Chapter Ten

Maxie Jones liked the idea of flying. After using the boarding terminal as a mock runway, she'd take her seat in first class, dazzling all the wealthy passengers surrounding her with her bright smile and impeccable good looks. She'd cocoon herself in the free, complimentary, cashmere blankets and slip on a pair of the free, complimentary slippers while sipping the free, complimentary champagne. Eventually, when she got bored and was feeling daring enough thanks to the bubbly, she'd either seduce the captain - having wild, passionate sex in the cockpit - ha! Cockpit! - or begin a scandalous affair with a rising investment banker or someone with a title she didn't recognize but would enjoy using to her advantage if they were to marry and live happily ever after.

Unfortunately, though, the reality of flying was much, much more common. Robin refused to upgrade their tickets, no matter how much she protested, so she was forced to ride in coach with everyone else, crammed in like sausage toes in a fat, old lady's shoe. It was disgusting. And debasing. And, if anyone ever found out about the humiliating affair someday when she was rich, famous, and pretending to be ten years younger than she actually was, well Maxie was just positive that she'd be ruined for life.

Glancing around the oddly scented airplane cabin, the young nanny observed her fellow passengers. There were elderly women with blue hair and support hose, and she found herself wondering why anyone would ever leave the house once they started to look that bad. There were squalling, irksome children, harried mothers who were one 'are we there yet's' away from pulling out their own fingernails in order to relieve their stress, and fake, bottle blonde stewardesses who did not live up to their rumored reputation. Oh, and then there was also a returning tour group who were on their way home from visiting Gay Paris, emphasis on the gay. At least, they had on good shoes.

To make matters worse, she was stuck in the aisle seat. For obvious reasons, Cate sat in the middle so that both she and Robin could attend to her if needed or necessary, but Maxie had been scoping out the window seat when Robin declared that sometimes the combination of her HIV cocktail and flying did not mix well together. She hadn't argued with her, despite the fact that she had seen through the weak excuse. If anything, it would have made more sense for Robin to sit on the aisle if she was really going to get sick so that, if she had to make a mad dash for the tiny, airplane restroom, she could without risking the chance of throwing up over those who sat in front of her. Leave it to her cousin, though, to use the sick card to get what she wanted.

It did give Maxie an idea, though. Perhaps she should feign a horrible disease, too, in order to rouse sympathy and, at least temporarily, live as the brave, endearing survivor who laughed in the face of death and confronted each day as if it could be her last. First, she'd have to figure out what diseases were currently in vogue. Perhaps exotic malaria, or nearly eradicated small pox, but, then again, scarlet fever sounded downright romantic. Yet again, though, that could have just been her Gone with the Wind fetish talking.

Sighing, she leaned back... or, at least, attempted to lean back. When sitting in coach, such luxuries as reclining one's seat became more an issue of mind over matter. If you really wanted to be able to rest, you simply had to tell yourself that you were comfortable... even if you weren't. And it was pretty much impossible to get comfortable, what with the ridiculously small, lumpy seats, lack of alcohol, and aisles which, apparently, tilted in her direction so that, whenever someone went past to use the restroom, they were seemingly forced to brush against her.

Oh, Maxie understood her appeal, understood why everyone wanted to crowd her in an effort to touch her even if for only a passing, glancing moment. The ancient, cotton candy hued women hoped that her youth would rub off on them, and the gay guys wanted her flawless fashion sense, and the kids... well, she had a feeling they just wanted to annoy her, but if one more person accidentally knocked into her arm, she was going to... to... well, if she had a bag of peanuts, she would chuck it at them, not that the dowdy stewardesses had actually gotten around to handing out the cheap, salty snacks.

Gripping the armrests and gritting her teeth, she recrossed her legs, immediately starting to kick her right foot, stopping it just centimeters from the chair in front of her. "Look, I know you don't want to be here right now...," Robin started only for Maxie to grunt belligerently in response. After all, she wasn't sure if she could manage whole, complete sentences without losing her control and embarrassing herself. "... But I really think this move will be good for us."

Turning to glare at her cousin, the younger woman demanded, "oh, really? And just why exactly do you think that?"

"Well, for one, Cate needs her family. Yes, she has us, but isn't it selfish of us to keep her from Mac and Georgie?"

