He has pledged to never, ever drink again.
In the morning, he woke up with his bladder screaming for relief, and the queen of all hangovers. His pounding head felt twice its normal size, his mouth was cotton-dry and harboured a bitter taste, and every time he moved, his stomach lurched. An intense effort of will kept him from throwing up, and it wasn't until he gulped down a glass of water that the contents of his stomach surrendered.
The hangover is haunting him at work. When he accidentally slams his locker door shut, it's like a crash of thunder upsets the relative calmness in his head. He feels like his skull has been worked over by a blacksmith's hammer. He groans, gulping down the nausea that's rippling through his gut.
It's been more than a while since his last overdo and he'd forgotten just how crappy drinking left him. He swears that he's still half-drunk, even with the painkillers and cold shower he took. The entire bottle of whiskey may have provided an escape from his problems yesterday but today, the problems are still there, with a sprinkling of a hangover on steroids. He's paying for it.
"Look who decided to make it to work."
A trickle of dread glides through him. Every muscle in his body tenses. He curses silently before turning around slowly. "I had a doctor's appointment," he says smoothly.
If a doctor's appointment was driving while daylight used his eyes like a pincushion, and fighting queasiness with the motion of the vehicle.
"So early in the morning?" Irving counters, brow raised.
Nathan runs a palm across his haggard face. "Only time the doctor was available. And I'm only twenty minutes late."
"Time is money, Scott."
Hands behind his back like a military sergeant, the manager studies him carefully. "You are on very thin ice. Very, very thin. One more strike and you're fired."
"Firing me would be a start to a very, very tiring lawsuit for both of us, sir," Nathan says bluntly, curbing rolling his eyes at Irving's overstatement.
The older man's hands move to his side. His jaw is clenched, and his glare is a burning rod. "What did you say?"
Nathan shrugs, uncaring about the consequences of the conversation. "I was in a car accident recently that I've not fully recovered from. If you fired me, I would file a suit against you for forced labour. I would also point out that you did not grant me proper sick leave before my whole body was out of agony, and you made me work when I was beginning to get my strength back."
It's a boneheaded move to be bluffing like so but his lips can't stop moving. "Forcing a sick man who had surgery to work before he fully recovered and threatening to fire him if he didn't?"
He holds himself back from making a disapproving noise. "I don't think upper management would appreciate that kind of press."
Irving looks just about ready to club him. "You…self-centred prick. I shouldn't have kept you on just because your pretty face draws in female customers."
"You've kept me on because I do my job and I do it well," Nathan says, voice rising in anger. He's tired, and the idea of starting in on the gains and losses of his employment is not stimulating.
"You need this job a whole of a hell lot more than I need you, young man," Irving shoots with an edge into his tone, his words sounding like curses.
Annoyance ruptures through Nathan's veins. It's typical of Irving to act like he's doing him a kindness by keeping him on when in the past he's revealed his relief for hiring him.
"That's not true and you know it."
"You are way too full of yourself —"
"No, I'm not. How many people quit before me? No one could work with Brent and I've done it for two years. I know this store even better than he does and you wouldn't want to start training a replacement who'd eventually quit," Nathan counters, knowing that it's ill-advised to goad his manager but still undeterred. Perhaps Irving is right about him being too full of himself.
They're standing nose to torso – Nathan having a good foot on Irving – as if about to duel, neither showing fear but anger that the small break room can't contain. If it actually came down to a physical confrontation, he doesn't doubt that Irving could get a few punches in. He looks like a scrappy fighter.
Irving, knowing Nathan's had him, steps back. Nathan, to redress the balance, moves to the side. Irving is not Brent, and a punch-up wouldn't help either of them.
Nathan eases his defiance and says, "I apologize for losing my cool. You're right. I need this job. I shouldn't have disrespected you the way I did."
He's surprised to realize that the sincerity is not an act. Despite their occasional verbal fencing, Irving has been fairer than other mall bosses. Said manager watches him as though calculating his level of repentance, and like he accepts what he's seen in Nathan's eyes, he slips into his title role as the one in charge.
Irving's face is still reddened as he commands through clenched teeth, "Keep your sour breath away from the customers."
He nods, tempted to salute. "Yes, sir."
