Travis is on time – more than that, he's early. He knows better than to show up late for Charlotte. She doesn't like late; never has. He's never really been sure if it's something she inherited from her Momma or if she's just so damned busy that every minute counts. Regardless, he's getting them a table at a little cafe in Santa Monica ten minutes before the time they agreed to meet, and about two minutes before she texts to tell him she is running late. Held up at work. She'll be frazzled, he thinks, so he orders her a water with lemon and a glass of Chardonnay when their waiter stops by.

He's not quite sure what to think of all this yet – being on speaking terms with Lola again – but he knows he likes it. Knows he's grateful. When he finally signed their divorce papers six years ago (and six months after she'd served them – he'd been convinced he could get her to come around if he just gave her some time), he was pretty certain he'd never see her again. She'd already made her plans to move out West, and he wasn't dumb. He knew it was to put even more distance between them than the miles between Atlanta and Decatur. Turned out giving her space hadn't helped her come around after all. But that was just as well; some betrayals shouldn't be forgiven.

He wishes he'd had a better answer for her when she called. Wishes he could have explained why he did what he did, but he can't. His memories of that night are spotty; all he remembers clearly is fighting with her, saying awful things that he didn't mean, drinking his whiskey straight, calling Trish. After that, he has moments of perfect focus, and a lot of blurry in-between. He remembers them talking, but is short on the specifics. He can't remember who kissed who first, but he remembers it getting out of hand, fast. Clothes flying, hands groping, and then the clatter of Charlotte's keys hitting the hardwood as she walked in and saw him like that. And he remembers her face. He'll never forget that face. Stunned and horrified and so hurt. He remembers scrambling off of Trish, tripping over the pants still caught around his ankles, and the picture that fell off the wall when Charlotte slammed the door behind her as she left again without a word. He remembers that she tore out of the drive so fast her tires squealed, and he was worried she wouldn't make it safely to wherever she was going. He's pretty certain he left her no less than five drunken voicemails after kicking Trish out, but all he got for his trouble was a little brother pounding down his door and then pounding his face so hard he spent the rest of the night nursing a broken nose. He hadn't bothered to hit back – he knew he deserved it.

Todd had told him now much of an idiot he was, and to sober the hell up and start working on apologies, and to leave her be for a few days. Then he'd gone up to Lola's room, packed a week's worth of her clothes in a bag, and headed back to Jen's.

Travis had given her three days, then tried calling again. She never took his call. He left more voicemails, begged and pleaded and apologized, but Charlotte Evans had her pride and it apparently didn't stand for things like low-down cheaters. The next time he'd seen her was three weeks later, with divorce papers in her hand. Forgiveness was not on the table. Not for him. Not after what he did. Not then.

So to say he's surprised to have gotten it now – grateful to have gotten it now – that's an understatement. It's a second chance he never thought he'd have, and he's not looking for anything more than friendship from her, but he'll be damned if he's going to just walk away if he can have even that. So he'll meet her for milkshakes in the dead of night, and he'll talk her into lunch on a Monday afternoon, because maybe, just maybe, he'll be able to look at her one day and not feel the sour taste of regret.

He's picking absently at the bread on the table and marinating in his own guilt just a little bit when she rushes in, frazzled just as he thought she'd be. The hostess points her toward his table, and Travis takes in the sight of her – a far cry today from the sweats-and-no-makeup Charlotte he saw at midnight, though she still looks tired. But now she's all polished and pretty, in a sleek blouse and pencil skirt, those tanned legs he always loved so much ending in a pair of black stilettos that he thinks would look even better with a whole lot less clothing. It seems completely impractical for her job, but still sexy as hell. LA has treated her well.

He makes his way back to her face when she's almost to the table (she's prettiest without makeup, he thinks, but she certainly looks smokin' today), meets her eyes and smiles.

"Well, look at you," he says by way of greeting, and whatever she'd opened her mouth to say dies on her lips.

She snaps her mouth shut, eyes him a little warily and asks, "What?"

"You look good. Very professional."

"Well," she takes her seat with a little shrug. "Queen Bee and all that."

"You wear that at the hospital?" he questions with a raise of his brows. "Last I saw you, you were working in scrubs and tennis shoes."

"Well, I've moved up in world," she reminds, reaching for her wine now that she's settled. She takes a sip, and closes her eyes for a second, hums her approval. Travis smiles smugly. Got that one right. "Bless you," she murmurs, lifting her glass a little and smiling at him. "Sorry I'm late."