"What exactly are they going to offer her," Maxie countered. "Sure, Mac could teach her how to load a handgun and how to lose her accent, and Georgie will do an excellent job of trying to strip away all the coolness I've worked hard trying to instill within her, but, face it, Robin. If they really wanted to be a part of your daughter's life, they would have made the effort to actually come and see her once in a while."

"You know they both have busy lives..."

Interrupting, she argued, "Mac gets, at least, two weeks of vacation time a year, and Georgie's off of school for an entire three months during the summer. You can't tell me that she couldn't be just as much of a brown-nosing do-gooder at your former hospital in Paris as she is at GH." Her cousin's only response was an irritated glare. Like that would intimidate her!

"I also think that it's important for Cate to see where her mother grew up, to have a sense of roots."

"Okay, I can get that," Maxie conceded, "but you should have thought about that before you had her live in Paris – one of the most beautiful, historic, fashionably forward cities in the world."

"Port Charles is a city, too."

She couldn't help it. Although she knew it was unladylike, she snorted. "Yeah freaking right! Port Charles is a nothing, hillbilly, Podunk town in upstate New York along the Hudson River. There are only three places in all of the United States that are livable. New York for obvious reasons, Los Angeles because of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Rodeo Drive, baby, and Miami, because, well, because it's South Beach. Chicago's too cold, Atlanta's too far from the ocean, and Huston is, well, it's in Texas, and Texas is where the Bush family is from."

Maxie could see her cousin fighting a smile. "I'm actually surprised you know anything about U.S. Politics."

"Hello, I'm Parisian," the nanny reminded the older woman. "Of course, I'm going to be aware enough to hate on America, and, in case you've forgotten, for the past four years, your daughter has been a Parisian, too. She speaks French better than I speak English, took walks daily on the Champs-Élysées, and only understands the metric system. All her friends live in Paris. Her preschool is in Paris. Her life is in Paris."

"Alright, then, fine. Maybe this move is more about me."

"Damn straight it is," Maxie declared. "You're running. Again."

"That's preposterous. What in the world could I possibly be running from," Robin asked. "There was nothing wrong with our life in Paris."

"Besides the fact that you just made my point for me," the younger woman replied, "perhaps it's precisely the fact that you were happy that you're running. Ever since Stone died, you've allowed yourself only so much peace before you self-implode your life."

"That's not true," her cousin defended. "Besides," if Robin didn't stop jumping topics soon enough, Maxie feared she'd come down with a case of vertigo. "Relocating back to Port Charles and GH will be good for both my career and my health. After all, my doctor does live there."

"Hello, you're a doctor, too - one, I might add, whose specialty is HIV/AIDS research and treatment. Just take care of yourself."

"You know that doctors aren't supposed to be their own patients."

Rolling her eyes, the nanny disputed, "that's like saying I shouldn't dress myself because I'm a budding fashion designer." Before Robin could counter, she held up a silencing hand. "And there's another reason we shouldn't have moved. How the hell am I supposed to start a fashion line in a town where the residents think the mall is high fashion?"

Sighing, the older woman said, "just... give it a chance, okay? Help me get Cate situated, give it a few weeks, and, if you're still unhappy, then I'll pay for your ticket..."

"First class," Maxie interrupted, insisted.

"I'll pay for a first class ticket for you to go back to France, and I'll give you the most glowing recommendation an au pair could ask for."

Stubbornly, she challenged, "oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? I'd fly back to Paris and leave you alone to bury yourself in your work and hide behind your daughter. Without me along to pester you, you'd never go on another date."

"I date," Robin persisted.

"Ah, no, you dismiss. You go on and on and on about how, when you fall in love again, you want it to be with this great, smart, caring guy who accepts your kid, lives his life to give back to the world, and turns the faucet off when he's brushing his teeth. And, then, I introduce you to boring guys who fit your list, or you meet boring guys at work who fit your list, but, when they ask you out, you turn them down. In fact, you tear them down, ripping them apart and destroying them simply to convince yourself that you were right to refuse to date them."

Narrowing her gaze, her cousin hissed, "do you have a point?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Maxie stated. "My point is that you lie to yourself and set these impossibly high standards for men simply so that you'll never have to open yourself up to the possibility of being hurt again, but, all the while, what you really want is a bad boy. You want someone who is charming, and sexy, and who will refuse to take your crap. No matter how much you try to bully those around you, you need – and want – an alpha male who will be able to put you in your place."