Irving strides out. Nathan follows, his body slow-going like he's just stepped off a year-long run on a treadmill. He would rather be elsewhere. It doesn't help that he works in a mall where everyone knows everyone else. Predictably, the people he's been acquainted with in the time they've all been mall employees stare, smile, lift their hands or eyebrows in greeting, but they don't approach him directly. It must be his stony gaze, as Jonathan puts it, which dares them to say something to his face. In their eyes remain the silent questions about Haley that they are probably dying to have answered. For him, after the note on social media he posted, there's nothing left to say.
A few steps past the break room, his cell phone starts to ring. The trilling makes him flinch with its loudness. Without looking at the screen, he draws it out of his pocket and slouches against the wall. "Hello?"
Static hisses over the line. He glances at the call display; the screen shows a blocked number. Frowning, he holds it up to his ear again. "Hello? Who is this? Hales? Do we have a bad connection?"
The response is only more silence and yet another burst of static. He's about to hang up when he hears something that sounds like heavy breathing. "Luke? You weirdo, is that—"
"Not him, either," chuckles an unfamiliar female voice from the other end.
He comes to attention.
"Maybe if you guess again you'll get it right," she mocks.
A cold touch slithers over him, obliterating every bit of exhaustion and bringing him back to earth. "What the hell are you doing calling me?"
"I thought it's time we got acquainted. I have to say that I can't stay on for too long."
He feels his hand tighten around the phone. She sounds so normal, an associate reaching out to another, and that terrifies him because he's seen what she can do.
"How did you get my number?"
"You can find anything you're willing to pay for online. It's just no fun seeing you from afar."
The thought that she's been watching him sends a herd of elephants tramping down his spine. He quickly looks down the short walkway that leads out into the store like he expects to see her there.
"Do you understand the extent of what you have done to her?" He wants to reach through the phone and grab her by the neck, shake her while screaming his questions.
"You're putting a damper on my day," the woman whinges with a quality like she's the wounded one. "I was feeling really good, you know. How is Hales doing, by the way?"
A thousand things clamour around in his head but above them all is the hatred and anger. And her familiarity with Haley matters; not many people are close enough to her to pull off calling her Hales. Who is this woman?
Teeth gritted, fists curled, he pushes away from the wall, fury running through him like an electric current. If he has ever run into a crazy person, then they were not nearly as crazy as he thought they were. This person is crazy and daring, and that combination didn't do Cornelius Dwight any favours.
"What the hell is the matter with you?"
For the first time, she sounds tense. "Nothing is the matter with me," she barks. Beneath her denial is something dark and unstable that breathes a draft through his bones.
"There are a lot of people who would disagree with you," he rages, his jaw locked.
She's quiet for a second. "I thought you were a decent person but you're just like them."
Confusion cuts across his seething, vengeful thoughts. "Them? Who's them?"
"Catch me and I might tell you," the throaty voice says again.
The anger is back, searing into him. "Listen, you evil cow—"
The line clicks off and goes dead. The only sound is his pulse pounding louder and louder in his ears. His lungs are full of fire and he feels like they might explode.
He presses his forehead against the wall, palms on either side of his face on the wall. He has never felt the urge to kill someone, to truly want them dead, like he does now. The pressure of his fist around the phone is enough to bleach his knuckles. He wants to shove it back into his pocket and dismiss the call, but it would be foolish to do that. The killer is out there while Haley is locked up. He straightens up and pushes away from the wall, going back over the conversation. Who?! he screams silently. That has been the million dollar question for weeks.
As he scrolls through his phone for the contact he's after, he tries to develop a picture of what she looks like from the sound of her voice. She sounded educated, not like the morons Donnie and Billy. Was there something strange about it that would correlate with her facial features and therefore make her easy to recognize? An accent? A broken nose that affected her speech? Sinusitis? A gap between her teeth? A lisp? The only image that comes to mind is of the doppelganger on a surveillance camera that shot a man at point-blank range.
"Collins."
"Detective, it's Nathan Scott. Do you have a moment? Something just happened."
The detective must pick up on the urgency in his tone because his next words are attentive rather than the distracted manner he answered the phone. "What's going on?"
"I got a call and I think it was the killer. No, I'm sure it was the killer," he says, feeling breathless just by telling it.