Travis just shrugs. "Savin' lives, I'm sure. Can't really fault you for that."

"Something that like that," she mutters, taking another sip before setting her wine aside and reaching for the menu. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm starving."

"No, by all means," he tells her. "Peruse away." He already knows what he's getting, so while she studies her options, he studies her. She's thinner than he remembers, and she was always a bit of a beanpole to begin with so that's sayin' something. He has the overwhelming urge to fix her something that'll stick to her ribs a bit, and it gets even worse when the waiter comes to take their order and she gets a salad. Travis orders a burger and fries, and another Coke.

When the waiter leaves, he makes a face at her. "Thought you were starving."

"I am."

"Then what's with the rabbit food?"

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "Maybe I like rabbit food. Besides, I seem to recall someone at this table making a pretty mean salad, and we both know it sure as hell wasn't me."

He chuckles at that – he always was the cook in their household. She was too busy with school and work to really have time, and he was raised to appreciate both good cooking, and the act of making it. Charlotte was raised to appreciate good food on her plate, but had never had much of a clue how to get it there. "Oh, please tell me you finally learned how to cook," he says, shaking his head at her good-naturedly.

"Now, why would I do that when I have a functioning microwave and I'm surrounded by all these restaurants with take-out menus?"

Travis groans. "Lola. You're grown, you oughtta be able to cook for yourself. You let me come by and teach you to make something, okay? Chicken, a good steak, hell, a salad that'll stick to you a little. Somethin'. Anything."

She's eyeing him a little warily – smile firmly in place, but there's something hesitant in the eyes, before she says to him, "I suppose I could be persuaded. If lunch goes well."

"Well then, we'll have to make sure it goes well, else I'll have to worry about you wastin' away on your own." He smirks a little, swallows the last of his Coke.

"Made it the last six years," she points out, sipping her wine again before reaching for a piece of bread. He's pleased to see six years in LaLa Land hasn't instilled in her a fear of carbs. Or butter, apparently, because she slathers on a generous layer before she bites in. Some things never change.

He's tempted to rib her half-seriously about being too skinny, but she never did like when he did that and he's not sure how tenuous this new peace is between them. Best not to rock it. So he smiles at her, shrugs a shoulder. "Guess you did. Still."

She's got a mouthful of bread, rolls her eyes at him again and holds up a finger to keep him quiet. When she swallows, she says, "I'm eating just fine, thank you. You're like the damned food police. Can't say I missed that."

Travis just scoffs. "Please. If I wasn't the 'damned food police' you'd have starved to death during your internship." She shrugs and quirks an eyebrow, ceding the point. "Old habits die hard."

"Seems so." She's relaxing a little now, finally, settling in a bit. Her smile seems to come easier. "So, Food Officer Evans, how are you enjoying Los Angeles?"

"Like it just fine, but I've been here before."

She looks a little surprised at that, then seems to catch herself. "Oh. A lot?"

"Few times."

"Oh. I, uh..." She flounders for a minute, then shakes her head, and he figures she's trying to wrap her brain around him being in the same city as her without her knowing time and time again. He'd been tempted to look her up every time, but without so much as a word from her in years, he'd figured she was a lost cause and that trying to get back in touch would only hurt her. And he wanted to be done hurting her.

"Mostly for work," he tells her. "But I like it alright. Traffic's a bitch, and the people are a little more plastic than I like 'em, but it's not bad. Not somewhere I'd want to spend forever, but it's nice to visit."

"Can't beat the weather, though," she points out, seemingly recovered from her moment of embarrassment.

"No, the weather definitely doesn't suck," he agreed. "Not sure how I'd feel about the earthquakes, but-" he shrugs, "I guess it's a trade-off, right?"

"There's always a trade-off – like peaches and good Southern cooking, and hurricanes. Gotta put up with one in order to keep the other, right?"

Travis chuckles a little, nods his head. The waiter brings his Coke, and he takes a few swallows while Lola reaches for another piece of bread. "So how about you?" he asks, after a minute. "How do you like LA?"

"It's good. I've got a good job – a couple of good jobs, actually. I'm the youngest Chief-of-Staff ever at my hospital; Big Daddy was very proud." She smiles then, the smile of a proud daughter, and Travis was about to give his condolences, but he doesn't want to dampen the mood. Let her preen a bit first – he can always get to the 'I'm so sorry for your loss' stuff another time.

"I bet. You like your staff, they like you?"

Charlotte snorts a laugh, shakes her head. "Not at all. They hate me. They think I'm a terror. But hell, it gets things done, right?" If he didn't know her better, he'd think she wasn't bothered by it at all, but there's something in the eyes that doesn't go unnoticed.