"Yeah, well," her cousin stuttered, "at least I don't go out and have random one night stands."

Slipping an eye towards Cate, the younger woman noticed that the four year old had her eyes closed. With the direction their conversation... if one could actually call it that... was heading, she needed to know whether or not her charge was awake. With her answer, she replied, "uh, am I supposed to feel bad about that?"

"It's just cheap sex, Maxie!"

"First of all, your daughter isn't sleeping; she's faking."

"Of course, she's sleeping," Robin disagreed. "Her eyes are closed, and she hasn't moved or made a sound in forty-five minutes."

"No, she's faking."

Pursing her lips in annoyance, the older woman asked, "and how do you know that?"

"Because who do you think taught how to fake sleep in the first place? She's good, but she's not good enough yet to fool me. Watch," to demonstrate, she reached out and pinched the little girl who appropriately wiggled away from her touch.

"Aunt Maxie," Cate whined, "I am sleeping." Smirking pointedly in Robin's direction, she, without words, declared her victory.

"Why on earth would you teach my daughter to fake sleep?"

"Because every self-respecting woman needs to know how, and, if she's going to be good at it, she needs to start practicing now. Trust me, when she wakes up next to someone who does not have a 401K portfolio, she'll thank me, or, when she's trying to snowball you into thinking she's sick so she doesn't have to go to school, she'll thank me." Talking rapidly so that she couldn't be argued with, Maxie pressed on, "as for your allegations pertaining to my extra-curricular activities, a one night stand is the best way to date. It allows a woman to evaluate a man and determine whether or not he's worth a second go."

"There's more to a relationship than just how good a guy is in the sack!"

"Obviously," the nanny responded, "but it is definitely important. If there's no chemistry, no matter how perfect the guy is otherwise, the relationship still won't last. However, that's pretty much immaterial for me when it comes to first dates or, as you like to cheapen them, one night stands, because, when I pick a guy up, I know he's going to be good in bed."

"Maxie...," Robin said, drawing out her name in warning.

"No, I'm serious," the younger woman defended. "When I choose my target, he's always good looking, built, and well endowed, and, with me as a partner, that pretty much guarantees he'll get a passing grade. No, what I evaluate on a first date is the guy's apartment. You can tell a lot about a guy by snooping through his stuff after he rolls over and starts to snore. You can figure out if he's a gardener or employs a gardener by going through his closet. You can tell if he's Nouveau Riche or if he comes from old money by his furniture, and you can determine whether or not he's married by looking in his fridge. If a guy passes all those tests, then I'll take him for a second spin, but, most of the time, they inevitably fail at least one if not two points of their evaluation. I think it's because I go to twenty-something bars and clubs instead of fancy restaurants and opera houses to scoop out men, but, then again," she smiled brightly, deceptively, "I won't have to worry about dating at all once we land in Port Charles, because there's no way I'm hooking up with some piece of American trash looking to ride through life on my designer coattails."

For several minutes, her cousin simply stared at her, mouth agape. Finally, she queried, "do you have any idea how hypocritical what you just said was?"

"Nope, and I don't care."

"Maxie, just because you lived in Europe for four years, that does not make you European."

"Uh, my credit card statement says otherwise."

"And just because you now know what a bidet is and prefer croissants over donuts..."

Interrupting, Maxie refuted, "oh, I never ate donuts!"

Taking a deep breath, the older woman gathered her bearings. "My point is that you are still an American yourself, Maxie, whether you like it or not."

"Maybe I will be for the next few weeks," the nanny agreed, "but, once you and Cate are settled in, and I'm back in Paris, I'm applying for French citizenship, and, once I have it, I'll never step foot onto U.S. soil again unless it's for a fashion show or a red carpet appearance."

"Well, if that's the case, Cate and I will miss you."

She knew what her cousin was doing or, at least, what she was trying to do. Robin wanted to make her feel guilty, make her believe that she was abandoning them... just as Maxie's own parents had done to her so many times over the years, but it wasn't going to work. No matter how much she loved Cate, she wasn't Maxie's daughter, and Robin was an adult who didn't need her daughter's twenty-something nanny taking care of her, too. Just as Mac and Georgie had been welcome to visit Paris during all the years the three of them lived there, once she was back home where she belonged, Robin and Cate would be welcome to visit Paris anytime as well.