The shuffling of paper comes through from the detective's end. "At work?"
"My cell phone."
"How'd she get your personal number?"
Nathan leans back against the wall and rubs his eyes. "I don't know. I don't share it freely online if that's what you're thinking."
Detective Collins is briefly silent. "What did she say?"
Catch me and I might tell you. Like it's all for her enjoyment.
"It was short and all she was doing was letting me know that she's out there," Nathan says, deliberating how real the exchange with a killer was. Hard as it is to believe, it was definitely real.
The partly-ajar door to the manager's office opens wider and Irving stands there with reddened cheeks and a disapproving glare on his face. He points towards the store, his annoyance palpable. Nathan holds up an index finger. One minute. In response, Irving rubs his first two fingers against his thumb, and then sharply slashes his hand across the air. Docking your pay. As Irving disappears back into his office, Nathan knows that he'll have to work extra hours to make up the income.
"Um, I just wanted to know if she could be tracked down by checking my phone records, GPS or something. In case the number showed up on my cell service provider."
This time the detective's silence is out of amusement. "You think so?"
Picking up on the transmitted sarcasm, Nathan presses a hand hard to his forehead. "Detective, I'm just trying to find the woman who framed my wife. She's loose out there somewhere and her calling me proves it." He clenches his jaw. "She was so smug about everything."
Collins sighs heavily in that disgruntled way Nathan has come to recognize. "Look, son. It's a good idea in theory but the reality of it is that she might have used a disposable pay-as-you-go mobile. Those ones, unfortunately, don't leave a digital or paper trail."
"What about the next time she calls? What can we do about it?"
"We can put a tap on your phone to monitor and trace calls. That means all the calls you receive from everybody, do you get the picture?"
"I'll do anything."
"Just come in and I'll have the tech guy set it up. Was this the first time you heard from her?"
"Yes." As much as he wishes that it was also the last time, he needs her to call again so that they can track her down. Finding her means Haley would be off the hook.
"You have to understand something about criminals," the detective advises. "People like this, their game is to keep us guessing. They can notoriously insert themselves into a case, staying close to find out the outcome or see how the police figure it out. Like an arsonist returning to the scene of a burned-down house. They find a thrill in seeing the attention devoted to their crime. They eat it up."
A shudder moves through Nathan. He has no comment or reply to that. She's been staying close, and it's not the first time. She knew enough about Haley to dress like her and follow her out to that store. She knew enough to call him and taunt him with her nearness. Her daring achievements in getting away with a horrific crime and hovering in the shadows are outrageous.
"In the meantime, all we can do is to wait her out."
Knowing that he has no better idea himself, Nathan agrees with the detective, gives his thanks and says goodbye. They both know that in twenty-four hours, Nathan will be calling again for an update on the case, even if there will be zero new developments.
He has no words for how much he wants to find her. He wants to look into the face of the person who would do despicable things that would set off a daisy chain of horrible effects.
He pockets his phone and fastens the metal name badge to his shirt. Maybe she'll call again, and the next time, they can nab her if he keeps her talking long enough for a trace to be made. As wild as it sounds, it's the only lead they have.
The brightness of the sun stings her eyelids when she steps out of the cell unit. As usual, inmates are in groups and pairs around the yard. Everyone is doing what they typically do at this time; lifting weights, playing cards, running on the track, or just sitting and talking.
Rubbing at the needle mark where the doctor drew her blood during the check-up a short while ago, Haley starts walking towards the bleachers. The throbbing and tingling has dulled over the days but sometimes she finds herself wincing when she moves in a certain way. A lot of that pain has been along her back, and she's glad that it's nothing in the front.
She shuts her eyes briefly as fear creeps over her, the fear that she could have lost her baby, never getting a chance to know him. Automatically, her hand reaches to rub at her belly like to protect him. In recognition of where she is, she drops her arm and curls her hand into a fist by her side.
The bleachers next to the basketball are partly filled, and there's no sign of Tessa or her friends. She's tried to stay out of the court, opting to hang around the track or by the fence, but there are moments she just needs to sit. A bout of morning sickness will leave her weak and all she wants is somewhere solid and more comfortable to rest on than the grass.
