so she steps out to let him know. He stubs the cigar out right quick. He's not halfway in, and she knows it's probably a $50 cigar, but, hey, money's good for something right?

"Going on up to bed," she tells him.

He nods. He's very still. Concerned about something, she can tell. He's actually been kind of subdued most of the night, now that she thinks about it. Well, not all night. He was having a ball egging the boys on about the girls, especially stacked Mandy, they were going to see at their party. He was fine then. Is he just in a "when did we get so old" funk like she is? If so, well, she's pretty sure it'll pass. It always passes. Because getting old? Watching your kids grow up? I mean, that's kind of the point, isn't it? Better than the alternative.

"Everything OK?" she asks him.

He's staring up at the sky. "I think we gotta stick it to Miles' accountant."

This again? And, God help her, she knows how awful it sounds, cringes as the thought formulates in her brain and escapes her mouth, but she actually says, "Come on, James, it's just a couple hundred thousand dollars. Miles will be fine." And just because she doesn't want to sound like the silver-haired rich bitch she often fears she's becoming, she also tries a practical argument. "Besides, you heard Miles, he doesn't have the first clue where the guy's run off to."

"I don't know where he's run off to now, but I know where he'll be starting later this summer."

"Yeah? Where's that?"

"California State Pen."

They stare at each other for an extended period.

"This is one of those 'what happened, happened' things, isn't it?" she finally asks.

"An important one," he says.

He hadn't been paying too much attention at dinner. Miles' latest chick was insanely boring. What the fuck was she going on about? Soybeans? Really? James zoned out. Then Miles started complaining about losing some money. Thank the lord. No more soybean talk. Somethin' about a financial planner ripping him off or something. Soybean lady looked like she was about to pipe in with some more discussion of shit (literally – fertilizers were where they left off). Juliet was sitting with her head in her right hand, squeezing her temples. World's boringest dinner party? Maybe.

James would do anything to keep the soybean lady out of the conversation, so he started asking Miles about the accountant.

"Damn, I should've known not to trust that George Costanza-looking creep," Miles said, and every nerve ending in James' body lit up. Sciatic nerve and all. James plied him with a few more questions. No doubt about it, it's Munson.

Lucky for James, Miles and Soybean lady called it an early night (maybe she's a hit in the sack, James thought, hoping he'd never have to see her again). Miles left behind a gift-wrapped package. "That's a welcome home gift for Rachel. Thought she was supposed to be back."

"Do I even have to guess what it is?"

"Nope."

It's some kind of Jeep toy, accessory, maybe even a t-shirt with a Jeep logo. Rachel thinks it's her special joke with Uncle Miles. Joke's on her.

"Jesus, Miles. It's been more'n 20 years. It ain't funny anymore."

"Funnier, actually," said Miles. "Ha. You two old folks, pillars of the community. Ha."

"Later, Enos," he waved Miles out the door.

Juliet then wandered off wherever, and James took off for the back deck for some alone time with a good cigar. He needed to think this one out.

Jimmy won't be home until his curfew at 2:30. Hell, they'll be sound asleep by then, and what are the chances Jimmy actually comes home in time? James wonders if he's more lenient with Jimmy because he's a guy, or if it's because he's second. Both, probably. He remembers that massive dust-up with Rachel . . . has it been almost four years now?

She's home for fall break freshman year, and has a boy with her. He has real skinny black jeans, and funky wristbands, and spiky black hair. And maybe some eye makeup. James would think he's queer, except the way he looks at Rachel. Where he looks at her. James is pretending he's cool with this, last year's purple hair incident still fresh in his mind. Ain't gonna make a big deal about this Duran Duran lookin' fella. He'll be history by spring break anyway.

The airline calls and the doofus boyfriend goes into the other room. It's about his missing bags. Wonder what he keeps in there, thinks James. More hair gel? So it's just James and Rachel in the kitchen.

"Daddy, Hunt and I are both going to stay in my bedroom, OK?"

"Like hell. Got the guest bedroom all set up for him and everything."

She rolls her eyes. "You know I stay at his apartment all the time."

No, no, he does NOT know this (does Juliet? Had he missed this?). He huffs, runs his fingers through his hair, grits his teeth, sneers. He's trying to keep a lid on it. Rachel can tell, so she eggs him on.

"Ooooooooh. Premarital sex, Dad. Does it scare you?"

"As long as I got anything to say about it, it ain't happenin' here."

"Hypocrite," she coughs.

"Watch it, young lady."

"Oh, come off it, Dad! I'm not an idiot. And I may be an artist, but I can do simple math. I know when my birthday is. I know when your anniversary is. So, why don't you just get down off your high horse?"

"Totally different situation, sweetheart." Understatement of the year.

And, well, let's not dive too deep into this, all right? Truth is, even the anniversary is a made up date. Well, kinda. December 19, 1977. It's important and all, but, well . . . ain't a wedding anniversary or nothin'. Kids think it is, but the truth is, well, the truth is . . . they aren't married. Sure, they wear rings, and, yes, share the same (made up) last name, and refer to each other as "husband and wife," but, no, they never actually got married. How could they? Kinda hard to get a marriage certificate when you're technically eight and six.