"Inherited the King hardass gene, huh?"

"Oh, like you didn't already know that."

Travis chuckles. "Yeah. I certainly did. But you get more flies with honey, and all that."

Her smile is a little more rueful now, and she shifts a shoulder uncomfortably. "Work was my... coping mechanism. It kept my mind off of – I, uh – The divorce really – I guess I just wasn't feeling very friendly at first." He watches her try to make her words work for her, and feels a twinge of guilt in his chest. She's either trying to spare his feelings, or her pride, or both, but it's pretty clear what she's trying to get out: getting her heart broken – by him – made her hard. Shut her down. He reaches for his Coke again, just to give himself something to do that doesn't involve looking her in the eye. "So I didn't make a lot of friends, and then I had a bit of a reputation for being... less than kind." She takes a deep breath, smoothes the edge her of napkin with her thumb. "But it got me promoted several times, so I guess it pays to be ruthless now and then. You don't get to the top by making friends; you do it by getting shit done."

Travis chuckles dryly. "Yeah. Guess that's true now and again."

"True for me."

"Well, then." He lifts his glass off the table, nods at her. "To gettin' shit done."

Lola laughs a little, taps her wine glass to his, and he's just glad she's smiling. Then she says, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I made my choices," and he remembers he's not the only one who's reading old tells from across the table.

"I just hate that I hurt you so bad, junebug," he tells her, sipping again before setting his glass down, thinking this conversation would be easier with a shot of whiskey in the glass. Then again, whiskey and hard talks with Charlotte are sort of what got them here, so maybe not.

"Can't change it now," she says, and her voice is softer than he's heard it in all the time they've been talkin' again. She reaches across the table, hesitates only a little bit as she laces her fingers with his and squeezes. "I forgave you, remember? It happened, and we can't undo it. So stop. My life's not all that bad. Promise. Sucks a bit right now, but that's because someone else is being a selfish ass, not because of you. You've actually been a pretty good distraction. It's nice to have something to look forward to again."

He smiles a little at that, squeezes back. "You look forward to me, huh?"

"I do." She draws her hand back, smirking. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Oh, I will."

Charlotte laughs and rolls her eyes, and he can't help grinning at her. He always did love that laugh. "I just bet."

For a second they just smile at each other, and Travis wonders what alternate universe he's found himself in that he's sitting across a table from Charlotte, grinning like fools, talking about forgiveness and lettin' things go and lookin' forward to seeing each other. He's expecting to wake up any minute now.

But he doesn't wake up. The waiter comes with their food, and Charlotte tucks into her her salad like she hasn't just eaten half the bread basket. Travis laughs at her, and she looks up, a little sheepish. "I'm hungry," she reminds, adding, "I didn't exactly eat breakfast," and earning herself exactly the scolding face from him that he's sure she knew was coming.

"Lola."

"Oh for the love of Jesus. I overslept, okay? I didn't get woozy or fall over, and I'm clearly not working through my lunch. So let it go. I promise to eat breakfast tomorrow," she adds, exaggerating her words, but he can tell she's not quite as annoyed as she's acting. Considering she's nursing a break-up, he can't help but wonder if maybe she likes being looked after just a little. Fine by him.

"I'm gonna text you and ask," he tells her, and she shakes her head at him, spears a piece of chicken from her salad and mutters "insufferable" before she takes the bite.

"New topic," she announces. "Something less obnoxious. How's my dog?"

Her dog. Travis smiles around a mouthful of burger, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. Of course she still thinks of Dasher as hers. He flips through the photos, finds one of his goddaughter with her pudgy little arms wrapped around the neck of a brown and white pitbull and flips it around to show her. He doesn't let go of the wallet, though, and keeps his fingers carefully over the imprint of the wedding bands tucked into the worn leather. He figures she doesn't need to know just yet about him holding onto those. Her fingers brush his when she reaches over to steady the wallet, face melting just a little.

"Oh, look at my boy. He's still as handsome as the day you brought him home. Who's the little towhead?"

"That'd be Dakota. Lacey Turner's little girl. I'm her god-daddy," he says proudly, cuz he is damned proud of that little munchkin. Smart as a whip and fearless as all hell. Lola would love her.

"Lacey had babies? With who?"