As she passes the well-muscled and intimidating inmates standing by the weights area, they give her a quick nod when they meet eyes. It strikes her as odd since she's been nothing but invisible to them, except when she's about to get into a fight. She gives them a slight smile in return, aiming for the bottom bleacher. There's no way she can manage bending one knee after another to climb up the stands. Tessa will just have to drag her away screaming if she's in her spot again.
The women on the bleachers nod at her, too, and she returns the greeting. She rubs her palms down the orange pants, breathing in and out. Fading pain at the back of her thighs strums through her; she could really use one of Nathan's massages right about now. Her hands still, shame and anger at herself starting to pulse through her.
It was a drastic decision on her part, asking him to stay away, but seeing the marks those goons had left on him had snapped something in her. The look on his face when she asked him – told him – not to return was like a sword to her soul.
By now, Christopher has served him the papers. After more than a year of marriage, she never thought that she would be asking Nathan for a divorce. This mess has broken her, and it's led her to breaking up her marriage and having her husband hate her. Neither of them is flawless, their marriage hasn't always been idyllic, but the love and respect they had for each other was strong and it kept the fire bright.
A tap on her shoulder takes her out of her mournful thoughts.
"Scott, right?" the lanky woman a bleacher above her asks.
"Yes," she answers cautiously. She flinches inwardly as she twists her aching butt in the seat.
She's just noticing that everyone on the stands is looking at her. As Nathan Scott's girlfriend, and then wife, she came to recognize that silence and those probing gazes. She knew how to handle them, mainly by ignoring them, when schoolmates and peers threw them at her, but in this new zone, she really doesn't know how to deal with them.
The woman nods, turning to her companion. "It's her. BJ's girl," the woman says in a loud whisper.
Haley shrinks back when she hears that, whipping her head to face forward. BJ's girl? BJ's girl!?
Her eyes zip to the basketball court, finding Jean in her customary white vest dribbling a basketball down the court. They've been talking, and sometimes Jean will sit with her at the losers' table during meals. At her insistence, Jean has eased up on hiding in corners, watching and waiting to see if someone else will attack her. BJ's girl. The price of a friendship with Jean Sheridan is a new nickname that portrays ownership.
Sighing softly, Haley glances around the yard, locating a sort of commotion at a corner near the fence. She recognizes a few of the faces that belong to inmates in Jean's clique. A vociferous laugh abounds from the group, some of the women parting slightly as if to let someone through. Tessa then emerges, pushing past the laughing women.
At seeing Tessa's face, Haley gasps; a black eye, a busted and swollen lip, and from her movements, more that is unseen. The petite girl is also limping as she walks towards the track. It doesn't take being a detective to figure out who did that to her.
It's been over a week since the attack and although Tessa has been keeping her distance, that murderous look in her eyes when they cross paths is never gone. They don't chance upon each other, Haley preferring to get lost in staring at the ground than in making eye contact with other women. How long have those contusions been on Tessa's face? She draws her own conclusions just from knowing that those were Jean's friends taunting the brunette.
Her widened eyes follow Tessa as she passes the weightlifters, the basketball court, and onto the track. Haley stews on her beaten appearance until she can't take it anymore. She stands to make her way to the edge of the court, trying not to look like she's in a hurry. She can feel those gazes drilling holes into her back but she doesn't turn around to confirm it.
The game is as rough as it often is, the women shouting and cursing at each other in a manner that would be objectionable at a normal game. Big Jean intercepts the ball, and she bumps her shoulder against the solid woman behind her before tossing it to a teammate.
"The hell, BJ?" the woman bellows, pushing Jean forward.
"Lost your strength, Nita?" Jean laughs, pivoting out of the way.
Nita is clearly ready to spill blood. As the game keeps going, Haley divides her attention between the court – particularly on Jean – and Tessa. It's not enough that Jean is close by and giving her slippers but now the big woman on campus is fighting battles for her.
Every day she feels like she's being boxed in by Jean's generosity. She has her doubts of its altruism, and she's nervous about the moment she'll have to reimburse all the favours. What makes her agitated is the form in which that payment will be.
If hand-outs are Jean's customary way of getting close, it's a good strategy; an innocent would develop a sense of loyalty, dependence and indebtedness that would leave them bowing to the expected: being BJ's girl. And a part of Haley is afraid that she would feel so beholden to Jean and so afraid of the penalties of refusing that she'd just say yes. The thoughts that keep her up at night these days are from a different life than the one she knew a month ago.