Besides, she still wasn't convinced that the older woman knew what she was doing. Twisting her head to grin wickedly in Robin's direction, Maxie taunted, "that's only if you end up staying, and I have a feeling that the first time something happens to make you uncomfortable, or scared, or feel threatened, you'll come running back to wherever it is we're going to be staying, you'll pack our bags, and we'll catch the first plane out of Dodge."

"We'll see."

"You'll see. I'm leaving in three weeks."

And she would be, no matter what.

} ~ {

Even when still happily married to Nikolas, Nadine had never liked living at Wyndemere. First of all, the only homes which should have gargoyles as decorations were homes populated by Quasimodo. She just had this inane fear that, when she went to sleep, they'd come alive and swallow her whole in their gaping, wide mouths. Though she knew such fears were ridiculous, she just couldn't help herself from having them, especially when her soon-to-be ex had left her alone at night with the kids in the stone monstrosity while he went out of town on business.

Then there was also the fact that the place was entirely too large. It wasn't the fact that she wanted to live in a box, but, when you couldn't be heard yelling at one end of the house from the other, you knew it was too big. And drafty, too. There was no such thing as running down the stairs on Christmas morning in your bare feet because of excitement and haste to open presents, because, if you did so while living at Wyndemere, you'd probably end up losing a toe or two due to frost bite. Plus, she was always afraid of breaking something, the place was entirely too dark and depressing, and, in her opinion, it smelled weird, too. No matter how many times the house was cleaned or how many candles she burnt, it always smelled, and the odor wasn't pleasant. It was dank, and musty, and lingering, and it reminded Nadine of old cemeteries and graveyards.

In order to feel more comfortable, while still married to Nikolas, she had often tried to keep to just a few of the many rooms – her bedroom, the kids' rooms, her private sitting room. Even her almost former husband's study unnerved her. When they were first dating and getting to know each other, that's often where he would take her, and she would feel trapped, claustrophobic in the room, despite its cavernous size, for, whatever quack architect had designed the home, had forgotten the fact that most people liked windows in all their rooms. And, then, after they were married, she always felt like she was intruding when she spent any time in the central room. There had been a decided unwelcome chill to the air, one that was different and more personal than the other drafts present throughout the modern castle.

However, by far, her least favorite thing about Wyndemere was the tunnels. The fact that people could sneak into her home at any time, day or night, without be seen or suspected was downright creepy, not to mention an invasion of privacy, and, given Nikolas' family's penchant for murdering their own, she feared those tunnels would someday be put to use in order to rid the Cassadine name of her unwanted, tainting presence or that of her daughter's. It was for that reason and the fact that she had a sneaking suspicion her soon-to-be ex didn't want to spend time with Laura that she was hesitant to allow her little girl her weekend visitation with her father.

After taking the launch to the island and walking up the winding path that led to the house, Nadine had been unsure if whether or not she was required to ring for entrance or if she could just allow herself in like she had done for years. Even if she and Nikolas were separated, Wyndemere, at one point, had been her home, and it was still her son's residence and the place her daughter would spend her weekends in all probability, but, at the same time, she did not want her almost former spouse to simply barge into her new apartment whenever he felt like it. So, she had been polite, and she had been meek, and she had rang the bell, but Alfred never came to answer the door, and, if she didn't leave soon, then she'd be late for her shift.

Hurrying through the house, she yelled out her presence. "Hello! I'm sorry that I let myself in, but I have to be at work in half an hour, and..." Huffing indignantly, she stomped her foot. "Oh, this is ridiculous!" At her show of temper, her daughter giggled quietly beside her as they walked along. "Alfred, are you here? I know you're not supposed to talk to me, or ever help me, or probably even look at me, but I'm supposed to drop Laura off to spend the weekend here." Still, she received no response. In fact, the large estate had a decidedly still quality to it that afternoon that wasn't present when her children's father was working and the staff were busy bustling about. Walking into the study, she tried one more time, "hello! Nikolas? Is anybody..."

"I'm afraid Mr. Cassadine must have forgotten about his appointments. Though I can understand how he could forget an old man like me, you, on the other hand, are quite unforgettable."

Grumbling under her breath before she even contemplated her actions or the fact that the man standing across from her in the shadows of the dimly lit room was a stranger and didn't belong there, Nadine whispered, "oh, I can almost guarantee that he'll wipe every last memory of me from his mind as soon as the ink is dry on our divorce papers."