"Nobody worth mentioning. Some guy – you know how she could be sometimes." Charlotte makes a face at him, and before she can berate him for being all 'down on women's lib' or something like that, he forges ahead. "We started dating when Kota was a baby, were together for about a year and a half, almost two. It didn't end up workin' out, but I try to be around, y'know? Give her a guy to look up to."

Something flickers on Charlotte's face, and he doesn't have to reach far to guess that him playing daddy to someone's kid might not be the easiest thing to hear. But all she says is, "Yeah. You're a good guy, Travis. She's a lucky little girl."

He shrugs a shoulder, tucks the wallet back into his pocket when she lets go.

"And I see she's takin' care of Dasher."

Travis laughs a little at that, shakes his head at her. "Oh, they're best friends. Which is a little surprising, considering that dog hates every woman who isn't you now that you're gone."

He watches the grin spread across her face, before she says, "He does not."

"Oh, he absolutely does. Anyone I show the slightest bit of interest in – Lacey included, by the way – gets either barked at or pointedly ignored. And I take a little bit of offense to the fact that he's so damned loyal to you, considering I'm the one who spent all the time training him. And I still can't get him to speak on command, by the way."

Charlotte hoots a laugh, looks light and happy and free for the first time, and says, "And I'm still not gonna tell you what his cue is for that. As for him being loyal to me, I guess I was just the alpha dog in the house, huh? Maybe you needed to man up a bit."

"I'm man enough, thank you," he tells her, laughing with her now because she's just so damned infectious when she's like this. "But you can take comfort in the fact that your dog is still very much your dog."

"Oh, I will," she sighs happily, reaching for her wine. "How are your parents?"

"They're good. Real good. Mom's still workin' hospice, dad's still got the dogs and the garage."

She shakes her head. "Same as always, huh?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I can't believe your life is still... your life. And mine is like a million miles apart from where it was back then."

"Well. Things are different. People change, we grow. But some things should be constant, right?"

"I guess." She seems just a little sad again, and he's kickin' himself for letting that happen, even though he knows she's the one who turned the conversation there. Still. He'd rather she keep that smile on her face for an afternoon. She glances at her watch, and sighs. "Damnit."

"What?"

"Well, with the two jobs now, I don't ever really get my full lunch hour. Somethin' always comes up at the hospital, or I have an early appointment at the practice. Stuff like that. I tried to carve out a good forty-five today, for us, but then I was late, and..."

He gets the picture. "You gotta run."

"In a few minutes, yeah." She grimaces a little, bites the inside of her lip. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Got to see you, talk to you, get some food in ya. And I'd say this went quite well, which means I get to see you again, if I recall."

She smiles then, and that's a little better, he thinks. "Yeah. How's Thursday? My place."

Well, look at that. This week, even. Travis grins, and nods. "I can do Thursday. Might have to be a little later in the evening, but-"

"That's perfect. I don't usually finish work early anyway."

"Well, alright then. Thursday. I'll figure out what I want you cookin', and pick up the stuff on the way over. You just have to show up and learn."

"Okay." She checks her watch again. "Let's get the check, I can't be late for this appointment."

"Go," he tells her. "This is on me."

"Travis."

"I insist. It's a man's right to buy a meal for a pretty girl now and then. You paid for milkshakes, now it's my turn."

"Trav, you really don't have to-"

"I know, but I want to. And you're gonna be late."

She looks at her wrist again, smiles while she sighs. "Alright. Fine. But I'm payin' you back for the food on Thursday, okay?"

"We can bicker over that on Thursday," he tells her, and she chuckles, reaching for her purse.

"I just bet." She slings it over her shoulder, swallows the last gulp of her wine, and says. "It was really good to see you."

"You too, junebug. Now get on outta here. Go save someone's sex life."

She laughs as she stands, tells him she will, and then she's off, and Travis gets to admire the rear view of that outfit as she heads for the door.

.:.

Charlotte breezes into Oceanside with a smile on her face. Hell, she's about two seconds away from humming a jaunty tune, and you know what? It feels good. Real good. She hasn't felt this good in months, not since everything started going south with Cooper.

Speaking of, he passes her in the hallway, raises his brows and says, "Someone's in a good mood."

"I am," she confirms, as he falls into step beside her.

"Hot lunchtime quickie with Sheldon," he asks, and there's just enough of an edge to it that she can tell it's a bit of a dig, but she's feeling too light right now to care. She's going to ignore it, going to keep feeling this good for as long as she can.

"Nope," she tells him. "Just havin' myself a real good day." She heads into her office, leaves him standing in the hallway, and powers up her computer. Today may have started out less than stellar, but she'll be damned if she'll let it end that way.