Over the minutes, someone has blood under a nostril, another is hobbling up and down the court, Jean gets elbowed in the gut, and one of them has a growing mushroom on her forehead. And even as they protest and holler, they all seem to be enjoying the unpleasantness of the game.
Noticing Haley while the game is on a pause, Jean yells at one of the women in her clique to sub before jogging over. "You want in?" she pants.
"With the way I feel?" Haley replies with a small smile.
Jean grins. Her eyes aim at Haley's stomach. "Doc say things are good?"
"Things are good," she answers, her smile surprisingly steady. "He's holding up pretty well."
She saw his hands and feet, watched him move and suck his thumb, and heard his strong heartbeat. She cried like a maniac, out of pure joy and relief, and a part of her was happy that it wasn't Bromley who was on duty.
Jean pulls at the neck of her vest and wipes it across her face. "He? It's a boy?"
She shrugs, taking the lead and moseying towards the chain-link fence. "It's too soon to tell but I thought 'he' a preferable option to 'it'."
The older woman gives a faint chuckle. "I'm sure your husband will love that."
"Do you have kids, Jean?"
Jean cocks her head, her expression neither confirming nor denying Haley's question. "Is that what you want to talk about? Kids?"
Embarrassment comes fast in the count of a heartbeat and she regrets asking. There she went again, shooting her mouth off without thinking. "I saw Tessa."
Jean doesn't react or recoil, just links her fingers through the fence. Haley sweeps her gaze past the fence until she spots Tessa sitting on the grass. She's still on her own, and her fingers are plucking out blades by the fistfuls like she's taking out her rage on them.
"Did you do that to her?" she asks plainly.
Jean pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her trousers. She takes one out but doesn't light it. "We just talked a little."
Haley sighs loudly, leaning on the fence and looking at Tessa again. The brunette is now staring at them, the motion of her fists increasing as she digs out more and more grass. She looks like a disgruntled child. Haley feels that if it were possible, she'd burst into flames from Tessa's death glare.
She doesn't know whether to thank Jean or be cross with her. True, Tessa declared war by coming after her, but was raising fists the only option to ending this? Also true, conversation doesn't seem to be the form of conflict resolution in here. Though she could do without vengeful confrontations, it's eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed.
She faces Jean, saying softly and genuinely, "Thank you."
Jean observes her closely. The lighter is poised over the tip of the cigarette. "For what?" she returns, playing ignorant.
Haley sees no need to push matters. She faces the fence again. Tessa hasn't lost interest in them yet. It's making her uneasy.
"Tessa has to be the centre of attention," Jean says around the cig between her lips.
It surprises Haley to hear Jean volunteer information. The pattern has been her asking before Jean answers, ignores, or refuses to respond and changes the subject.
The lighter clicks and the flame contacts the cigarette. "Something I found out too late. I got tired of bailing her out of the trouble she'd cause."
"Why is she here?" Haley asks curiously.
Jean doesn't respond, like she's battling with an answer, as if even with their falling out she wouldn't want to betray Tessa. She takes a greedy hit and blows it out in a stream.
"She has a temper and she likes to be the jewel in the crown," she finally says, "and when she doesn't get what she wants, she does something about it."
To Haley it sounds like Tessa has more complex issues than seeking attention.
Jean puffs the cigarette smoke away from Haley and draws in a long breath. She's aware of Tessa on the other side of the fence but she doesn't look her way at all. "But as pig-headed as she is, she's all right."
Haley wants to flout at that. All right people don't use hostile responses such as physical violence as their choice. She wonders what kind of story Jean would tell about her if they fell out. "I felt sorry for her, poor pregnant girl. Too bad badmouthing led her to being stabbed to death with a comb. Can you believe that she has a kid she's never seen?"
Jean's laughter nudges her out of her dark imagination. "You're like an open book, pretty girl. You and Tessa are completely different."
With a wink, Jean leans in and says, "Does this mean that you're starting to really like me?"
Haley's laugh is as chipper as those she's heard around the yard. It feels good to laugh for real. "Really become BJ's girl?"
