7 | Weep With Those Who Weep (Part 3 of 4)

Talking to his soulmate turned out to be damn difficult for John Thornton. It wasn't because he didn't want to talk—she was one of the few people he actually enjoyed talking to. And it wasn't because she was a lot younger than him. He figured five or six years which made him feel more than a little uncomfortable, at least for a while. But their small conversations happened rarely—too rarely for John, and they never lasted very long. In the last five year they'd talked a total of seven times. He tossed his hat onto his desk and raked a hand through his hair.

Their last conversation was over six months ago. She'd been scared out of her mind after getting herself arrested. John had been furious when he finally got the whole story out of her—about her shit-head older brother Fred, the drugs, the arrest warrant, and how she'd tried to help him stay out of jail. He'd hoped to talk to her again about it—and sooner rather than later. John glanced at the wall calendar in his office and sighed. The silence worried him but there was not a damn thing he could do. He leaned forward and pulled out his wallet, removing a folded sheet of paper

Because of the scarcity of their conversations, John started keeping notes on each one, trying to figure out if there was a pattern to their frequency. He smoothed the wrinkled take out menu and squinted at his chicken scratch. So far there was nothing new he could see. John shoved himself to his feet and stalked out into the darkening December night.

Some days, he told himself this whole soulmate thing was shit and he'd be better off alone. It seemed the more he wanted her the more complicated everything became. And he didn't want another person to worry about, and he certainly didn't want her worrying about him.

Other days John knew he'd lose his damn mind if the feeling of her hadn't been holding him together. The hardest days somehow felt lighter just knowing she was there, carrying the burden with him.

Over time he'd gotten better at figuring out what she was feeling. At first all he could sense from her was loneliness, fear, worry, anxiety—and only when they were at their most intense. Now he could sense subtle changes, and not all of them bad. He lived for the ever so soft brush of warmth that came when she was happy. John folded his arms, leaned back against the cold brick wall, and shut his eyes.

Today she was sad—and anxious and—

John frowned.

—nervous.

—afraid.

Something had happened.

"Come on," he growled into the silence, his frozen breath floating around his face. He focused on the silence, willing himself to relax. The feeling of her grew warmer and John held his mind still, focused only on her. "I'm right here."

Margaret sat on the cold stone steps outside her mother's flat, arms wrapped around her body, staring at where the stars ought to be. The muddy blackish purple overcast sky stared back. She shivered, thinking of the two suitcases sitting by the front door, with her pack perched on top. The boarding pass in her coat pocket crinkled whenever she shifted. Margaret pulled it out and stared at the blocked letters. Milton seemed like another planet compared to New York. Part of her was desperate to get away from here, from her mother's illness, from everything. But—

"I don't want to go," she whispered, blinking back tears.

Where're you going?

Margaret sucked in a breath, smiling through her tears as a warm feeling flooded her chest. She'd tried talking to him for weeks after the decision to move in with her father had been made. The silence weighed her down until she thought she'd crack underneath it. Margaret wiped her cheeks, her skin pricking all over. He always felt safe and warm. Her body almost ached with longing as the feeling of him sharpened. He was tired today, but he was always tired. Tired and— Margaret tilted her to one side—he was restless, like he needed to do something.

Once she learned to how to move past the anger and frustration and worry he always carried, Margaret discovered her soulmate was a burning ball of energy and focused action. He was constantly moving, working, learning, doing. She also learned from their brief interactions that he was blunt, loyal, and terribly funny in a dry sarcastic way.

"Are you going to tell me your name this time?" She demanded, picking up where they left off almost seven months ago when they'd argued in the back of a policeman's car. He still refused to tell her anything about himself she didn't already know.

No

Margaret huffed. He was also stubborn and old fashioned. "Why ever not?"

It's a common name and you'd lose your shit every time you met someone with the same name.

"Not if you tell me your whole name, idiot."

Margaret could almost feel him roll his eyes as she pulled out her planner and jotted down the ten most common boy's names she could think of.

James. Robert. Henry. John. Michael. William. David. Richard. Joseph. Thomas.

"Is your name James?"

She almost laughed when a wave of annoyance rolled over her. The feeling was almost disdainful. Not James then.

Where're you going and why don't you want to go?

"I'm leaving New York City—" Margaret almost choked on the words. She'd never told him where she lived before. But before she'd been too young. He was older than her—perhaps five or even six years—and he was always careful, so careful he never shared his name or let her reveal hers. But she was almost eighteen now. Margaret wanted him to know and she didn't want to wait anymore. She felt like she'd spent her whole life waiting for things to get better—but they never did. "It's my mum. She's—well, she's not—she's—"

Dying

It wasn't a question. Of course he knew. Margaret shuddered, tears filling her eyes. "I just can't leave her like this—"

It's not your fault if she dies

"I know," Margaret snapped. She swiped at her cheeks. "Is your name Robert?"