Rachel huffs. "Well, what is it that scares you then? What's the worst that could happen? Unplanned pregnancy? Wooooooh boy. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

"World a difference between unplanned and unwanted, princess."

"Like you would know."

She's beautiful. She's talented and smart and kind and funny, and most of the time it makes his heart swell to about bursting that someone like that could take after him. He hears it all the time, has heard it for nearly 19 years. Little girl's just like you, LaFleur. There are times (like this, like the fight with the purple hair, like so many other times he could name) where it drives him fucking batty how much she's like him. How she likes to pick fights. Doesn't put up with bullshit. Calls 'em like she sees 'em.

Like you would know. Damn. Damn. He's the certified goddamn expert on the difference between unplanned and unwanted.

Juliet picks this moment to walk into the kitchen. James is still adjusting to her new look. She's decided to go all gray. It's actually pretty good looking, and he ain't just sayin' it. In his mind, she's always looked best when it's natural and effortless, and that's it now. Problem is coming up with a whole new nickname, and "Gray Goose" did NOT go over well.

"Mom, Dad says Hunt has to stay in the guest bedroom."

Juliet looks to her, slides her eyes over to James. "Your father's right."

Rachel pouts. "I knew you'd take his side!"

Argument over, though. Rachel flounces out. Jimmy walks in. And when the hell did he get home? Wasn't he out playing ball with a buddy? "She'll probably sleep with him now just to prove a point," Jimmy remarks. He's dripping sweat, pulling a Gatorade bottle from the fridge.

"Take a shower, Jim-bo. You stink."

They have no fucking clue, the two of them. They just assume this is how life it. Mom and Dad will always be there to patch up their scrapes, soothe their broken hearts, cheer at their games, wave at their graduations. It just ain't like that for everybody, and they've got no fucking clue what that's like. God, he's glad they don't. This is the life he wants for them, but there's another little girl . . .not even born yet, and with every first step and training wheel removal and first day of school and scout meeting and dance recital… every one just reminds him of that poor girl.

He imagines finding her, setting her down on the couch with Jimmy and Rachel and giving a master course on the difference between unwanted and unplanned. Hell, Jimmy could be excused, since he ain't either.

All right, class, let's dim the lights.

First slide.

Unwanted: You're screwing this chick, and let's be completely honest. You like her. You really do. She's fun, nice, decent. How could you not like her? But you don't like her quite enough to walk away. Nope. If you liked her enough, you'd leave without taking a dime. Deal with the consequences later. And when she slaps down a picture of a baby and says it's yours? Well, that's unwanted. That's just a reminder you're just one big fucking huge liar and you want absolutely nothing to do with this reminder of what an asshole you are.

Next slide, please.

Unplanned: So, let's face it, you can't be careful every damn time. And spontaneity can be fucking hot. You have this idea that maybe you should be more careful, but you know what? Even if it does happen, would that really be the worst thing in the world? Or at least that's kinda what you tell yourself because you really, really, really wanna be doing it right now. And when you find out that, oops, I guess maybe you probably should've been more careful? Well, that's unplanned. Then your legs don't quite work right anymore, and your heart starts hammering in your chest, and you gotta grit your teeth to choke back tears, because . . . well, HOLY SHIT. This is pretty damn amazing and cool and sometimes second chances do come around. Maybe he don't know how, but he's gonna be the best damn dad he can be.

The End. Any questions, class?

Rachel and Jimmy. They got no fucking clue how lucky they are. And they were lucky way before the money started coming in.

And now he thinks it ain't a coincidence that fat fuck Munson is Miles' accountant. How can it be? See, James pretty much buys in to this "whatever happened, happened," bit. Especially after he went and had that grant meeting with Baby Juliet two years ago. Kinda hard to argue with "whatever happened, happened" anymore. He hates it means that he's still gonna con Cassidy, but it's comforting to know it means he's still gonna get that prison money to Clementine.

Now, though, he realizes it is gonna require a little bit more work. When can they stop making sure things happen the way they're supposed to and just live? When the plane crashes?

The sliding door from the house opens, and he stubs out his cigar. She knows it's what he does out here from time to time, but he knows she doesn't like it. It's not lost on her that something's bugging him. So, he explains: Miles and Munson and blah blah blah.

"This is one of those 'what happened, happened' things, isn't it?" she asks him.

"An important one," he says.

She leans back against the deck railing with him, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the sky. He can't see her face, but figures she's giving the worried "when can we stop making things happen" look.

She asks, "So, what? We're just supposed to waltz into the prison and ask them to do a small favor for us?"

"Ain't figured it out yet."

"We could donate money. Then they'd owe us a favor."

"I suppose…"

Back in prison there were always rich do-gooders donating crap. . . Son of a bitch.

"Sonofabitch. Son! Of! A! Bitch!" He starts laughing. Oh, this is rich.

She turns to him now. "Wanna fill me in?"

"Remember how we first got to be friends?"

"Surviving time shifts?"

"I mean in Dharma. Remember how we got to talking, and we'd read all the same books? I think that's when I went from thinkin' you were kinda all right to fallin' in love with you."

"And?"

"And I read all those books in prison. Some rich family donated them all."

Son of a bitch.