"Ah, so you're the soon to be ex-wife."

Pushing her little girl behind her, she responded, "yeah, and, since you seem to know who I am, why don't you return the favor." The older, petite man took a step forward into the light, the twisted smile upon his wrinkled face both familiar and distressing. "I... I know you."

"Everybody does."

His face was constantly plastered across newspapers, flashed on the television screen, and feared in every corner of the state from Buffalo to Saratoga Springs. He was a mob boss and a decidedly vicious one from all accounts, though how a person could be considered a non-vicious mob boss, she wasn't sure, and everything she had ever heard or read about him said that he was always on the verge of madness, straddling the thin line between sanity and a complete mental breakdown.

Swallowing thickly, Nadine attempted to call forth all her strength and courage. Though every bone in her body was screaming for her to turn around, pick up her daughter, and run as fast and as far away from the elderly criminal as she possibly could, the more rational part of her knew sudden movement could spook him, and the last thing she needed was to provide him with a back to stab. So, as she slowly maneuvered her way inch by inch to the door, walking backwards and guiding an instinctively fearful Laura with her, the young nurse asked, "Mr. Zacchara, would you please tell Nikolas that I had to get to work, so I couldn't wait for him to return, that he can see our daughter next weekend instead?"

Glowering, he complained, "hey, I'm nobody's secretary. Anthony Zacchara does not deliver messages, especially for a woman. I pay people to do that for me."

"You're right, and I'm sorry," Nadine hastily apologized. "I just..."

"You're flustered," he interjected, speaking for her. "And I can smell your fear all the way over here."

"Well, you know, this house has always given me the heebie-jeebies."

In reaction, the old man laughed loudly. "Is that so, huh? I actually like it. The roses are beautiful, and the balconies look like they could be of some fun. Tell me, just how many people have been pushed off of this house?"

"Just one, I think."

"Oh, now that's a shame." She was almost to the door when Mr. Zacchara sat down behind her soon-to-be ex-husband's desk, making himself comfortable. "Now, before you scamper off like a frightened little bunny rabbit, I was curious as to whether or not you're going to ask Mr. Cassadine about why I was here."

"What Nikolas does professionally is none of my business."

"Except it is, especially if you're a greedy whore like my first wife and want to put your nose where a woman's nose doesn't belong." Standing, once more, the crime boss stalked around the desk and moved rapidly towards Nadine. Coming to a halt just a few short feet away from her, he continued, "you're getting divorced, which means you probably think that you're entitled to half of what is your husband's, but let me tell you something, missy - you can just forget about that idea right now. Cassadine Industries is far too important to me professionally to allow you to get your greedy little hands on..."

"I don't want anything," she blurted out, too nervous and afraid to worry that interrupting the old man might anger him further. "Well, at least, I don't want any money or any of the business. I just want my kids. I don't care if I have to work double shifts for the rest of my life..."

"Alright, alright, I get it," Anthony shot her impassioned speech down. "You're an idealistic one, huh? I never married one of those. I seemed to either marry ambitious whores or just cheating whores. Those are the types of women, though, that you don't divorce." She really didn't want to know how he got rid of them then. "Anyway," the mob boss segued... again. "I'm glad that you're not going to fight for your husband's belongings. If you were to do that, then you might end up interfering with my plans, and I couldn't have that now, could I? You see, your husband's legal, dummy corporations are the key piece to the puzzle, the puzzle in which I slowly strip away all of Sonny Corinthos' holdings, and, in exchange for helping me procure my enemy's best assets, I've been laundering Mr. Cassadine's money for him. You know, quid pro quo, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and," with a quick wave of both of his small hands, he dismissed, "all that other trite nonsense."

Whimpering under her breath, Nadine glanced at the exit, desperate to leave. "Please, I'm really going to be late for work if I don't..."

"What, didn't you know just how crooked the father of your children really is?"

Actually, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she wasn't surprised at all that Nikolas was in league with the insane criminal. After the past six months, she no longer believed in any of her grand, princely illusions in regards to the man she had naively married. However, at the same time, she liked being oblivious. While it was one thing to suspect the father of her children of illegal activities, it was a whole different story to possess detailed knowledge of just how dirty Nikolas' dealings actually were.