"Is that what they're calling you?" Jean grins. "It's not so bad."
Haley lets out a nervous chuckle, staring vacantly over Jean's shoulder. She feels Jean's hand brush her arm lightly.
"If it's Tessa that worries you, don't. She'll back off."
Haley just gazes back at Jean's suntanned face. Tessa is not what she's primarily worried about. She should be, but she's really not.
There's the issue of her impending divorce. There's the issue of Jean wanting her to be more than a friend. And then there's the issue of spending eternity incarcerated.
"She told you that during your little talk?"
The playfulness in Jean's grey eyes dims, and just like that the light edge of the conversation is over. She draws deeply on her cigarette, puffs it out at the fence, flicks out the ash, and crushes the remainder under her shoe.
"It's better not to repeat some things," Jean says in her cool manner.
She starts walking back towards the court, and over her shoulder she fires off a grin. "Take the win, sweetheart."
Haley finds it jarring that that's considered a win. But things are never straightforward in NCCo and she's realizing that there's still much more for her to learn.
"I saw your father," Deb says as she passes through the swinging doors that are between the kitchen and dining area.
The café is closed for the night, and it's just her and Nathan as it's been lately. She has been insistent on him having dinner at the café owing to his recovery, but Nathan thinks that she just wants to keep him away from frozen meals and an empty apartment.
She places before him a bowl of steaming vegetable soup and a plate of sliced wheat bread.
Chin propped in his hand, Nathan stares into the bowl, scrutinizing the contents of the soup. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, raising his eyes to his mother.
She gives him a knowing look, pushing the dish forward a little farther. "You're recovering from surgery. Burgers are still out of the question like they were yesterday, and the day before that."
"Surgery on my spleen, Mom, not my heart," he grumbles, poising the spoon over the bowl and glaring at the brew.
"Nothing is alive and kicking in it," his mother drawls in a smooth tone.
Nathan stirs the soup before taking a tentative bite. "Better than yesterday," he smirks before spooning another bite.
Deb grins, flinging the wipe cloth on her shoulder and moving towards the cash register. "Bless your heart, my son."
She handles the receipts like a pro, and newcomers wouldn't know that it's her second month in the driver's seat. It wouldn't be obvious to strangers that she's not the 'Karen' in Karen's Café, and neither is she a stakeholder. The same strangers wouldn't know that before overseeing the café, she and Karen struggled to live in the same town, each with a son from a man who had openly cast off one and cared for another. The women kept their distance, but it got more complicated as their sons grew up, as those sons shared classes, and eventually, shared a friendship.
It wasn't easy befriending the woman who had come first in Dan's life, or even look her in the eye knowing what Dan had done to her, but they were able to be courteous. Approachable became open and friendly – they were surprised to learn how much they had in common – and Karen turned out to be a confidant, especially at the time of filing for divorce from Dan. Every stride of their companionship was a spike to Dan's heart, and though both women had not spoken aloud of how Dan should feel about their friendship, it pleased them greatly that he was quite bothered by it.
It came as a shock that she take over the café for the summer at the request of Karen, who had been accepted into a culinary school in Italy. She felt like she owed Karen something after all those years of Dan's snub of her and Lucas. She was a woman who'd grown up with housekeepers, cooks and enough money to spend on French manicures and expensive hand moisturizers, and the prospect of working in a café was troubling. She was sure she would run it to the ground, but all those years managing charity organizations and coordinating their galas weren't for nought. She didn't know how to cook but she could help with the preparation; she was fascinated that her hands smelled like onions after the first day.
"You were saying…" Nathan prompts from his position at the long counter.
Anger straight away settles in her light blue eyes. "Your father came by."
Nathan pulls out a bottle of antibiotics from his pocket and shakes out two onto his palm. "What did he want, and do?"
"He was kindly informing me that he would have an advertisement placement on the billboard across the street." She pushes back the register with such force that the connecting clink of metal against metal echoes. "It's trying enough dealing with him on the phone, and now I have to see his face every single day. I thought that was done when I threw him out."
The receipts in her hand curl in her grip. "Divorce is a terrible thing, Nathan. You end up saying things like that about someone you once believed you loved."
Deb doesn't notice her son squeezing the spoon in his hand.