His annoyance flared again along with a tiny hint of disgust. Definitely not Robert.

Don't cry.

"I'm not—"

Liar

"Are you always so rude?"

Only to you

She could feel his dry sarcasm. It was his way of trying to make her smile. But she didn't want to smile. She just wanted him.

"What about Henry?"

This time the his annoyance was laced with frustration and impatience.

Please stop

She scratched it from her list, with a tiny sigh of relief. She didn't think she could stomach her soulmate having the same name as Henry Lennox.

"Why won't you tell me? I want to know your name and where you are," Margaret fingered the edge of her coat. "I could come—"

No

"I don't understand why you're being such a stubborn ass about this—"

I can't—

"I'm not a child. I'm nearly eighteen. That's—"

I'm twenty-five

Margaret blinked. She could feel him getting more frustrated. He didn't like admitting his age. She knew he was trying to protect her, to do this right, but—

"I don't give a toss if you're twenty-five. I'm legally an adult in less than a month. I want to—"

No

"Yes, you ass. I'm moving in with my father. To a city called—"

STOP

The word was sharp and almost cruel. Margaret wanted to slap him. She shoved herself to her feet and started marching down the street, tears filling her eyes again. It wasn't just his decision whether she wanted to be with him or not. Maybe he was eight years older than her, but neither of them choose that.

"I hate you."

No, you don't

The answer was gruff but soft. Margaret didn't hate him, in spite of his being a stubborn asshole. She—

She loved him.

But how could she say that to a man she'd never really met?

"I—"

I'm not in New York City

Margaret paused, swallowing hard. Deep down her biggest fear of leaving wasn't abandoning her mother—her biggest fear was possibly leaving him behind. New York City was a big place and she couldn't help hoping he was there. She should've known he would know—or at least guess. She shivered.

"I just—I miss you."

John thought he finally understood all the old stories about soldiers or travelers waiting, longing, yearning for home—so much until they were sick with it. He'd waited almost eight years and now he knew where she was—New York City. But she was barely eighteen. He growled and scrubbed at his face with his hands. He had to be patient, he had to make sure she made her own damn choices without worrying about him, he had to—

I miss you

The words carved themselves into his very being. John slumped a little against the wall. His whole body ached with wanting her and he wasn't sure just how much more waiting he could take. She was still crying, and it made his muscles itch to do something. But what could he do? Besides getting on an airplane and flying to New York City tonight—

"You can't," John grumbled pushing himself away from the brick building. It was late and he needed to get back to work. At least it would keep him from doing something batshit crazy. "You can't miss someone you haven't met."

Don't be rude

"It's true."

I know you miss me too

John shook his head and walked faster, as if trying to outrun her words.

Don't pretend you don't

"If I don't pretend, I'll punch another hole in the wall," he retorted. "I've still haven't patched the last one."

What? She sounded shocked. Did you really knock a hole in the wall?

"Yeah."

With what?

"My fist."

Please tell me you're joking.

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

Most of the other shipping owners thought John was too tightly wound for his own good, even his close friend, John Watson. But when Watson's business partner Jerry Slickson had made a crack about John needing to find someway to let off a little steam, John had lost his temper. The man's thinly veiled implication and suggestion of a cheap hooker were mostly responsible for the fist-sized hole in the wall behind John's desk. The memory still made his temper flare. He flexed his hands and forced himself to relax.

Why did you punch a wall?

"It was either the wall or Jerry's face. I chose the wall. Son of a bitch got off easy."

He could feel her mild revulsion and annoyance at his confession but he grinned. At least she'd stopped crying. He glanced at his watch.

Did it hurt?

"Like a bitch."

You're being rude again

He chuckled as he dug his keys from his pocket.

Is your name John?

The question caught him off guard and he stumbled, catching himself on the hand rail leading up to the front entrance of the Depot.

As soon as the words left Margaret's mouth a strange feeling bubbled up inside her, and she almost tripped as it crashed over her. His usual annoyance at her persistent guessing wasn't there at all.

Surprise—

A flare of panic—

—resignation.

Then—relief.

Margaret pressed a hand over her mouth, her breathing fast and shallow, and leaned against a lamp post, her legs suddenly unable to carry her another step.

She knew his name.

"John?"

But he didn't answer.

"Please," Margaret gripped the lamp post tighter, the frigid metal burning her hand. "Please—"

What if he couldn't hear her anymore? Their conversations were always so short. Margaret slammed the lamppost with her fist.

"Please, John," she leaned her head against the icy cold metal, her eyes closing as she willed him to hear her. "Promise you'll find me."

The warmth in her chest flickered, and then spread around to her back and out into her limbs, almost like a hug.

I promise

AN : I hope this is a little more cheery than the last installment. Enjoy! Cheers.