"No, I did, or, at least, I thought I did, but... Why are you telling me all this, Mr. Zacchara?"

"Because I was bored, and I wanted to see how you'd react." He raised his voice in volume with each successive word until he was yelling. "Because, when I make an appointment with someone, I expect them to meet it. And, because, if Mr. Cassadine can't be bothered to show up at his own damn house to discuss business with me, then I'll damn well discuss it with whomever I want, even if, in doing so, I hand his wife the perfect way to strip him of his parental rights. Not that you would do anything like that now, would you, Nursie?"

"I just... I just want what's best for my children." It wasn't a lie, but, yet, it wasn't the entire truth either.

Mr. Zacchara chuckled gleefully. "Well played, Mrs. Cassadine." Tilting his head to the side, he observed her for a moment before replying, "you know, I like you. You're smart, and you're feisty, not to mention it's not a hardship to look at you, but, at the same time, you're polite and seem to know your place. Perhaps your husband isn't as wise as I thought."

She knew it was stupid, knew that she should just take his compliment and walk out while she still could, but Nadine simply couldn't allow the elderly man's last comment to stand. "Or maybe I finally woke up and saw my husband for who he really is."

With that, she didn't give the kingpin another chance to talk before shoving her daughter into the hall, grabbing her small, pudgy hand to hold within her own, and running away as fast as Laura's feet could carry them.

} ~ {

When she had the mind to, no one ever looked as hot as his girlfriend. While Elizabeth certainly wasn't the tallest woman, or the leggiest, and definitely not the bustiest, she knew how to dress for what she did have, and there was something different about her eyes - something deeper, darker, richer about them - that could drive Patrick insane with want and lust. Besides, he liked that she was short and petite, that, when he kissed her, he had to bend over to reach her lips even if she had heels on. He liked the fact that she was so small that he could pick her up and hold her against the wall as he had sex with her without ever getting tired or worn out. The fact that her legs weren't that long was easily compensated by how flexible she was, and, when it came to her breasts, as a surgeon he appreciated that they were natural and so sensitive.

So, as he sat there, nursing a scotch in the restaurant he picked for his own self-congratulations dinner, Patrick found himself wondering just what his girlfriend would wear that evening. He had been vague when inviting her out, simply telling her that he had some good news to share and wanted to take her out in order to do so. He had even hinted that they might go dancing after they finished with their meal.

Would it be the short, tight red number, the one that clung to her hips so tightly he knew for a fact she couldn't wear underwear with it? Would it be the long, flowing blue one with the slit that went so far up her thigh, there were mere inches of material between her bare leg and waist? Or would it be something black and slinky, something far more scandalous than the word little could ever cover? Whatever it was, Patrick was determined she wouldn't wear it for long.

Smirking to himself, he sat back in his chair, feeling smug, and confident, and more worthy than ever before in his life, only to realize that, whether it had been because of their hectic careers or something else, it had actually been quite a while since he and Elizabeth had had sex, and, considering how limited their relationship was, for they didn't really talk or share things with each other, that was a startling and entirely too telling realization. Perhaps there were just too many distractions in the city. He had his life, she had her life, and, despite the fact that they both worked in the same hospital, their lives did not intersect very often. Besides for his career, maybe the move to Port Charles would be good for them, too. If nothing else, it certainly couldn't make things any worse.

Seeing Elizabeth enter and approach the maitre-d, the neurosurgeon shook away his thoughts, sat up straight, and put his nearly empty glass of scotch back down on the table. Catching sight of her before she saw him allowed Patrick the chance to observe her body language, her facial expressions, gauge her mood, and what he found was not encouraging. Outwardly, she was stiff with detachment and aloofness, but, underneath her cool exterior, he could see the sheer rage swirling, simmering, burning to the top only to boil over and start again even more dangerous than seconds before.

What the...?

"How dare you," Elizabeth snapped, leaning over the table to glare at him. Even in her current snit, he would have enjoyed the view if she had been wearing either the red, or the blue, or one of the black dresses she owned, but, instead, she still wore her scrubs. Slamming her hands down on the wooden table top, causing the silver and glassware to rattle, and drawing stares from the other patrons, she said it again. "How fucking dare you!"