"It's…stupefying when you try to make sense of it," she murmurs, gone elsewhere, looking deeply puzzled by her own words.
He feels a sense of sympathy for her that he hasn't in a while. Half her adult life was spent with Dan, and he isn't the easiest person to get along with or relate well to. "Dan is not someone you can fully make sense of," he says frankly.
She smiles faintly. She and Dan had known long before the divorce that they were unsuited. The marriage had its share of problems like most do, but it took years to figure out that theirs was beyond the normal scope of marriage. They had pleasant moments, but the union had more serious problems than most, touching on malignant narcissism, roundabout put-downs, and gaslighting. The harsh truth is that she brought her fair share of chaos with the drinking and pill-taking, and time was running out for their sanity before they did more damage to each other. For a long time, it was as though neither could live without the toxic ruse that their marriage had become. It poisoned their relationship with their son, and it left her in such a state of confusion that it took thousands of dollars' worth of therapy to get past.
"Unoriginally, he took a dig at me on his way out," she says dully.
"Just ignore it, Mom. Whatever he said to you is not true. It's his nature to be, as the English say, a wanker."
"Nathan."
He shrugs, tearing off a portion of bread. "You've called him worse. All I'm saying is that a leopard will never change its spots. Dan is that leopard."
Deb raises her brow. Even the way she does that is as elegant as her appearance; her hair is professionally treated every fortnight, her clothes are bought from upscale boutiques that charge an arm and a leg, and no exfoliation mask can compare to what sobriety has done for her health. Her mind-set hadn't always been so softened; not too long ago she had found it increasingly difficult to endure a meeting, leave alone a single day, without a pill and a drink.
She walks over to stand across from him. "I asked him to follow up on your accident."
Appalled silence meets her announcement. Nathan's face hardens. His lips set in an affronted line. "Mom, I don't want to owe him any—"
"You don't. You won't. If anything, he was paying off a debt to me."
He frowns. "What debt?"
"For some of the scabs he left behind." She pauses, inhales and exhales deeply, and says in a sensible tone, "As much as he's a snake, he gets things done. He knows who to ask and how much to push. Those men could have murdered you, Nate, and we can't rule out that they won't be back."
"Mom—"
"No," she cuts in, raising a palm in refusal. "Let me have this. If there's one thing I can do in light of all the insanity that's happened, it's this."
He considers the resolution and determination on her face. Hers and Haley's relationship wasn't always easy from the time they met, especially after the wedding, but they've both been trying. Time and occasional family dinners allowed them to be at a place where it's comfortable, unforced and less awkward. So he nods, understanding that she has the need to do something as much as he does.
Softly, she says almost apologetically, "I can't imagine how much you must miss her."
For an instant, he freezes with his hand about to reclaim the spoon. "More than I could say."
She lays a hand on his arm and pats it consolingly.
They go about their business in relative silence over the music playing softly from the sound system, her sorting out the day's receipts and him lost in his thoughts while taking spoonfuls of chowder.
The chimes above the café's doors jingle, the sound ripping through the quiet. Lucas and Peyton stop a little beyond the door, both looking rather sheepish.
"Hey."
Nathan points at the bowl with the spoon. "Hope you're in the mood for soup 'cause that's what we're having."
When Nathan was discharged, Deb gave him a choice, to either come down to the café for dinner or she'd be dropping by at his apartment. He quickly agreed to the former, throwing Lucas into the agreement. And with Karen in Italy, Luke is not at all fond of cooking for himself.
"That's great."
The couple's mutual breathlessness has him narrowing his eyes at them. "Everything okay?"
Luke's eyeballs are extended like he's trying to roll them to see the back of his head. Peyton's chin is jerking towards the door like she's being electrocuted.
"What is going on with you two?" Deb asks with a smile.
"Prepare yourself because Haley's parents are here," Peyton puffs.
The spoon in Nathan's hands falls into the bowl with a clatter. He jumps to his feet. Their phone was off the one and only time he called, and they didn't return his call. He chose to tell them about Haley when he got up the courage to do it again or if they made a point to communicate in response to the missed call. He didn't think that they'd actually show up before a telephone conversation.
"What? How can you be sure?"
Luke holds his palms up. "You know somebody else with a 'Make Love Not War' bumper sticker on their RV?"