"I... Elizabeth..." Never one to back down from a fight, and certainly never one to allow a woman to embarrass him in public while accusing him of some vague wrong he wasn't even aware of, Patrick quickly became angry as well. Standing so that he could glower down upon her, he bit back, "what the hell did I even do? I asked you to meet me here so I could share with you some good news, and you come in, spoiling for a fight, making a scene, looking like a..."

"If you even think about finishing that sentence, I will hit you," she threatened. Obviously, she had known exactly where his thoughts and words were headed, and they weren't complimentary.

"And I'll have a room full of witnesses if I want to press charges."

She laughed then - a bitter, hollow, vindictive sound that caused him to shiver and immediately take a step back. "Do you think that's supposed to scare me? I have lived through things no woman should ever have to experience, and you threaten me with a fucking arrest record? God, Patrick! You're such a coward! If something truly agonizing ever happened to you, you wouldn't know what to do with the pain. You'd shrivel up, you'd fade away, and you'd become nothing."

"That's not fair, Elizabeth," he defended himself. "You know that things weren't great for me growing up."

"Oh, boo fucking hoo," she taunted. "So, your mom died, and your dad was a drunk. You weren't traumatized. You weren't permanently scarred and twisted up into someone you didn't even recognize afterwards. You've never..."

"What," he challenged, raising his own voice again. "What? What exactly is it that you've gone through that was so much worse than my suffering? What gives you the right to judge other people's grief and fears, Elizabeth?"

"Even if you could have someday earned my trust enough for me to tell you that, I never will now."

"Again," he sighed, rubbing his left hand through his short cropped hair in an agitated manner. He could see the staff watching them nervously, debating whether or not they should ask them to leave and risk insulting two good, regular customers. "You allude to something that I've done to you to make you this mad at me, but I have no idea..."

"You told somebody that I used to paint. You shared with somebody else something I told you in confidence," Elizabeth answered, practically choking on the words and the amount of venom spewing from her lips with them.

"So what? You told me once that you used to paint, and I thought that maybe, since you seem to enjoy being so busy, you'd like to help out a coworker with her nursery."

"Yes, because after all these years of us knowing each other, when you see me, that's what you immediately think of, right - a woman who wants to surround herself with images of a baby she'll never have? If I wouldn't want kids of my own, Patrick, why in the hell would I want to paint a nursery for someone else?"

"Well, excuse me! After the scene you made here tonight, I definitely won't make that mistake again," he somewhat apologized, not that he'd actually say that he was sorry.

"And neither will I when it comes to trusting you," she returned spitefully. "If I couldn't count on you to keep just one, teeny-tiny secret, then how the hell am I supposed to confide in you about something important? Obviously, I can't," Elizabeth answered for him, turning around and walking off before he could protest or defend himself. Not that he could, because she was right; he did break a promise to her. He just didn't understand why it mattered so much. Who the hell cared if she used to paint and now didn't?

But then he remembered why he had asked her to meet him there in the first place, and he swore. "Damn it, Elizabeth!" Throwing down enough money to cover his drink and a generous tip for the staff for graciously putting up with their very public argument, he stood and chased after her, running out of the restaurant and catching up with her right before she got into a cab. Pulling on her elbow, he spun her around to face him. "Would you just wait a minute, please?"

When she didn't move away from him or struggle against his grip, he said, "I wanted to tell you that I got offered my own neurology department. It's for a hospital in a town much smaller than New York, but I won't be just one more brain surgeon there; I'll be the brain surgeon - the one the other doctors answer to, the one in charge, the one everybody wants to have operate on them. There, I'll be able to make a name for myself."

"Well, obviously, you accepted."

"I did," he admitted, and he couldn't help the smile that bloomed across his handsome, confident face. "We leave for Port Charles in two weeks."

Lifting one of her hands to remove his own from her elbow, Elizabeth let his arm drop back to his side before lifting her gaze and staring at him. "No, you'll be leaving for Port Charles in two weeks. I'm not going anywhere."

Turning around, she got in the cab, told the driver to take her to the hospital where she worked, and then slammed the door. Five minutes later, he was still standing there, the lights, and sounds, and vibrations of the city whipping past and surrounding him, but Patrick felt frozen in place, struck by just how empty his girlfriend's declaration had sounded, how final. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, though, nothing could dim his excitement. With Elizabeth at his side or not, he would be moving. He'd just prefer that she be a little more supportive sometimes. Was that too much to ask?