Caught off guard, Nathan mutters a curse under his breath without moving his lips. Two figures march out of the night and through the door like one mighty hurricane. They push through Lucas and Peyton to stand directly in front of him. His chest tightens with anxiety at what is about to happen. After the day he's had, this is the icing on the cake.
They are furious, Lydia James with fists on her hips and Jimmy James with his clenched by his sides. They're usually cool-headed people, true believers of 'make love not war', and for their anger to be showing on their lined faces, they are beyond enraged.
"Where do you go off not telling us that our daughter is in prison?" Jimmy clips, his usually-mellow mud-brown eyes blazing.
"Prison, Nathan!" Lydia yells, her words bouncing around the café. "And we had to find out about it from our former neighbours!"
Deb is the first to recover, moving away from behind the counter to walk towards the irate in-laws. "Jimmy, Lydia. How nice to see you."
Not returning the pleasantries, Lydia shakes her head vehemently. "Deb, when we gave our blessing to our daughter and your son, we didn't mean that we were to be left uninformed of some things."
"I completely un—"
"Let's not forget that they were only sixteen years old when they got married," Lydia almost screams, "and still in high school! But we were okay with it. This? This is not okay!"
"Haley didn't want you to know," Nathan says, deflecting her attention away from his mother.
Like she's been slapped, Lydia blinks once before asking, "What?"
Nathan shrugs slightly, as though in that small move he's saying, I know, right?
Lydia recovers enough to start sputtering again. "You could have still told us!"
"I called you."
"You could have called again."
"I waited for you to call me back because you're not easily reachable. It's always been like that when Haley wants to contact you. We wait for you to return the call."
Another flush rises to Lydia's face. She looks like she's bracing herself for battle, the load of her fury like she could swing a fist at him.
Nathan sighs faintly; placing blame on them should not be a get-out-of-jail-free card. He didn't want to tell them and he didn't try hard enough to let them know. If they'd seen six or ten missed calls from him in a twenty-four-hour window, they would have called back. The responsibility is his.
"I'm sorry you had to find out the way you did. Haley was being stubborn about protecting you from this…" 'Protecting you' sounds better than 'keeping you away from'.
"It was really her idea to hold back something so important from her own parents?" Lydia asks, now baffled as well.
Nathan nods gravely. Jimmy's appraising stare of his son-in-law is also suspicious. "I am having a hard time believing that."
He returns an even gaze at Haley's parents. He says nothing, but standing a head taller than them, it seems to be an intimidating move than he means it to be.
"It's true," Lucas throws in. "My mom doesn't even know."
They all turn to him in unison, Jimmy just about frothing at the mouth. "You can't keep the whole world out of something like this forever!"
"I don't think we need to waste time repeatedly talking about how it was her choice," Nathan retorts undiplomatically.
The Jameses faces become murderous. The silence stretches, and then they're all yelling again. The shouting ratchets, voices talk at once, talking at each other. The noise level grows louder, someone trying to up someone else in volume to make a point.
"Everybody, chill!"
Peyton's thunderous directive freezes them all mid-hollering. She casts them all a weighty look. "With all due respect, I demand that you all sit down," she orders, pointing to one of the larger circular tables. "We'll talk about this calmly."
No one moves. The hostility from Haley's parents is powerful as they glare at Nathan. Peyton shoots Lucas a glance. He moves, and as though starting a chain reaction, the others shuffle towards the centre of the room like reluctant children. Clockwise, it's the Jameses, Deb, Lucas, Nathan and Peyton.
"Someone better start talking, and fast," Lydia James with a sharp look around the table.
Tension and accusatory squints are still rife. It's unlikely that they'll talk calmly about this. His relationship with Haley's parents has seen better days; he honestly believes that they were electrified as Haley introduced him as her boyfriend, and he wanted to laugh at how unlike his parents they were. They were kind to him from the get-go, and when they were home and not riding around in their RV, they welcomed him to dinners and whichever outing they'd planned for Haley. They included him, and he really feels rotten for not including them in this, for leaving them to find out in an underhanded way through a neighbour.
He draws a breath, sure that they've lost some respect for him. He'd love to be anywhere but here but in the meantime, he has to help them deal with their confusion and anger.